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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. 23 (of 25) + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: January 8, 2010 [EBook #30894] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF STEVENSON *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<table class="border1" border="0" cellpadding="10" summary="TN"> +<tr> +<td style="width:25%; vertical-align:top"> +Transcriber's note: +</td> +<td> +A few typographical errors have been corrected. They +appear in the text <span class="correction" title="explanation will pop up">like this</span>, and the +explanation will appear when the mouse pointer is moved over the marked +passage. +<br /> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h4>THE WORKS OF</h4> + +<h3>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h3> + +<h4>SWANSTON EDITION</h4> + +<h5>VOLUME XXIII</h5> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<p class="noind center"><i>Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five<br /> +Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS<br /> +STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies<br /> +have been printed, of which only Two Thousand<br /> +Copies are for sale.</i></p> + +<p class="noind center"><i>This is No. <span style="font-size: 60%;">............</span></i></p> + +<div class="figcenter1"> +<img style="border:0; width:481px; height:700px" + src="images/image1.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h3>THE WORKS OF</h3> +<h2>ROBERT LOUIS</h2> +<h2>STEVENSON</h2> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h5>VOLUME TWENTY-THREE</h5> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<h5>LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND<br /> +WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL<br /> +AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM<br /> +HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN<br /> +AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII</h5> + +<p class="noind center"><i>For permission to use the</i> <span class="sc">Letters</span> <i>in the</i><br /> +<span class="sc">Swanston Edition of Stevenson’s Works</span><br /> +<i>the Publishers are indebted to the kindness of</i><br /> +<span class="sc">Messrs. Methuen & Co., Ltd</span>.</p> + + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h6>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</h6> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> + + +<h4>THE LETTERS OF</h4> +<h3>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h3> + +<h6>EDITED BY</h6> +<h3>SIDNEY COLVIN</h3> + +<h5>PARTS I—VI</h5> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<table style="border-collapse: collapse;" class="nobctr" width="90%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr style="font-size: 70%; "> <td> </td> + <td class="tc2b">PAGE</td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#pagexvii"><span class="sc">xvii</span></a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="center" colspan="2"><h4>I.—STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH</h4> + <h5>TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS</h5></td></tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page3">3</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 sc">Letters—</td> + <td class="tc2b"> </td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page13">13</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page14">14</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page15">15</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page17">17</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page19">19</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page21">21</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page24"></a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Churchill Babington</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page30">30</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Alison Cunningham</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page32">32</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page33">33</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page35">35</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page36">36</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page38">38</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page39">39</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page42">42</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page44">44</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page46">46</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page49">49</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page52">52</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="center" colspan="2"><h4>II.—STUDENT DAYS—<i>continued</i></h4> + <h5>NEW FRIENDSHIPS—ORDERED SOUTH</h5></td></tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page54">54</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 sc">Letters—</td> + <td class="tc2b"> </td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page56">56</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page57">57</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page58">58</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page61">61</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page63">63</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page66">66</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page68">68</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page71">71</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page74">74</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page76">76</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page76">76</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page77">77</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page81">81</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page83">83</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page83">83</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page86">86</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page89">89</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page91">91</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page93">93</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page94">94</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page96">96</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page97">97</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page99">99</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page101">101</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page103">103</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page104">104</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page105">105</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page106">106</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page107">107</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page108">108</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page110">110</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page111">111</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page112">112</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page113">113</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page115">115</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page116">116</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page117">117</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page118">118</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page118">118</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page120">120</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page121">121</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="center" colspan="2"><h4>III.—STUDENT DAYS—<i>concluded</i></h4> + <h5>HOME AGAIN—LITERATURE AND LAW</h5></td></tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page123">123</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 sc">Letters—</td> + <td class="tc2b"> </td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page124">124</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page125">125</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page127">127</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page127">127</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page129">129</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page131">131</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page133">133</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page137">137</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page139">139</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page140">140</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page140">140</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page141">141</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page143">143</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page144">144</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page148">148</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page149">149</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page151">151</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page153">153</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page155">155</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page156">156</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page157">157</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page158">158</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page161">161</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page164">164</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page166">166</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page167">167</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page168">168</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page169">169</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page171">171</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page173">173</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page174">174</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page174">174</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page175">175</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page177">177</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page178">178</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page178">178</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page179">179</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page180">180</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page181">181</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="center" colspan="2"><h4>IV.—ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR</h4> + <h5>EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU</h5></td></tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page182">182</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 sc">Letters—</td> + <td class="tc2b"> </td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page186">186</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page187">187</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page187">187</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page189">189</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page191">191</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page193">193</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page195">195</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page196">196</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page197">197</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page198">198</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. de Mattos</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page199">199</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page200">200</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page201">201</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page202">202</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page203">203</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page204">204</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page205">205</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page206">206</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page207">207</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To A. Patchett Martin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page208">208</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page209">209</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page211">211</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page212">212</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page213">213</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page215">215</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page215">215</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page216">216</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page217">217</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page217">217</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page218">218</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page219">219</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page219">219</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page221">221</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Miss Jane Balfour</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page223">223</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page224">224</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page225">225</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page226">226</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="center" colspan="2"><h4>V.—THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT</h4> + <h5><i>S.S. DEVONIA</i>—MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO—MARRIAGE</h5></td></tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page228">228</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 sc">Letters—</td> + <td class="tc2b"> </td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page230">230</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page232">232</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page233">233</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page234">234</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page235">235</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page236">236</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page238">238</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page238">238</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page241">241</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To P. G. Hamerton</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page242">242</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page243">243</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page244">244</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page245">245</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page247">247</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page249">249</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page251">251</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page253">253</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page255">255</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page256">256</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page258">258</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page260">260</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page262">262</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Professor Meiklejohn</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page263">263</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page265">265</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page267">267</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page269">269</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To J. W. Ferrier</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page269">269</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page271">271</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Dr. W. Bamford</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page272">272</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page272">272</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page273">273</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page274">274</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To C. W. Stoddard</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page275">275</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page276">276</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="center" colspan="2"><h4>VI.—ALPINE WINTERS AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS</h4></td></tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3 sc">Introductory</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page279">279</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 sc">Letters—</td> + <td class="tc2b"> </td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page284">284</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page285">285</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Isobel Strong</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page286">286</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To A. G. Dew-Smith</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page287">287</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page290">290</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page291">291</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page292">292</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page293">293</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Warren Stoddard</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page294">294</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page296">296</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page297">297</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page298">298</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page300">300</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Horatio F. Brown</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page303">303</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page303">303</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page304">304</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page305">305</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page306">306</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page308">308</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Professor Æneas Mackay</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page309">309</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page309">309</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page310">310</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page311">311</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles J. Guthrie</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page312">312</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page312">312</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page313">313</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To P. G. Hamerton</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page314">314</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page316">316</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page317">317</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page319">319</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page320">320</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Dr. Alexander Japp</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page321">321</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Sitwell</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page323">323</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page324">324</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page325">325</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page325">325</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page326">326</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Dr. Alexander Japp</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page327">327</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page328">328</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page330">330</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page331">331</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page332">332</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page333">333</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To P. G. Hamerton</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page335">335</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page336">336</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page337">337</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page338">338</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page339">339</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Alison Cunningham</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page340">340</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Charles Baxter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page341">341</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page341">341</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page342">342</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Alexander Ireland</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page345">345</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page347">347</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Sidney Colvin</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page349">349</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page350">350</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Dr. Alexander Japp</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page351">351</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To the Same</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page351">351</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page352">352</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page354">354</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To R. A. M. Stevenson</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page356">356</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Trevor Haddon</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page357">357</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page359">359</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To Trevor Haddon</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page360">360</a></td> </tr> + +<tr class="cl"> <td class="tc3a">To Edmund Gosse</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page360">360</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3a">To W. E. Henley</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page361">361</a></td> </tr> +</table> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexvii"></a>xvii</span></p> + +<h3>INTRODUCTION</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> circumstances which have made me responsible for +selecting and editing the correspondence of Robert Louis +Stevenson are the following. He was for many years my +closest friend. We first met in 1873, when he was in his +twenty-third year and I in my twenty-ninth, at the place +and in the manner mentioned at page 54 of this volume. +It was my good fortune then to be of use to him, partly +by such technical hints as even the most brilliant beginner +may take from an older hand, partly by recommending +him to editors—first, if I remember right, to Mr. Hamerton +and Mr. Richmond Seeley, of the Portfolio, then in succession +to Mr. George Grove (Macmillan’s Magazine), Mr. +Leslie Stephen (Cornhill), and Dr. Appleton (the Academy); +and somewhat, lastly, by helping to raise him in the +estimation of parents who loved but for the moment +failed to understand him. It belonged to the richness +of his nature to repay in all things much for little, +<span class="grk" title="hekatomboi enneaboiôn">ἑκατόμβοὶ ἐννεαβοιῶν</span>, and from these early relations +sprang the affection and confidence, to me inestimable, +of which the following correspondence bears evidence.</p> + +<p>One day in the autumn of 1888, in the island of Tahiti, +during an illness which he supposed might be his last, +Stevenson put into the hands of his stepson, Mr. Lloyd +Osbourne, a sealed paper with a request that it might be +opened after his death. He recovered, and had strength +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexviii"></a>xviii</span> +enough to enjoy six years more of active life and work in +the Pacific Islands. When the end came, the paper was +opened and found to contain, among other things, the +expression of his wish that I should prepare for publication +“a selection of his letters and a sketch of his life.” I had +already, in 1892, when he was anxious—needlessly, as it +turned out—as to the provision he might be able to leave +for his family, received from him a suggestion that “some +kind of a book” might be made out of the monthly journal-letters +which he had been in the habit of writing me from +Samoa: letters begun at first with no thought of publication +and simply in order to maintain our intimacy, so far +as might be, undiminished by separation. This part of +his wishes I was able to carry out promptly, and the result +appeared under the title <i>Vailima Letters</i> in the autumn +following his death (1895). Lack of leisure delayed the +execution of the remaining part. For one thing, the body +of correspondence which came in from various quarters +turned out much larger than had been anticipated. He +did not love writing letters, and will be found somewhere +in the following pages referring to himself as one “essentially +and originally incapable of the art epistolary.” +That he was a bad correspondent had come to be an +accepted view among his friends; but in truth it was only +during one period of his life that he at all deserved such +a reproach.<a name="FnAnchor_1" href="#Footnote_1"><span class="sp">1</span></a> At other times, as became apparent after +his death, he had shown a degree of industry and spirit +in letter-writing extraordinary considering his health and +his occupations. It was indeed he and not his friends, as +will abundantly appear in the course of these volumes, +who oftenest had cause to complain of answers neglected +or delayed. His letters, it is true, were often the most +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexix"></a>xix</span> +informal in the world, and he generally neglected to date +them, a habit which is the despair of editors: but after +his own whim and fashion he wrote a vast number, so +that the work of sifting, copying, and arranging was long +and laborious. It was not until the autumn of 1899 that +the <i>Letters to his Family and Friends</i> were ready for +publication, and in the meantime the task of writing the +<i>Life</i> had been taken over by his cousin and my friend, Mr. +Graham Balfour, who completed it two years later.</p> + +<p>“In considering the scale and plan on which my friend’s +instruction should be carried out” (I quote, with the +change of a word or two, from my Introduction of 1899), +“it seemed necessary to take into account, not his own +always modest opinion of himself, but the place which +he seemed likely to take ultimately in the world’s regard. +The four or five years following the death of a writer +much applauded in his lifetime are generally the years +when the decline of his reputation begins, if it is going +to suffer decline at all. At present, certainly, Stevenson’s +name seems in no danger of going down. On the stream +of daily literary reference and allusion it floats more +actively than ever. In another sense its vitality is confirmed +by the material test of continued sales and of +the market. Since we have lost him other writers, whose +beginnings he watched with sympathetic interest, have +come to fill a greater immediate place in public attention; +but none has exercised Stevenson’s peculiar and personal +power to charm, to attach, and to inspirit. By his study +of perfection in form and style—qualities for which his +countrymen in general have been apt to care little—he +might seem destined to give pleasure chiefly to the fastidious +and the artistically minded. But as to its matter, the +main appeal of his work is not to any mental tastes and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexx"></a>xx</span> +fashions of the few; it is rather to universal, hereditary +instincts, to the primitive sources of imaginative excitement +and entertainment in the race.</p> + +<p>“The voice of the <i>advocatus diaboli</i> has been heard +against him, as it is right and proper that it should be +heard against any man before his reputation can be held +fully established. One such advocate in this country has +thought to dispose of him by the charge of ‘externality.’ +But the reader who remembers things like the sea-frenzy +of Gordon Darnaway, or the dialogue of Markheim with +his other self in the house of murder, or the re-baptism of +the spirit of Seraphina in the forest dews, or the failure +of Herrick to find in the waters of the island lagoon a last +release from dishonour, or the death of Goguelat, or the +appeal of Kirstie Elliot in the midnight chamber—such a +reader can only smile at a criticism like this and put it +by. These and a score of other passages breathe the +essential poetry and significance of things as they reveal +themselves to true masters only: they are instinct at once +with the morality and the romance which lie deep together +at the soul of nature and experience. Not in vain had +Stevenson read the lesson of the Lantern-Bearers, and +hearkened to the music of the pipes of Pan. He was +feeling his way all his life towards a fuller mastery of +his means, preferring always to leave unexpressed what +he felt that he could not express adequately; and in +much of his work was content merely to amuse himself +and others. But even when he is playing most fancifully +with his art and his readers, as in the shudders, tempered +with laughter, of the <i>Suicide Club</i>, or the airy sentimental +comedy of <i>Providence and the Guitar</i>, or the +schoolboy historical inventions of Dickon Crookback and +the old sailor Arblaster, a writer of his quality cannot +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxi"></a>xxi</span> +help striking notes from the heart of life and the inwardness +of things deeper than will ever be struck, or even +apprehended, by another who labours, with never a smile +either of his own or of his reader’s, upon the most +solemn enterprises of realistic fiction, but is born without +the magician’s touch and insight.</p> + +<p>“Another advocate on the same side, in the United +States, has made much of the supposed dependence of +this author on his models, and classed him among writers +whose inspiration is imitative and second-hand. But this +is to be quite misled by the well-known passage of Stevenson’s +own, in which he speaks of himself as having in his +prentice years played the ‘sedulous ape’ to many writers +of different styles and periods. In doing this he was not +seeking inspiration, but simply practising the use of the +tools which were to help him to express his own inspirations. +Truly he was always much of a reader: but it +was life, not books, that always in the first degree allured +and taught him.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>‘He loved of life the myriad sides,</p> +<p class="i05">Pain, prayer, or pleasure, act or sleep,</p> +<p class="i05">As wallowing narwhals love the deep’—</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>so with just self-knowledge he wrote of himself; and the +books which he most cared for and lived with were those +of which the writers seemed—to quote again a phrase of +his own—to have been ‘eavesdropping at the door of +his heart’: those which told of experiences or cravings +after experience, pains, pleasures, or conflicts of the spirit, +which in the eagerness of youthful living and thinking +had already been his own. No man, in fact, was ever less +inclined to take anything at second-hand. The root of +all originality was in him, in the shape of an extreme +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxii"></a>xxii</span> +natural vividness of perception, imagination, and feeling. +An instinctive and inbred unwillingness to accept the +accepted and conform to the conventional was of the +essence of his character, whether in life or art, and was +a source to him both of strength and weakness. He would +not follow a general rule—least of all if it was a prudential +rule—of conduct unless he was clear that it was right +according to his private conscience; nor would he join, +in youth, in the ordinary social amusements of his class +when he had once found out that they did not amuse +<i>him</i>; nor wear their clothes if he could not feel at ease +and be himself in them; nor use, whether in speech or +writing, any trite or inanimate form of words that did +not faithfully and livingly express his thought. A +readier acceptance alike of current usages and current +phrases might have been better for him, but was simply +not in his nature. No reader of this book will close it, +I am sure, without feeling that he has been throughout +in the company of a spirit various indeed and many-mooded, +but profoundly sincere and real. Ways that in +another might easily have been mere signs of affectation +were in him the true expression of a nature ten times +more spontaneously itself and individually alive than that +of others. Self-consciousness, in many characters that +possess it, deflects and falsifies conduct; and so does the +dramatic instinct. Stevenson was self-conscious in a high +degree, but only as a part of his general activity of mind; +only in so far as he could not help being an extremely +intelligent spectator of his own doings and feelings: these +themselves came from springs of character and impulse +much too deep and strong to be diverted. He loved also, +with a child’s or actor’s gusto, to play a part and make a +drama out of life: but the part was always for the moment +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxiii"></a>xxiii</span> +his very own: he had it not in him to pose for anything +but what he truly was.</p> + +<p>“When a man so constituted had once mastered his +craft of letters, he might take up whatever instrument +he pleased with the instinctive and just confidence that +he would play upon it to a tune and with a manner of +his own. This is indeed the true mark and test of his +originality. He has no need to be, or to seem, especially +original in the form and mode of literature which he +attempts. By his choice of these he may at any time +give himself and his reader the pleasure of recalling, like +a familiar air, some strain of literary association; but in +so doing he only adds a secondary charm to his work; +the vision, the temperament, the mode of conceiving and +handling, are in every case personal to himself. He may +try his hand in youth at a <i>Sentimental Journey</i>, but R. L. S. +cannot choose but be at the opposite pole of human +character and feeling from Laurence Sterne. In tales of +mystery, allegorical or other, he may bear in mind the +precedent of Edgar Poe, and yet there is nothing in style +and temper much wider apart than <i>Markheim</i> and <i>Jekyll +and Hyde</i> are from the <i>Murders in the Rue Morgue</i> or +<i>William Wilson</i>. He may set out to tell a pirate story +for boys ‘exactly in the ancient way,’ and it will come +from him not in the ancient way at all, but re-minted; +marked with a sharpness and saliency in the characters, +a private stamp of buccaneering ferocity combined with +smiling humour, an energy of vision and happy vividness +of presentment, which are shiningly his own. Another +time, he may desert the paths of Kingston and Ballantyne +for those of Sir Walter Scott; but literature presents few +stronger contrasts than between any scene of <i>Waverley</i> +or <i>Redgauntlet</i> and any scene of the <i>Master of Ballantrae</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxiv"></a>xxiv</span> +or <i>Catriona</i>, whether in their strength or weakness: and it +is the most loyal lovers of the older master who take the +greatest pleasure in reading the work of the younger, so +much less opulently gifted as is probable—though we +must remember that Stevenson died at the age when +Scott wrote <i>Waverley</i>—so infinitely more careful of his +gift. Stevenson may even blow upon the pipe of Burns +and yet his tune will be no echo, but one which utters the +heart and mind of a Scots maker who has his own outlook +on life, his own special and profitable vein of smiling +or satirical contemplation.</p> + +<p>“Not by reason, then, of ‘externality,’ for sure, nor +yet of imitativeness, will this writer lose his hold on the +attention and regard of his countrymen. The debate, +before his place in literature is settled, must rather turn +on other points: as whether the genial essayist and egoist +or the romantic inventor and narrator was the stronger +in him—whether the Montaigne and Pepys elements prevailed +in his literary composition or the Scott and Dumas +elements—a question indeed which among those who care +for him most has always been at issue. Or again, what +degree of true inspiring and illuminating power belongs to +the gospel, or gospels, airily encouraging or gravely didactic, +which are set forth in the essays with so captivating a +grace? Or whether in romance and tale he had a power +of inventing and constructing a whole fable comparable +to his admitted power of conceiving and presenting single +scenes and situations in a manner which stamps them +indelibly on the reader’s mind? And whether his figures +are sustained continuously by the true spontaneous breath +of creation, or are but transitorily animated at happy +moments by flashes of spiritual and dramatic insight, aided +by the conscious devices of his singularly adroit and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxv"></a>xxv</span> +spirited art? These are questions which no criticism but +that of time can solve. To contend, as some do, that +strong creative impulse and so keen an artistic self-consciousness +as Stevenson’s was cannot exist together, is +quite idle. The truth, of course, is that the deep-seated +energies of imaginative creation are found sometimes in +combination, and sometimes not in combination, with an +artistic intelligence thus keenly conscious of its own purpose +and watchful of its own working.</p> + +<p>“Once more, it may be questioned whether, among the +many varieties of work which Stevenson has left, all distinguished +by a grace and precision of workmanship which +are the rarest qualities in English art, there are any which +can be pointed to as absolute masterpieces, such as the +future cannot be expected to let die. Let the future decide. +What is certain is that posterity must either be very well +or very ill occupied if it can consent to give up so much +sound entertainment, and better than entertainment, as +this writer afforded his contemporaries. In the meantime, +among judicious readers on both sides of the Atlantic, +Stevenson stands, I think it may safely be said, as a true +master of English prose; scarcely surpassed for the union +of lenity and lucidity with suggestive pregnancy and poetic +animation; for harmony of cadence and the well-knit +structure of sentences; and for the art of imparting to +words the vital quality of things, and making them convey +the precise—sometimes, let it be granted, the too curiously +precise—expression of the very shade and colour of +the thought, feeling, or vision in his mind. He stands, +moreover, as the writer who, in the last quarter of the nineteenth +century, has handled with the most of freshness +and inspiriting power the widest range of established +literary forms—the moral, critical, and personal essay, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxvi"></a>xxvi</span> +travels sentimental and other, romances and short tales +both historical and modern, parables and tales of mystery, +boys’ stories of adventure, memoirs—nor let lyrical and +meditative verse both English and Scottish, and especially +nursery verse, a new vein for genius to work in, be forgotten. +To some of these forms Stevenson gave quite new life; +through all alike he expressed vividly an extremely personal +way of seeing and being, a sense of nature and +romance, of the aspects of human existence and problems +of human conduct, which was essentially his own. And +in so doing he contrived to make friends and even lovers +of his readers. Those whom he attracts at all (and there +is no writer who attracts every one) are drawn to him +over and over again, finding familiarity not lessen but +increase the charm of his work, and desiring ever closer +intimacy with the spirit and personality which they +divine behind it.</p> + +<p>“As to the fitting scale, then, on which to treat the +memory of a man who fills five years after his death such +a place as this in the general regard, and who has desired +that a selection from his letters shall be made public, the +word ‘selection’ has evidently to be given a pretty liberal +interpretation. Readers, it must be supposed, will scarce +be content without the opportunity of a fairly ample +intercourse with such a man as he was accustomed to +reveal himself in writing to his familiars. In choosing from +among the material before me” (I still quote from the +Introduction of 1899), “I have used the best discretion +that I could. Stevenson’s feelings and relations throughout +life were in almost all directions so warm and kindly, that +very little had to be suppressed from fear of giving pain.<a name="FnAnchor_2" href="#Footnote_2"><span class="sp">2</span></a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxvii"></a>xxvii</span> +On the other hand, he drew people towards him with so +much confidence and affection, and met their openness +with so much of his own, that an editor could not but +feel the frequent risk of inviting readers to trespass too +far on purely private affairs and feelings, including those +of the living. This was a point upon which in his lifetime +he felt strongly. That excellent critic, Mr. Walter Raleigh, +has noticed, as one of the merits of Stevenson’s personal +essays and accounts of travel, that few men have written +more or more attractively of themselves without ever +taking the public unduly into familiarity or overstepping +proper bounds of reticence. Public prying into private +lives, the propagation of gossip by the press, and printing +of private letters during the writer’s lifetime, were things +he hated. Once, indeed, he very superfluously gave himself +a dangerous cold, by dancing before a bonfire in his +garden at the news of a ‘society’ editor having been committed +to prison; and the only approach to a difference +he ever had with one of his lifelong friends arose from the +publication, without permission, of one of his letters written +during his first Pacific voyage.</p> + +<p>“How far, then, must I regard his instructions about +publication as authorising me to go after his death beyond +the limits which he had been so careful in observing and +desiring others to observe in life? How much may now +fairly become public of that which had been held sacred +and hitherto private among his friends? To cut out all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxviii"></a>xxviii</span> +that is strictly personal and intimate were to leave his +story untold and half the charm of his character unrevealed: +to put in too much were to break all bonds of +that privacy which he so carefully regarded while he lived. +I know not if I have at all been able to hit the mean, and +to succeed in making these letters, as it has been my +object to make them, present, without offence or intrusion, +a just, a living, and proportionate picture of the man as +far as they will yield it. There is one respect in which +his own practice and principle has had to be in some degree +violated, if the work was to be done at all. Except in +the single case of the essay <i>Ordered South</i>, he would never +in writing for the public adopt the invalid point of view, +or invite any attention to his infirmities. ‘To me,’ he +says, ‘the medicine bottles on my chimney and the blood +on my handkerchief are accidents; they do not colour +my view of life; and I should think myself a trifler and +in bad taste if I introduced the world to these unimportant +privacies.’ But from his letters to his family and friends +these matters could not possibly be left out. The tale of +his life, in the years when he was most of a correspondent, +was in truth a tale of daily and nightly battle against +weakness and physical distress and danger. To those +who loved him, the incidents of this battle were communicated, +sometimes gravely, sometimes laughingly. I have +greatly cut down such bulletins, but could not possibly +omit them altogether.”</p> + +<p>In 1911, twelve years after the above words were +written, the estimate expressed in them of Stevenson’s +qualities as a writer, and of the place he seemed likely to +maintain in the affections of English readers all the world +over, had been amply confirmed by the lapse of time. +The sale of his works kept increasing rather than diminishing. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxix"></a>xxix</span> +Editions kept multiplying. A new generation of +readers had found life and letters, nature and human +nature, touched by him at so many points with so vivifying +and illuminating a charm that it had become scarcely +possible to take up any newspaper or magazine and not +find some reference to his work and name. Both series +of letters—even one mainly concerned, as the <i>Vailima +Letters</i> are, with matters of interest both remote and +transitory—had been read in edition after edition: and +readers had been and were continually asking for more. +The time was thought to have come for a new and +definitive edition, in which the two series of letters already +published should be thrown into one, and as much new +material added as could be found suitable. The task of +carrying out this scheme fell again upon me. The new +edition constituted in effect a nearly complete epistolary +autobiography. It contained not less than a hundred +and fifty of Stevenson’s letters hitherto unpublished. +They dated from all periods of his life, those written in +the brilliant and troubled days of his youth predominating, +and giving a picture, perhaps unique in its kind, of a +character and talent in the making. The present edition +is a reprint of the edition of 1911, with a few errors of +transcription and one or two of date corrected, and with +a very few new letters added.</p> + +<p>Much, of course, remains and ought to remain unprinted. +Some of the outpourings of the early time are +too sacred and intimate for publicity. Many of the letters +of his maturer years are dry business letters of no general +interest: many others are mere scraps tossed in jest to +his familiars and full of catchwords and code-words current +in their talk but meaningless to outsiders. Above all, +many have to be omitted because they deal with the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxx"></a>xxx</span> +intimate affairs of private persons. Stevenson has been +sometimes called an egoist, as though he had been one in +the practical sense as well as in the sense of taking a lively +interest in his own moods and doings. Nothing can be +more untrue. The letters printed in these volumes are +indeed for the most part about himself: but it was of +himself that his correspondents of all things most cared +to hear. If the letters concerned with the private affairs +of other people could be printed, as of course they cannot, +the balance would come more than even. We should +see him throwing himself with sympathetic ardour and +without thought of self into the cares and interests of +his correspondents, and should learn to recognise him +as having been truly the helper in many a relation +where he might naturally have been taken for the +person helped.</p> + +<p>As to the form in which the Letters are now presented, +they fill three volumes instead of the four of the 1911 +edition, the division into fourteen sections according to date +being retained. As to the text, it is faithful to the original +except in so far as I have freely used the editorial privilege +of omission when I thought it desirable, and as I have not +felt myself bound to reproduce slips and oddities, however +characteristic, of spelling. In formal matters like +the use of quote-marks, italics, and so forth, I have adopted +a more uniform practice than his, which was very casual +and variable.</p> + +<p>To some readers, perhaps—(from this point I again +resume my Introduction of 1899, but with more correction +and abridgment)—to some, perhaps, the very lack of art +as a correspondent to which Stevenson, as above quoted, +pleads guilty may give the reading an added charm and +flavour. What he could do as an artist in letters we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxi"></a>xxxi</span> +know. I remember Sir John Millais, a shrewd and very +independent judge of books, calling across to me at a +dinner-table, “You know Stevenson, don’t you?” and +then going on, “Well, I wish you would tell him from me, +if he cares to know, that to my mind he is the very first +of living artists. I don’t mean writers merely, but painters +and all of us. Nobody living can see with such an eye +as that fellow, and nobody is such a master of his tools.” +But in his letters, excepting a few written in youth and +having more or less the character of exercises, and a few +in after years which were intended for the public eye, +Stevenson the deliberate artist is scarcely forthcoming at +all. He does not care a fig for order or logical sequence or +congruity, or for striking a key of expression and keeping +it, but becomes simply the most spontaneous and unstudied +of human beings. He has at his command the +whole vocabularies of the English and Scottish languages, +classical and slang, with good stores of the French, and +tosses and tumbles them about irresponsibly to convey +the impression or affection, the mood or freak of the +moment; pouring himself out in all manner of rhapsodical +confessions and speculations, grave or gay, notes of +observation and criticism, snatches of remembrance and +autobiography, moralisings on matters uppermost for the +hour in his mind, comments on his own work or other +people’s, or mere idle fun and foolery.</p> + +<p>By this medley of moods and manners, Stevenson’s +letters at their best come nearer than anything else to the +full-blooded charm and variety of his conversation. Nearer, +yet not quite near; for it was in company only that his +genial spirit rose to his very best. Few men probably +have had in them such a richness and variety of human +nature; and few can ever have been better gifted than +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxii"></a>xxxii</span> +he was to express the play of being that was in him by +means of the apt, expressive word and the animated look +and gesture. <i>Divers et ondoyant</i>, in the words of Montaigne, +beyond other men, he seemed to contain within +himself a whole troop of singularly assorted characters. +Though prose was his chosen medium of expression, he +was by temperament a born poet, to whom the world was +full of enchantment and of latent romance, only waiting +to take shape and substance in the forms of art. It was +his birthright—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + + <p style="margin-left: 9em;">“to hear</p> +<p>The great bell beating far and near—</p> +<p>The odd, unknown, enchanted gong</p> +<p>That on the road hales men along,</p> +<p>That from the mountain calls afar,</p> +<p>That lures the vessel from a star,</p> +<p>And with a still, aerial sound</p> +<p>Makes all the earth enchanted ground.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>He had not only the poet’s mind but the poet’s senses: +in youth ginger was only too hot in his mouth, and the +chimes at midnight only too favourite a music. At the +same time he was not less a born preacher and moralist +and son of the Covenanters after his fashion. He had +about him, as has been said, little spirit of social or other +conformity; but an active and searching private conscience +kept him for ever calling in question both the grounds of +his own conduct and the validity of the accepted codes +and compromises of society. He must try to work out +a scheme of morality suitable to his own case and temperament, +which found the prohibitory law of Moses chill and +uninspiring, but in the Sermon on the Mount a strong +incentive to all those impulses of pity and charity to which +his heart was prone. In early days his sense of social +injustice and the inequalities of human opportunity made +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxiii"></a>xxxiii</span> +him inwardly much of a rebel, who would have embraced +and acted on theories of socialism or communism, could +he have found any that did not seem to him at variance +with ineradicable instincts of human nature. All his life +the artist and the moralist in him alike were in rebellion +against the bourgeois spirit,—against timid, negative, and +shuffling substitutes for active and courageous well-doing,—and +declined to worship at the shrine of what he called +the bestial goddesses Comfort and Respectability. The +moralist in him helped the artist by backing with the +force of a highly sensitive conscience his instinctive love +of perfection in his work. The artist qualified the moralist +by discountenancing any preference for the harsh, the +sour, or the self-mortifying forms of virtue, and encouraging +the love for all tender or heroic, glowing, generous, +and cheerful forms.</p> + +<p>Above all things, perhaps, Stevenson was by instinct +an adventurer and practical experimentalist in life. Many +poets are content to dream, and many, perhaps most, +moralists to preach: Stevenson must ever be doing and +undergoing. He was no sentimentalist, to pay himself +with fine feelings whether for mean action or slack inaction. +He had an insatiable zest for all experiences, not the +pleasurable only, but including the more harsh and biting—those +that bring home to a man the pinch and sting of +existence as it is realised by the disinherited of the world, +and excluding only what he thought the prim, the conventional, +the dead-alive, and the cut-and-dry. On occasion +the experimentalist and man of adventure in him +would enter into special partnership with the moralist and +man of conscience: he was prone to plunge into difficult +social passes and ethical dilemmas, which he might sometimes +more wisely have avoided, for the sake of trying to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxiv"></a>xxxiv</span> +behave in them to the utmost according to his own personal +sense of the obligations of honour, duty, and kindness. +In yet another part of his being he cherished, as his great +countryman Scott had done before him, an intense underlying +longing for the life of action, danger and command. +“Action, Colvin, action,” I remember his crying eagerly +to me with his hand on my arm as we lay basking for his +health’s sake in a boat off the scented shores of the Cap +Martin. Another time—this was on his way to a winter +cure at Davos—some friend had given him General Hamley’s +<i>Operations of War</i>:—“in which,” he writes to his father, +“I am drowned a thousand fathoms deep, and O that I +had been a soldier is still my cry.” Fortunately, with all +these ardent and divers instincts, there were present two +invaluable gifts besides: that of humour, which for all +his stress of being and vivid consciousness of self saved +him from ever seeing himself for long together out of a +just proportion, and kept wholesome laughter always ready +at his lips; and that of a most tender and loyal heart, +which through all his experiments and agitations made +the law of kindness the one ruling law of his life. In the +end, lack of health determined his career, giving the chief +part in his life to the artist and man of imagination, and +keeping the man of action a prisoner in the sickroom until, +by a singular turn of destiny, he was able to wring a real +prolonged and romantically successful adventure out of that +voyage to the Pacific which had been, in its origin, the last +despairing resource of the invalid.</p> + +<p>Again, it was characteristic of this multiple personality +that he never seemed to be cramped like the rest of us, +at any given time of life, within the limits of his proper +age, but to be child, boy, young man, and old man all +at once. There was never a time in his life when Stevenson +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxv"></a>xxxv</span> +had to say with St. Augustine, “Behold! my childhood +is dead, but I am alive.” The child lived on always +in him, not in memory only, but in real survival, with all +its freshness of perception unimpaired, and none of its +play instincts in the least degree extinguished or made +ashamed. As for the perennial boy in Stevenson, that is +too apparent to need remark. It was as a boy for boys +that he wrote the best known of his books, <i>Treasure Island</i>, +and with all boys that he met, provided they were really +boys and not prigs nor puppies, he was instantly and +delightedly at home. At the same time, even when I +first knew him, he showed already surprising occasional +traits and glimpses of old sagacity, of premature life-wisdom +and experience.</p> + +<p>Once more, it is said that in every poet there must be +something of the woman. If to be quick in sympathy and +feeling, ardent in attachment, and full of pity for the +weak and suffering, is to be womanly, Stevenson was +certainly all those; he was even like a woman in being +<span class="grk" title="artidakrus">ἀρτίδακρυς</span>, easily moved to tears at the touch of pity +or affection, or even at any specially poignant impression +of art or beauty. But yet, if any one word were to be +chosen for the predominant quality of his character and +example, I suppose that word would be manly. In his +gentle and complying nature there were strains of iron +tenacity and will: occasionally even, let it be admitted, +of perversity and Scottish “thrawnness.” He had both +kinds of physical courage—the active, delighting in danger, +and the passive, unshaken in endurance. In the moral +courage of facing situations and consequences, of readiness +to pay for faults committed, of outspokenness, admitting +no ambiguous relations and clearing away the clouds +from human intercourse, I have not known his equal. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxvi"></a>xxxvi</span> +The great Sir Walter himself, as this book will prove, was +not more manfully free from artistic jealousy or irritability +under criticism, or more unfeignedly inclined to exaggerate +the qualities of other people’s work and to underrate those +of his own. Of the humorous and engaging parts of +vanity and egoism, which led him to make infinite talk +and fun about himself, and use his own experiences as a +key for unlocking the confidences of others, Stevenson +had plenty; but of the morose and fretful parts never +a shade. “A little Irish girl,” he wrote once during a +painful crisis of his life, “is now reading my book aloud +to her sister at my elbow; they chuckle, and I feel flattered.—Yours, +R. L. S. <i>P.S.</i>—Now they yawn, and I am +indifferent. Such a wisely conceived thing is vanity.” If +only vanity so conceived were commoner! And whatever +might be the abstract and philosophical value of that +somewhat grimly stoical conception of the universe, of +conduct and duty, at which in mature years he had arrived, +want of manliness is certainly not its fault. Take the +kind of maxims which he was accustomed to forge for his +own guidance:—“Acts may be forgiven; not even God +can forgive the hanger-back.” “Choose the best, if you +can; or choose the worst; that which hangs in the wind +dangles from a gibbet.” “’Shall I?’ said Feeble-mind; +and the echo said, ‘Fie!’” “’Do I love?’ said Loveless; +and the echo laughed.” “A fault known is a fault +cured to the strong; but to the weak it is a fetter riveted.” +“The mean man doubts, the great-hearted is deceived.” +“Great-heart was deceived. ‘Very well,’ said Great-heart.” +“’I have not forgotten my umbrella,’ said the +careful man; but the lightning struck him.” “Shame +had a fine bed, but where was slumber? Once he was in +jail he slept.” With this moralist maxims meant actions; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxvii"></a>xxxvii</span> +and where shall we easily find a much manlier spirit of +wisdom than this?</p> + +<p>There was yet another and very different side to Stevenson +which struck others more than it struck myself, namely, +that of the freakish or elvish, irresponsible madcap or +jester which sometimes appeared in him. It is true that +his demoniac quickness of wit and intelligence suggested +occasionally a “spirit of air and fire” rather than one of +earth; that he was abundantly given to all kinds of quirk +and laughter; and that there was no jest (saving the +unkind) he would not make and relish. The late Mr. J. A. +Symonds always called him Sprite; qualifying the name, +however, by the epithets “most fantastic, but most +human.” To me the essential humanity was always the +thing most apparent. In a fire well nourished of seasoned +ship-timber, the flames glance fantastically and of many +colours, but the glow at heart is ever deep and strong; +it was at such a glow that the friends of Stevenson were +accustomed to warm their hands, while they admired and +were entertained by the shifting lights.</p> + +<p>It was only in company, as I have said, that all these +many lights and colours could be seen in full play. He +would begin no matter how—perhaps with a jest at some +absurd adventure of his own, perhaps with the recitation, +in his vibrating voice and full Scotch accent, of some +snatch of poetry that was haunting him, perhaps with a +rhapsody of analytic delight over some minute accident +of beauty or expressiveness that had struck him in man, +woman, child, or external nature. And forthwith the +floodgates would be opened, and the talk would stream +on in endless, never importunate, flood and variety. A +hundred fictitious characters would be invented and +launched on their imaginary careers; a hundred ingenious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxviii"></a>xxxviii</span> +problems of conduct and cases of honour would be set and +solved; romantic voyages would be planned and followed +out in vision, with a thousand incidents; the possibilities +of life and art would be illuminated with search-lights of +bewildering range and penetration, sober argument and +high poetic eloquence alternating with coruscations of +insanely apposite slang—the earthiest jape anon shooting +up into the empyrean and changing into the most ethereal +fantasy—the stalest and most vulgarised forms of speech +gaining brilliancy and illuminating power from some +hitherto undreamt-of application—and all the while +an atmosphere of goodwill diffusing itself from the +speaker, a glow of eager benignity and affectionate +laughter emanating from his presence, till every one +about him seemed to catch something of his own gift and +inspiration. This sympathetic power of inspiring others +was the special and distinguishing note of Stevenson’s +conversation. He would keep a houseful or a single +companion entertained all day, and day after day and +half the nights, yet never seemed to monopolise the talk +or absorb it; rather he helped every one about him to +discover and to exercise unexpected powers of their +own.</p> + +<p>Imagine all this helped by the most speaking of presences: +a steady, penetrating fire in the brown, wide-set +eyes, a compelling power and richness in the smile; courteous, +waving gestures of the arms and long, nervous hands, +a lit cigarette generally held between the fingers; continual +rapid shiftings and pacings to and fro as he conversed: +rapid, but not flurried nor awkward, for there +was a grace in his attenuated but well-carried figure, and +his movements were light, deft, and full of spring. There +was something for strangers, and even for friends, to get +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexxxix"></a>xxxix</span> +over in the queer garments which in youth it was his +whim to wear—the badge, as they always seemed to me, +partly of a genuine carelessness, certainly of a genuine +lack of cash (the little he had was always absolutely at +the disposal of his friends), partly of a deliberate detachment +from any particular social class or caste, partly of +his love of pickles and adventures, which he thought befel +a man thus attired more readily than another. But this +slender, slovenly, nondescript apparition, long-visaged and +long-haired, had only to speak in order to be recognised +in the first minute for a witty and charming gentleman, +and within the first five for a master spirit and man of +genius. There were, indeed, certain stolidly conventional +and superciliously official kinds of persons, both at home +and abroad, who were incapable of looking beyond the +clothes, and eyed him always with frozen suspicion. This +attitude used sometimes in youth to drive him into fits of +flaming anger, which put him helplessly at a disadvantage +unless, or until, he could call the sense of humour to his +help. Apart from these his human charm was the same +for all kinds of people, without distinction of class or +caste; for worldly-wise old great ladies, whom he reminded +of famous poets in their youth; for his brother artists +and men of letters, perhaps, above all; for the ordinary +clubman; for his physicians, who could never do enough +for him; for domestic servants, who adored him; for the +English policeman even, on whom he often tried, quite in +vain, to pass himself as one of the criminal classes; for +the shepherd, the street arab, or the tramp, the common +seaman, the beach-comber, or the Polynesian high-chief. +Even in the imposed silence and restraint of extreme sickness +the power and attraction of the man made themselves +felt, and there seemed to be more vitality and fire +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pagexl"></a>xl</span> +of the spirit in him as he lay exhausted and speechless in +bed than in an ordinary roomful of people in health.</p> + +<p>But I have strayed from my purpose, which was only +to indicate that in the best of these letters of Stevenson’s +you have some echo, far away indeed, but yet the nearest, +of his talk—talk which could not possibly be taken down, +and of which nothing remains save in the memory of his +friends an impression magical and never to be effaced.</p> + + +<p class="rt sc">Sidney Colvin.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_1" href="#FnAnchor_1"><span class="fn">1</span></a> From 1876 to 1879—see p. 185.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_2" href="#FnAnchor_2"><span class="fn">2</span></a> The point was one on which Stevenson himself felt strongly. +In a letter of instructions to his wife found among his posthumous +papers he writes: “It is never worth while to inflict pain upon a +snail for any literary purpose; and where events may appear to be +favourable to me and contrary to others, I would rather be misunderstood +than cause a pang to any one whom I have known, far +less whom I have loved.” Whether an editor or biographer would +be justified in carrying out this principle to the full may perhaps +be doubted.</p> +</div> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1"></a>1</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>THE LETTERS<br /> +OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h2> + +<h3>1868-1882</h3> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2"></a>2</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page3"></a>3</span></p> +<h2>THE LETTERS<br /> +OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h2> +<hr class="art" /> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<h3>STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH</h3> + +<h5>TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS</h5> + +<h6>1868-1873</h6> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> following section consists chiefly of extracts from +the correspondence and journals addressed by Louis +Stevenson, as a lad of eighteen to twenty-two, to his +father and mother during summer excursions to the +Scottish coast or to the Continent. There exist enough +of them to fill a volume; but it is not in letters of this +kind to his family that a young man unbosoms himself +most freely, and these are perhaps not quite devoid of the +qualities of the guide-book and the descriptive exercise. +Nevertheless they seem to me to contain enough signs +of the future master-writer, enough of character, observation, +and skill in expression, to make a certain number +worth giving by way of an opening chapter to the present +book. Among them are interspersed four or five of a +different character addressed to other correspondents, +and chiefly to his lifelong friend and intimate, Mr. Charles +Baxter.</p> + +<p>On both sides of the house Stevenson came of interesting +stock. His grandfather was Robert Stevenson, civil +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4"></a>4</span> +engineer, highly distinguished as the builder of the Bell +Rock lighthouse. By this Robert Stevenson, his three +sons, and two of his grandsons now living, the business +of civil engineers in general, and of official engineers to +the Commissioners of Northern Lights in particular, has +been carried on at Edinburgh with high credit and public +utility for almost a century. Thomas Stevenson, the +youngest of the three sons of the original Robert, was +Robert Louis Stevenson’s father. He was a man not +only of mark, zeal, and inventiveness in his profession, +but of a strong and singular personality; a staunch friend +and sagacious adviser, trenchant in judgment and demonstrative +in emotion, outspoken, dogmatic,—despotic, even, +in little things, but withal essentially chivalrous and soft-hearted; +apt to pass with the swiftest transition from +moods of gloom or sternness to those of tender or freakish +gaiety, and commanding a gift of humorous and figurative +speech second only to that of his more famous son.</p> + +<p>Thomas Stevenson was married to Margaret Isabella, +youngest daughter of the Rev. Lewis Balfour, for many +years minister of the parish of Colinton in Midlothian. +This Mr. Balfour (described by his grandson in the essay +called <i>The Manse</i>) was of the stock of the Balfours of +Pilrig, and grandson to that James Balfour, professor +first of moral philosophy and afterwards of the law of +nature and of nations, who was held in particular esteem +as a philosophical controversialist by David Hume. His +wife, Henrietta Smith, a daughter of the Rev. George +Smith of Galston, to whose gift as a preacher Burns refers +scoffingly in the <i>Holy Fair</i>, is said to have been a woman +of uncommon beauty and charm of manner. Their +daughter, Mrs. Thomas Stevenson, suffered in early and +middle life from chest and nerve troubles, and her son +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5"></a>5</span> +may have inherited from her some of his constitutional +weakness. Capable, cultivated, companionable, affectionate, +she was a determined looker at the bright side of things, +and hence better skilled, perhaps, to shut her eyes to +troubles or differences among those she loved than understandingly +to compose or heal them. Conventionally +minded one might have thought her, but for the surprising +readiness with which in later life she adapted herself to +conditions of life and travel the most unconventional +possible. The son and only child of these two, Robert +Louis (baptized Robert Lewis Balfour<a name="FnAnchor_3" href="#Footnote_3"><span class="sp">3</span></a>), was born on +November 13, 1850, at 8 Howard Place, Edinburgh. His +health was infirm from the first, and he was with difficulty +kept alive by the combined care of his mother and a most +devoted nurse, Alison Cunningham; to whom his lifelong +gratitude will be found touchingly expressed in the +course of the following letters. In 1858 he was near +dying of a gastric fever, and was at all times subject to +acute catarrhal and bronchial affections and extreme +nervous excitability.</p> + +<p>In January 1853 Stevenson’s parents moved to Inverleith +Terrace, and in May 1857 to 17 Heriot Row, which +continued to be their Edinburgh home until the death +of Thomas Stevenson in 1887. Much of the boy’s time +was also spent in the manse of Colinton on the Water of +Leith, the home of his maternal grandfather. Ill-health +prevented him getting much regular or continuous schooling. +He attended first (1858-61) a preparatory school +kept by a Mr. Henderson in India Street; and next (at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6"></a>6</span> +intervals for some time after the autumn of 1861) the +Edinburgh Academy.</p> + +<p>Schooling was interrupted in the end of 1862 and +first half of 1863 by excursions with his parents to Germany, +the Riviera, and Italy. The love of wandering, +which was a rooted passion in Stevenson’s nature, thus +began early to find satisfaction. For a few months in +the autumn of 1863, when his parents had been ordered +for a second time to Mentone for the sake of his mother’s +health, he was sent to a boarding-school kept by a Mr. +Wyatt at Spring Grove, near London. It is not my +intention to treat the reader to the series of childish and +boyish letters of these days which parental fondness has +preserved. But here is one written from his English +school when he was about thirteen, which is both amusing +in itself and had a certain influence on his destiny, inasmuch +as his appeal led to his being taken out to join his +parents on the French Riviera; which from these days +of his boyhood he never ceased to love, and for which the +longing, amid the gloom of Edinburgh winters, often +afterwards gripped him by the heart.</p> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p class="rt"><i>Spring Grove School, 12th November 1863.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MA CHERE MAMAN</span>,—Jai recu votre lettre Aujourdhui et +comme le jour prochaine est mon jour de naisance je vous +écrit ce lettre. Ma grande gatteaux est arrivé il leve +12 livres et demi le prix etait 17 shillings. Sur la soirée +de Monseigneur Faux il y etait quelques belles feux d’artifice. +Mais les polissons entrent dans notre champ et nos +feux d’artifice et handkerchiefs disappeared quickly, but +we charged them out of the field. Je suis presque driven +mad par une bruit terrible tous les garcons kik up comme +grand un bruit qu’il est possible. I hope you will find your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7"></a>7</span> +house at Mentone nice. I have been obliged to stop from +writing by the want of a pen, but now I have one, so I +will continue.</p> + +<p>My dear papa, you told me to tell you whenever I was +miserable. I do not feel well, and I wish to get home. +Do take me with you.</p> + +<p class="rt sc">R. Stevenson.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p>This young French scholar has yet, it will be discerned, +a good way to travel; in later days he acquired a complete +reading and speaking, with a less complete writing, +mastery of the language, and was as much at home with +French ways of thought and life as with English.</p> + +<p>For one more specimen of his boyish style, it may be +not amiss to give the text of another appeal which dates +from two and a half years later, and is also typical of +much in his life’s conditions both then and later:—</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="rt"><i>2 Sulgarde Terrace, +Torquay, Thursday</i> [<i>April 1866</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">RESPECTED PATERNAL RELATIVE</span>,—I write to make a +request of the most moderate nature. Every year I have +cost you an enormous—nay, elephantine—sum of money +for drugs and physician’s fees, and the most expensive +time of the twelve months was March.</p> + +<p>But this year the biting Oriental blasts, the howling +tempests, and the general ailments of the human race +have been successfully braved by yours truly.</p> + +<p>Does not this deserve remuneration?</p> + +<p>I appeal to your charity, I appeal to your generosity, +I appeal to your justice, I appeal to your accounts, I +appeal, in fine, to your purse.</p> + +<p>My sense of generosity forbids the receipt of more—my +sense of justice forbids the receipt of less—than half-a-crown.—Greeting +from, Sir, your most affectionate and +needy son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. Stevenson.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page8"></a>8</span></p> + +<p>From 1864 to 1867 Stevenson’s education was conducted +chiefly at Mr. Thomson’s private school in Frederick +Street, Edinburgh, and by private tutors in various places +to which he travelled for his own or his parents’ health. +These travels included frequent visits to such Scottish +health resorts as Bridge of Allan, Dunoon, Rothesay, +North Berwick, Lasswade, and Peebles, and occasional +excursions with his father on his nearer professional rounds +to the Scottish coasts and lighthouses. From 1867 the +family life became more settled between Edinburgh and +Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, a country home in the +Pentlands which Mr. Stevenson first rented in that year, +and the scenery and associations of which sank deeply +into the young man’s spirit, and vitally affected his after +thoughts and his art.</p> + +<p>By this time Louis Stevenson seemed to show signs +of outgrowing his early infirmities of health. He was a +lover, to a degree even beyond his strength, of outdoor +life and exercise (though not of sports), and it began to +be hoped that as he grew up he would be fit to enter the +family profession of civil engineer. He was accordingly +entered as a student at Edinburgh University, and for +several winters attended classes there with such regularity +as his health and inclinations permitted. This was in +truth but small. The mind on fire with its own imaginations, +and eager to acquire its own experiences in its own +way, does not take kindly to the routine of classes and +repetitions, nor could the desultory mode of schooling +enforced upon him by ill-health answer much purpose by +way of discipline. According to his own account he was +at college, as he had been at school, an inveterate idler +and truant. But outside the field of school and college +routine he showed an eager curiosity and activity of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9"></a>9</span> +mind. “He was of a conversable temper,” so he says +of himself, “and insatiably curious in the aspects of life, +and spent much of his time scraping acquaintance with +all classes of men and womenkind.” Of one class indeed, +and that was his own, he had soon had enough, at least +in so far as it was to be studied at the dinners, dances, +and other polite entertainments of ordinary Edinburgh +society. Of these he early wearied. At home he made +himself pleasant to all comers, but for his own resort +chose out a very few houses, mostly those of intimate +college companions, into which he could go without constraint, +and where his inexhaustible flow of poetic, imaginative, +and laughing talk seems generally to have rather +puzzled his hearers than impressed them. On the other +hand, during his endless private rambles and excursions, +whether among the streets and slums, the gardens and +graveyards of the city, or farther afield among the Pentland +hills or on the shores of Forth, he was never tired +of studying character and seeking acquaintance among +the classes more nearly exposed to the pinch and stress +of life.</p> + +<p>In the eyes of anxious elders, such vagrant ways naturally +take on the colours of idleness and a love of low company. +Stevenson was, however, in his own fashion an +eager student of books as well as of man and nature. He +read precociously and omnivorously in the <i>belles-lettres</i>, +including a very wide range of English poetry, fiction, +and essays, and a fairly wide range of French; and was +a genuine student of Scottish history, especially from +the time of the persecutions down, and to some extent +of history in general. The art of literature was already +his private passion, and something within him even already +told him that it was to be his life’s work. On all his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10"></a>10</span> +truantries he went pencil and copybook in hand, trying +to fit his impression of the scene to words, to compose +original rhymes, tales, dialogues, and dramas, or to imitate +the style and cadences of the author he at the moment +preferred. For three or four years, nevertheless, he tried +dutifully, if half-heartedly, to prepare himself for the +family profession. In 1868, the year when the following +correspondence opens, he went to watch the works of the +firm in progress first at Anstruther on the coast of Fife, +and afterwards at Wick. In 1869 he made the tour of +the Orkneys and Shetlands on board the steam yacht +of the Commissioners of Northern Lights, and in 1870 +the tour of the Western Islands, preceded by a stay on +the isle of Earraid, where the works of the Dhu Heartach +lighthouse were then in progress. He was a favourite, +although a very irregular, pupil of the professor of engineering, +Fleeming Jenkin, whose friendship and that of +Mrs. Jenkin were of great value to him, and whose life +he afterwards wrote; and must have shown some aptitude +for the family calling, inasmuch as in 1871 he received +the silver medal of the Edinburgh Society of Arts for a +paper on a suggested improvement in lighthouse apparatus. +The outdoor and seafaring parts of an engineer’s life were +in fact wholly to his taste. But he looked instinctively +at the powers and phenomena of waves and tide, of storm +and current, reef, cliff, and rock, with the eye of the poet +and artist, and not those of the practician and calculator. +For desk work and office routine he had an unconquerable +aversion; and his physical powers, had they remained +at their best, must have proved quite unequal to the +workshop training necessary to the practical engineer. +Accordingly in 1871 it was agreed, not without natural +reluctance on his father’s part, that he should give up +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11"></a>11</span> +the hereditary vocation and read for the bar: literature, +on which his heart was set, and in which his early attempts +had been encouraged, being held to be by itself no profession, +or at least one altogether too irregular and undefined. +For the next several years, therefore, he attended +law classes instead of engineering and science classes in +the University, giving to the subject a certain amount +of serious, although fitful, attention until he was called +to the bar in 1875.</p> + +<p>So much for the course of Stevenson’s outward life +during these days at Edinburgh. To tell the story of his +inner life would be a far more complicated task, and cannot +here be attempted even briefly. The ferment of youth +was more acute and more prolonged in him than in most +men even of genius. In the Introduction I have tried +to give some notion of the many various strains and +elements which met in him, and which were in these days +pulling one against another in his half-formed being, at +a great expense of spirit and body. Add the storms, +which from time to time attacked him, of shivering repulsion +from the climate and conditions of life in the city +which he yet deeply and imaginatively loved; the moods +of spiritual revolt against the harsh doctrines of the creed +in which he had been brought up, and to which his parents +were deeply, his father even passionately, attached; the +seasons of temptation, to which he was exposed alike +by temperament and circumstance, to seek solace among +the crude allurements of the city streets.</p> + +<p>In the later and maturer correspondence which will +appear in these volumes, the agitations of the writer’s +early days are often enough referred to in retrospect. +In the boyish letters to his parents, which make up the +chief part of this first section, they naturally find no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12"></a>12</span> +expression at all; nor will these letters be found to differ +much in any way from those of any other lively and +observant lad who is also something of a reader and has +some natural gift of writing. At the end of the section +I have indeed printed one cry of the heart, written not +to his parents, but about them, and telling of the strain +which matters of religious difference for a while brought +into his home relations. The attachment between the +father and son from childhood was exceptionally strong. +But the father was staunchly wedded to the hereditary +creeds and dogmas of Scottish Calvinistic Christianity; +while the course of the young man’s reading, with the +spirit of the generation in which he grew up, had loosed +him from the bonds of that theology, and even of dogmatic +Christianity in general, and had taught him to +respect all creeds alike as expressions of the cravings and +conjectures of the human spirit in face of the unsolved +mystery of things, rather than to cling to any one of them +as a revelation of ultimate truth. The shock to the father +was great when his son’s opinions came to his knowledge; +and there ensued a time of extremely painful discussion +and private tension between them. In due time this +cloud upon a family life otherwise very harmonious and +affectionate passed quite away. But the greater the love, +the greater the pain; when I first knew Stevenson this +trouble gave him no peace, and it has left a strong trace +upon his mind and work. See particularly the parable +called “The House of Eld,” in his collection of <i>Fables</i>, +and the many studies of difficult paternal and filial relations +which are to be found in <i>The Story of a Lie</i>, <i>The Misadventures +of John Nicholson</i>, <i>The Wrecker</i>, and <i>Weir of +Hermiston</i>.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page13"></a>13</span></p> + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In July 1868 R. L. S. went to watch the harbour works at +Anstruther and afterwards those at Wick. Of his private moods +and occupations in the Anstruther days he has told in retrospect +in the essay <i>Random Memories: the Coast of Fife</i>. Here are some +passages from letters written at the time to his parents. “Travellers” +and “jennies” are, of course, terms of engineering.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">’<i>Kenzie House +or whatever it is called, +Anstruther.</i> [<i>July 1868.</i>]</p> + +<p class="noind">First sheet: Thursday.<br /> +Second sheet: Friday.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—My lodgings are very nice, and I +don’t think there are any children. There is a box of +mignonette in the window and a factory of dried rose-leaves, +which make the atmosphere a trifle heavy, but +very pleasant.</p> + +<p>When you come, bring also my paint-box—I forgot it. +I am going to try the travellers and jennies, and have +made a sketch of them and begun the drawing. After +that I’ll do the staging.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brown “has suffered herself from her stommick, +and that makes her kind of think for other people.” She +is a motherly lot. Her mothering and thought for others +displays itself in advice against hard-boiled eggs, well-done +meat, and late dinners, these being my only requests. +Fancy—I am the only person in Anstruther who dines in +the afternoon.</p> + +<p>If you could bring me some wine when you come, +’twould be a good move: I fear <i>vin d’Anstruther</i>; and +having procured myself a severe attack of gripes by two +days’ total abstinence on chilly table beer I have been forced +to purchase Green Ginger (“Somebody or other’s ‘celebrated’“), +for the benefit of my stomach, like St. Paul.</p> + +<p>There is little or nothing doing here to be seen. By +heightening the corner in a hurry to support the staging +they have let the masons get ahead of the divers and wait +till they can overtake them. I wish you would write and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14"></a>14</span> +put me up to the sort of things to ask and find out. I +received your registered letter with the £5; it will last +for ever. To-morrow I will watch the masons at the +pier-foot and see how long they take to work that Fifeness +stone you ask about; they get sixpence an hour; +so that is the only datum required.</p> + +<p>It is awful how slowly I draw, and how ill: I am +not nearly done with the travellers, and have not thought +of the jennies yet. When I’m drawing I find out something +I have not measured, or, having measured, have +not noted, or, having noted, cannot find; and so I have +to trudge to the pier again ere I can go farther with my +noble design.</p> + +<p>Love to all.—Your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt sc">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">’<i>Kenzie House, Anstruther</i> [<i>later in July, 1868</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—To-night I went with the youngest +M. to see a strolling band of players in the townhall. A +large table placed below the gallery with a print curtain +on either side of the most limited dimensions was at once +the scenery and the proscenium. The manager told us +that his scenes were sixteen by sixty-four, and so could +not be got in. Though I knew, or at least felt sure, that +there were no such scenes in the poor man’s possession, +I could not laugh, as did the major part of the audience, +at this shift to escape criticism. We saw a wretched farce, +and some comic songs were sung. The manager sang one, +but it came grimly from his throat. The whole receipt +of the evening was 5s. and 3d., out of which had to come +room, gas, and town drummer. We left soon; and I +must say came out as sad as I have been for ever so long: +I think that manager had a soul above comic songs. +I said this to young M., who is a “Phillistine” (Matthew +Arnold’s Philistine you understand), and he replied, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15"></a>15</span> +“How much happier would he be as a common working-man!” +I told him I thought he would be less happy +earning a comfortable living as a shoemaker than he was +starving as an actor, with such artistic work as he had +to do. But the Phillistine wouldn’t see it. You observe +that I spell Philistine time about with one and two l’s.</p> + +<p>As we went home we heard singing, and went into the +porch of the schoolhouse to listen. A fisherman entered +and told us to go in. It was a psalmody class. One of the +girls had a glorious voice. We stayed for half an hour.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—I am utterly sick of this grey, grim, sea-beaten +hole. I have a little cold in my head, which makes +my eyes sore; and you can’t tell how utterly sick I am, +and how anxious to get back among trees and flowers and +something less meaningless than this bleak fertility.</p> + +<p>Papa need not imagine that I have a bad cold or am +stone-blind from this description, which is the whole truth.</p> + +<p>Last night Mr. and Mrs. Fortune called in a dog-cart, +Fortune’s beard and Mrs. F.’s brow glittering with mist-drops, +to ask me to come next Saturday. Conditionally, +I accepted. Do you think I can cut it? I am only anxious +to go slick home on the Saturday. Write by return of +post and tell me what to do. If possible, I should like to +cut the business and come right slick out to Swanston.—I +remain, your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt sc">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>An early Portfolio paper On <i>the Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places</i>, +as well as the second part of the <i>Random Memories</i> essay, written +twenty years later, refer to the same experiences as the following +letters. Stevenson lodged during his stay at Wick in a private +hotel on the Harbour Brae, kept by a Mr. Sutherland.<a name="FnAnchor_4" href="#Footnote_4"><span class="sp">4</span></a></p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Wick, Friday, September 11, 1868.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,— ... Wick lies at the end or +elbow of an open triangular bay, hemmed on either side +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16"></a>16</span> +by shores, either cliff or steep earth-bank, of no great +height. The grey houses of Pulteney extend along the +southerly shore almost to the cape; and it is about half-way +down this shore—no, six-sevenths way down—that +the new breakwater extends athwart the bay.</p> + +<p>Certainly Wick in itself possesses no beauty: bare, +grey shores, grim grey houses, grim grey sea; not even +the gleam of red tiles; not even the greenness of a tree. +The southerly heights, when I came here, were black with +people, fishers waiting on wind and night. Now all the +S.Y.S. (Stornoway boats) have beaten out of the bay, +and the Wick men stay indoors or wrangle on the quays +with dissatisfied fish-curers, knee-high in brine, mud, and +herring refuse. The day when the boats put out to go +home to the Hebrides, the girl here told me there was “a +black wind“; and on going out, I found the epithet as +justifiable as it was picturesque. A cold, <i>black</i> southerly +wind, with occasional rising showers of rain; it was a fine +sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of it.</p> + +<p>In Wick I have never heard any one greet his neighbour +with the usual “Fine day” or “Good morning.” Both +come shaking their heads, and both say, “Breezy, breezy!” +And such is the atrocious quality of the climate, that the +remark is almost invariably justified by the fact.</p> + +<p>The streets are full of the Highland fishers, lubberly, +stupid, inconceivably lazy and heavy to move. You +bruise against them, tumble over them, elbow them against +the wall—all to no purpose; they will not budge; and +you are forced to leave the pavement every step.</p> + +<p>To the south, however, is as fine a piece of coast scenery +as I ever saw. Great black chasms, huge black cliffs, +rugged and over-hung gullies, natural arches, and deep +green pools below them, almost too deep to let you see the +gleam of sand among the darker weed: there are deep +caves too. In one of these lives a tribe of gipsies. The +men are <i>always</i> drunk, simply and truthfully always. +From morning to evening the great villainous-looking +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17"></a>17</span> +fellows are either sleeping off the last debauch, or hulking +about the cove “in the horrors.” The cave is deep, high, +and airy, and might be made comfortable enough. But +they just live among heaped boulders, damp with continual +droppings from above, with no more furniture than +two or three tin pans, a truss of rotten straw, and a few +ragged cloaks. In winter the surf bursts into the mouth +and often forces them to abandon it.</p> + +<p>An <i>émeute</i> of disappointed fishers was feared, and two +ships of war are in the bay to render assistance to the +municipal authorities. This is the ides; and, to all intents +and purposes, said ides are passed. Still there is a good +deal of disturbance, many drunk men, and a double supply +of police. I saw them sent for by some people and enter +an inn, in a pretty good hurry: what it was for I do not +know.</p> + +<p>You would see by papa’s letter about the carpenter +who fell off the staging: I don’t think I was ever so much +excited in my life. The man was back at his work, and +I asked him how he was; but he was a Highlander, and—need +I add it?—dickens a word could I understand of +his answer. What is still worse, I find the people here-about—that +is to say, the Highlanders, not the northmen—don’t +understand <i>me</i>.</p> + +<p>I have lost a shilling’s worth of postage stamps, which +has damped my ardour for buying big lots of ’em: I’ll +buy them one at a time as I want ’em for the future.</p> + +<p>The Free Church minister and I got quite thick. He +left last night about two in the morning, when I went +to turn in. He gave me the enclosed.—I remain your +affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt sc">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Wick, September 5, 1868. Monday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MAMMA</span>,—This morning I got a delightful +haul: your letter of the fourth (surely mis-dated); papa’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18"></a>18</span> +of same day; Virgil’s <i>Bucolics</i>, very thankfully received; +and Aikman’s <i>Annals</i>,<a name="FnAnchor_5" href="#Footnote_5"><span class="sp">5</span></a> a precious and most acceptable +donation, for which I tender my most ebullient thanksgivings. +I almost forgot to drink my tea and eat mine +egg.</p> + +<p>It contains more detailed accounts than anything I +ever saw, except Wodrow, without being so portentously +tiresome and so desperately overborne with footnotes, +proclamations, acts of Parliament, and citations as that +last history.</p> + +<p>I have been reading a good deal of Herbert. He’s a +clever and a devout cove; but in places awfully twaddley +(if I may use the word). Oughtn’t this to rejoice papa’s +heart—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Carve or discourse; do not a famine fear.</p> +<p class="i05">Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>You understand? The “fearing a famine” is applied +to people gulping down solid vivers without a word, as if +the ten lean kine began to-morrow.</p> + +<p>Do you remember condemning something of mine for +being too obtrusively didactic. Listen to Herbert—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Is it not verse except enchanted groves</p> +<p class="i05">And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?</p> +<p class="i05">Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves?</p> +<p class="i05"><i>Must all be veiled, while he that reads divines</i></p> +<p class="i05"><i>Catching the sense at two removes?</i>”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>You see, “except” was used for “unless” before 1630.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—The riots were a hum. No more has been +heard; and one of the war-steamers has deserted in +disgust.</p> + +<p>The <i>Moonstone</i> is frightfully interesting: isn’t the +detective prime? Don’t say anything about the plot; for +I have only read on to the end of Betteredge’s narrative, +so don’t know anything about it yet.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page19"></a>19</span></p> + +<p>I thought to have gone on to Thurso to-night, but the +coach was full; so I go to-morrow instead.</p> + +<p>To-day I had a grouse: great glorification.</p> + +<p>There is a drunken brute in the house who disturbed +my rest last night. He’s a very respectable man in general, +but when on the “spree” a most consummate fool. +When he came in he stood on the top of the stairs and +preached in the dark with great solemnity and no audience +from 12 <span class="sc">p.m</span>. to half-past one. At last I opened my door. +“Are we to have no sleep at all for that <i>drunken brute?</i>” +I said. As I hoped, it had the desired effect. “Drunken +brute!” he howled, in much indignation; then after a +pause, in a voice of some contrition, “Well, if I am a +drunken brute, it’s only once in the twelvemonth!” And +that was the end of him; the insult rankled in his mind; +and he retired to rest. He is a fish-curer, a man over +fifty, and pretty rich too. He’s as bad again to-day; +but I’ll be shot if he keeps me awake, I’ll douse him with +water if he makes a row.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The Macdonald father and son here mentioned were engineers +attached to the Stevenson firm and in charge of the harbour works.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Wick, September 1868. Saturday, 10</i> <span class="sc">a.m</span>.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—The last two days have been +dreadfully hard, and I was so tired in the evenings that +I could not write. In fact, last night I went to sleep +immediately after dinner, or very nearly so. My hours +have been 10-2 and 3-7 out in the lighter or the small +boat, in a long, heavy roll from the nor’-east. When the +dog was taken out, he got awfully ill; one of the men, +Geordie Grant by name and surname, followed <i>shoot</i> with +considerable <i>éclat</i>; but, wonderful to relate! I kept well. +My hands are all skinned, blistered, discoloured, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20"></a>20</span> +engrained with tar, some of which latter has established +itself under my nails in a position of such natural strength +that it defies all my efforts to dislodge it. The worst +work I had was when David (Macdonald’s eldest) and I +took the charge ourselves. He remained in the lighter to +tighten or slacken the guys as we raised the pole towards +the perpendicular, with two men. I was with four men +in the boat. We dropped an anchor out a good bit, then +tied a cord to the pole, took a turn round the sternmost +thwart with it, and pulled on the anchor line. As the +great, big, wet hawser came in it soaked you to the skin: +I was the sternest (used, by way of variety, for sternmost) +of the lot, and had to coil it—a work which involved, from +<i>its</i> being so stiff and <i>your</i> being busy pulling with all your +might, no little trouble and an extra ducking. We got it +up; and, just as we were going to sing “Victory!” one +of the guys slipped in, the pole tottered—went over on +its side again like a shot, and behold the end of our +labour.</p> + +<p>You see, I have been roughing it; and though some +parts of the letter may be neither very comprehensible +nor very interesting to <i>you</i>, I think that perhaps it might +amuse Willie Traquair, who delights in all such dirty +jobs.</p> + +<p>The first day, I forgot to mention, was like mid-winter +for cold, and rained incessantly so hard that the livid +white of our cold-pinched faces wore a sort of inflamed +rash on the windward side.</p> + +<p>I am not a bit the worse of it, except fore-mentioned +state of hands, a slight crick in my neck from the rain +running down, and general stiffness from pulling, hauling, +and tugging for dear life.</p> + +<p>We have got double weights at the guys, and hope +to get it up like a shot.</p> + +<p>What fun you three must be having! I hope the cold +don’t disagree with you.—I remain, my dear mother, your +affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt sc">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page21"></a>21</span></p> + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following will help the reader to understand the passage +referring to this undertaking in Stevenson’s biographical essay on +his father where he has told how in the end “the sea proved too +strong for men’s arts, and after expedients hitherto unthought of, +and on a scale hyper-Cyclopean, the work must be deserted, and +now stands a ruin in that bleak, God-forsaken bay.” The Russels +herein mentioned are the family of Sheriff Russel. The tombstone +of Miss Sara Russel is to be seen in Wick cemetery.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Pulteney, Wick, Sunday, September 1868.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Another storm: wind higher, rain +thicker: the wind still rising as the night closes in and +the sea slowly rising along with it; it looks like a three +days’ gale.</p> + +<p>Last week has been a blank one: always too much +sea.</p> + +<p>I enjoyed myself very much last night at the Russels’. +There was a little dancing, much singing and supper.</p> + +<p>Are you not well that you do not write? I haven’t +heard from you for more than a fortnight.</p> + +<p>The wind fell yesterday and rose again to-day; it is +a dreadful evening; but the wind is keeping the sea down +as yet. Of course, nothing more has been done to the +poles; and I can’t tell when I shall be able to leave, not +for a fortnight yet, I fear, at the earliest, for the winds +are persistent. Where’s Murra? Is Cummy struck dumb +about the boots? I wish you would get somebody to +write an interesting letter and say how you are, for you’re +on the broad of your back I see. There hath arrived +an inroad of farmers to-night; and I go to avoid +them to Macdonald if he’s disengaged, to the Russels +if not.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday</i> (<i>later</i>).—Storm without: wind and rain: a +confused mass of wind-driven rain-squalls, wind-ragged +mist, foam, spray, and great, grey waves. Of this hereafter; +in the meantime let us follow the due course of +historic narrative.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page22"></a>22</span></p> + +<p>Seven <span class="sc">p.m</span>. found me at Breadalbane Terrace, clad in +spotless blacks, white tie, shirt, et cætera, and finished +off below with a pair of navvies’ boots. How true that +the devil is betrayed by his feet! A message to Cummy +at last. Why, O treacherous woman! were my dress +boots withheld?</p> + +<p>Dramatis personæ: père Russel, amusing, long-winded, +in many points like papa; mère Russel, nice, delicate, likes +hymns, knew Aunt Margaret (’t’ould man knew Uncle +Alan); fille Russel, nominée Sara (no h), rather nice, lights +up well, good voice, <i>interested</i> face; Miss L., nice also, +washed out a little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils +Russel, in a Leith office, smart, full of happy epithet, +amusing. They are very nice and very kind, asked me +to come back—“any night you feel dull: and any night +doesn’t mean no night: we’ll be so glad to see you.” +<i>C’est la mère qui parle.</i></p> + +<p>I was back there again to-night. There was hymn-singing, +and general religious controversy till eight, after +which talk was secular. Mrs. Sutherland was deeply +distressed about the boot business. She consoled me +by saying that many would be glad to have such feet +whatever shoes they had on. Unfortunately, fishers +and seafaring men are too facile to be compared +with! This looks like enjoyment! better speck than +Anster.</p> + +<p>I have done with frivolity. This morning I was +awakened by Mrs. Sutherland at the door. “There’s a ship +ashore at Shaltigoe!” As my senses slowly flooded, I heard +the whistling and the roaring of wind, and the lashing +of gust-blown and uncertain flaws of rain. I got up, +dressed, and went out. The mizzled sky and rain blinded +you.</p> + +<p>She was a Norwegian: coming in she saw our first +gauge-pole, standing at point E. Norse skipper thought +it was a sunk smack, and dropped his anchor in full drift of +sea: chain broke: schooner came ashore. Insured: laden +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23"></a>23</span> +with wood: skipper owner of vessel and cargo: bottom +out.</p> + +<p>I was in a great fright at first lest we should be liable; +but it seems that’s all right.</p> + +<div class="figcenter1"> +<img style="border:0; width:400px; height:219px" + src="images/image2.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p>C D is the new pier.</p> + +<p>A the schooner ashore. B the salmon house.</p> + +<p>Some of the waves were twenty feet high. The spray +rose eighty feet at the new pier. Some wood has come +ashore, and the roadway seems carried away. There is +something fishy at the far end where the cross wall is +building; but till we are able to get along, all speculation +is vain.</p> + +<p>I am so sleepy I am writing nonsense.</p> + +<p>I stood a long while on the cope watching the sea +below me; I hear its dull, monotonous roar at this moment +below the shrieking of the wind; and there came ever +recurring to my mind the verse I am so fond of:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“But yet the Lord that is on high</p> +<p class="i1">Is more of might by far</p> +<p class="i05">Than noise of many waters is</p> +<p class="i1">Or great sea-billows are.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>The thunder at the wall when it first struck—the rush +along ever growing higher—the great jet of snow-white +spray some forty feet above you—and the “noise of +many waters,” the roar, the hiss, the “shrieking” among +the shingle as it fell head over heels at your feet. I +watched if it threw the big stones at the wall; but it +never moved them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page24"></a>24</span></p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—The end of the work displays gaps, cairns +of ten ton blocks, stones torn from their places and turned +right round. The damage above water is comparatively +little: what there may be below, on <i>ne sait pas encore</i>. +The roadway is torn away, cross-heads, broken planks +tossed here and there, planks gnawn and mumbled as if +a starved bear had been trying to eat them, planks with +spates lifted from them as if they had been dressed with +a rugged plane, one pile swaying to and fro clear of the +bottom, the rails in one place sunk a foot at least. This +was not a great storm, the waves were light and short. +Yet when we are standing at the office, I felt the ground +beneath me <i>quail</i> as a huge roller thundered on the work +at the last year’s cross wall.</p> + +<p>How could <i>noster amicus Q. maximus</i> appreciate a +storm at Wick? It requires a little of the artistic temperament, +of which Mr. T. S.,<a name="FnAnchor_6" href="#Footnote_6"><span class="sp">6</span></a> C.E., possesses some, whatever +he may say. I can’t look at it practically however: +that will come, I suppose, like grey hair or coffin nails.</p> + +<p>Our pole is snapped: a fortnight’s work and the loss +of the Norse schooner all for nothing!—except experience +and dirty clothes.—Your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt sc">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I omit the letters of 1869, which describe at great length, and +not very interestingly, a summer trip on board the lighthouse +steamer to the Orkneys, Shetlands, and the Fair Isle. The following +of 1870 I give (by consent of the lady who figures as a youthful +character in the narrative) both for the sake of its lively social +sketches—including that of the able painter and singular personage, +the late Sam Bough,—and because it is dated from the Isle of +Earraid, celebrated alike in <i>Kidnapped</i> and in the essay <i>Memoirs +of an Islet</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Earraid, Thursday, August 5th, 1870.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I have so much to say, that needs +must I take a large sheet; for the notepaper brings with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25"></a>25</span> +it a chilling brevity of style. Indeed, I think pleasant +writing is proportional to the size of the material you +write withal.</p> + +<p>From Edinburgh to Greenock, I had the ex-secretary +of the E.U. Conservative Club, Murdoch. At Greenock +I spent a dismal evening, though I found a pretty walk. +Next day on board the <i>Iona</i>, I had Maggie Thomson to +Tarbet; Craig, a well-read, pleasant medical, to Ardrishaig; +and Professor, Mrs., and all the little Fleeming Jenkinseses +to Oban.</p> + +<p>At Oban, that night, it was delicious. Mr. Stephenson’s +yacht lay in the bay, and a splendid band on board played +delightfully. The waters of the bay were as smooth as +a mill-pond; and, in the dusk, the black shadows of the +hills stretched across to our very feet and the lights were +reflected in long lines. At intervals, blue lights were +burned on the water; and rockets were sent up. Sometimes +great stars of clear fire fell from them, until the +bay received and quenched them. I hired a boat and +skulled round the yacht in the dark. When I came in, +a very pleasant Englishman on the steps fell into talk +with me, till it was time to go to bed.</p> + +<p>Next morning I slept on or I should have gone to +Glencoe. As it was, it was blazing hot; so I hired a boat, +pulled all forenoon along the coast and had a delicious +bathe on a beautiful white beach. Coming home, I +<i>cotogai’d</i> my Englishman, lunched alongside of him and +his sister, and took a walk with him in the afternoon, +during which I find that he was travelling with a servant, +kept horses, <i>et cetera</i>. At dinner he wished me to sit +beside him and his sister; but there was no room. When +he came out he told me why he was so <i>empressé</i> on this +point. He had found out my name, and that I was connected +with lighthouses, and his sister wished to know +if I were any relative of the Stevenson in Ballantyne’s +<i>Lighthouse</i>. All evening, he, his sister, I, and Mr. Hargrove, +of Hargrove and Fowler, sate in front of the hotel. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26"></a>26</span> +I asked Mr. H. if he knew who my friend was. “Yes,” +he said; “I never met him before: but my partner knows +him. He is a man of old family; and the solicitor of +highest standing about Sheffield.” At night he said, +“Now if you’re down in my neighbourhood, you must +pay me a visit. I am very fond of young men about me; +and I should like a visit from you very much. I can take +you through any factory in Sheffield and I’ll drive you +all about the <i>Dookeries</i>.” He then wrote me down his +address; and we parted huge friends, he still keeping me +up to visiting him.</p> + +<p>Hitherto, I had enjoyed myself amazingly; but to-day +has been the crown. In the morning I met Bough on +board, with whom I am both surprised and delighted. +He and I have read the same books, and discuss Chaucer, +Shakespeare, Marlowe, Fletcher, Webster, and all the old +authors. He can quote verses by the page, and has really +a very pretty literary taste. Altogether, with all his +roughness and buffoonery, a more pleasant, clever fellow +you may seldom see. I was very much surprised with +him; and he with me. “Where the devil did you read +all these books?” says he; and in my heart, I echo +the question. One amusing thing I must say. We were +both talking about travelling; and I said I was so fond +of travelling alone, from the people one met and grew +friendly with. “Ah,” says he, “but you’ve such a pleasant +manner, you know—quite captivated my old woman, you +did—she couldn’t talk of anything else.” Here was a +compliment, even in Sam Bough’s sneering tones, that +rather tickled my vanity; and really, my social successes +of the last few days, the best of which is yet to come, +are enough to turn anybody’s head. To continue, after +a little go in with Samuel, he going up on the bridge, +I looked about me to see who there was; and mine eye +lighted on two girls, one of whom was sweet and pretty, +talking to an old gentleman. “<i>Eh bien</i>,” says I to myself, +“that seems the best investment on board.” So I sidled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27"></a>27</span> +up to the old gentleman, got into conversation with him +and so with the damsel; and thereupon, having used the +patriarch as a ladder, I kicked him down behind me. +Who should my damsel prove, but Amy Sinclair, daughter +of Sir Tollemache. She certainly was the simplest, most +naïve specimen of girlhood ever I saw. By getting brandy +and biscuit and generally coaching up her cousin, who +was sick, I ingratiated myself; and so kept her the whole +way to Iona, taking her into the cave at Staffa and +generally making myself as gallant as possible. I was +never so much pleased with anything in my life, as her +amusing absence of <i>mauvaise honte</i>: she was so sorry I +wasn’t going on to Oban again: didn’t know how she +could have enjoyed herself if I hadn’t been there; and was +so sorry we hadn’t met on the Crinan. When we came +back from Staffa, she and her aunt went down to have +lunch; and a minute after up comes Miss Amy to ask +me if I wouldn’t think better of it, and take some lunch +with them. I couldn’t resist that, of course; so down I +went; and there she displayed the full extent of her +innocence. I must be sure to come to Thurso Castle the +next time I was in Caithness, and Upper Norwood (whence +she would take me all over the Crystal Palace) when I +was near London; and (most complete of all) she offered +to call on us in Edinburgh! Wasn’t it delicious?—she is +a girl of sixteen or seventeen, too, and the latter I think. +I never yet saw a girl so innocent and fresh, so perfectly +modest without the least trace of prudery.</p> + +<p>Coming off Staffa, Sam Bough (who had been in huge +force the whole time, drawing in Miss Amy’s sketchbook +and making himself agreeable or otherwise to everybody) +pointed me out to a parson and said, “That’s him.” +This was Alexander Ross and his wife.</p> + +<p>The last stage of the steamer now approached, Miss +Amy and I lamenting pathetically that Iona was so near. +“People meet in this way,” quoth she, “and then lose +sight of one another so soon.” We all landed together, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28"></a>28</span> +Bough and I and the Rosses with our baggage; and +went together over the ruins. I was here left with the +cousin and the aunt, during which I learned that said +cousin sees me <i>every Sunday</i> in St. Stephen’s. Oho! +thought I, at the “every.” The aunt was very anxious +to know who that strange, wild man was? (didn’t I wish +Samuel in Tophet!). Of course, in reply, I drew it strong +about eccentric genius and my never having known him +before, and a good deal that was perhaps “strained to +the extremest limit of the fact.”</p> + +<p>The steamer left, and Miss Amy and her cousin waved +their handkerchiefs, until my arm in answering them was +nearly broken. I believe women’s arms must be better +made for this exercise: mine ache still; and I regretted +at the time that the handkerchief had seen service. +Altogether, however, I was left in a pleasant frame of +mind.</p> + +<p>Being thus left alone, Bough, I, the Rosses, Professor +Blackie, and an Englishman called M——: these people +were going to remain the night, except the Professor, who +is resident there at present. They were going to dine +<i>en compagnie</i> and wished us to join the party; but we +had already committed ourselves by mistake to the wrong +hotel, and besides, we wished to be off as soon as wind +and tide were against us to Earraid. We went up; Bough +selected a place for sketching and blocked in the sketch +for Mrs. R.; and we all talked together. Bough told us +his family history and a lot of strange things about old +Cumberland life; among others, how he had known “John +Peel” of pleasant memory in song, and of how that worthy +hunted. At five, down we go to the Argyll Hotel, and +wait dinner. Broth—“nice broth“—fresh herrings, and +fowl had been promised. At 5.50, I get the shovel and +tongs and drum them at the stair-head till a response +comes from below that the nice broth is at hand. I boast +of my engineering, and Bough compares me to the Abbot +of Arbroath who originated the Inchcape Bell. At last, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29"></a>29</span> +in comes the tureen and the hand-maid lifts the cover. +“Rice soup!” I yell; “O no! none o’ that for me!”—“Yes,” +says Bough savagely; “but Miss Amy didn’t +take <i>me</i> downstairs to eat salmon.” Accordingly he is +helped. How his face fell. “I imagine myself in the +accident ward of the Infirmary,” quoth he. It was, purely +and simply, rice and water. After this, we have another +weary pause, and then herrings in a state of mash and +potatoes like iron. “Send the potatoes out to Prussia +for grape-shot,” was the suggestion. I dined off broken +herrings and dry bread. At last “the supreme moment +comes,” and the fowl in a lordly dish is carried in. On +the cover being raised, there is something so forlorn and +miserable about the aspect of the animal that we both +roar with laughter. Then Bough, taking up knife and +fork, turns the “swarry” over and over, shaking doubtfully +his head. “There’s an aspect of quiet resistance +about the beggar,” says he, “that looks bad.” However, +to work he falls until the sweat stands on his brow and +a dismembered leg falls, dull and leaden-like, on to my +dish. To eat it was simply impossible. I did not know +before that flesh could be so tough. “The strongest +jaws in England,” says Bough piteously, harpooning his +dry morsel, “couldn’t eat this leg in less than twelve +hours.” Nothing for it now, but to order boat and bill. +“That fowl,” says Bough to the landlady, “is of a breed +I know. I knew the cut of its jib whenever it was put +down. That was the grandmother of the cock that +frightened Peter.”—“I thought it was a historical animal,” +says I. “What a shame to kill it. It’s as bad as eating +Whittington’s cat or the Dog of Montargis.”—“Na—na, +it’s no so old,” says the landlady, “but it eats hard.”—“Eats!” +I cry, “where do you find that? Very little +of that verb with us.” So with more raillery, we pay six +shillings for our festival and run over to Earraid, shaking +the dust of the Argyll Hotel from off our feet.</p> + +<p>I can write no more just now, and I hope you will be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30"></a>30</span> +able to decipher so much; for it contains matter. Really, +the whole of yesterday’s work would do in a novel without +one little bit of embellishment; and, indeed, few novels +are so amusing. Bough, Miss Amy, Mrs. Ross, Blackie, +M—— the parson—all these were such distinct characters, +the incidents were so entertaining, and the scenery so fine, +that the whole would have made a novelist’s fortune.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—No landing to-day, as the sea runs +high on the rock. They are at the second course of the +first story on the rock. I have as yet had no time here; +so this is α and ω of my business news.—Your affectionate +son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Churchill Babington</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This is addressed to a favourite cousin of the Balfour clan, +married to a Cambridge colleague of mine, Professor Churchill +Babington of learned and amiable memory, whose home was at +the college living of Cockfield near Bury St. Edmunds. Here +Stevenson had visited them in the previous year. “Mrs. Hutchinson” +is, of course, Lucy Hutchinson’s famous <i>Life</i> of her husband +the regicide.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Summer 1871.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MAUD</span>,—If you have forgotten the handwriting—as +is like enough—you will find the name of a former +correspondent (don’t know how to spell that word) at +the end. I have begun to write to you before now, but +always stuck somehow, and left it to drown in a +drawerful of like fiascos. This time I am determined +to carry through, though I have nothing specially to +say.</p> + +<p>We look fairly like summer this morning; the trees +are blackening out of their spring greens; the warmer +suns have melted the hoarfrost of daisies of the paddock; +and the blackbird, I fear, already beginning to “stint his +pipe of mellower days“—which is very apposite (I can’t +spell anything to-day—<i>one</i> p or <i>two</i>?) and pretty. All +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31"></a>31</span> +the same, we have been having shocking weather—cold +winds and grey skies.</p> + +<p>I have been reading heaps of nice books; but I can’t +go back so far. I am reading Clarendon’s <i>Hist. Rebell.</i> +at present, with which I am more pleased than I expected, +which is saying a good deal. It is a pet idea of mine that +one gets more real truth out of one avowed partisan than +out of a dozen of your sham impartialists—wolves in +sheep’s clothing—simpering honesty as they suppress +documents. After all, what one wants to know is not +what people did, but why they did it—or rather, why +they <i>thought</i> they did it; and to learn that, you should +go to the men themselves. Their very falsehood is often +more than another man’s truth.</p> + +<p>I have possessed myself of Mrs. Hutchinson, which, of +course, I admire, etc. But is there not an irritating +deliberation and correctness about her and everybody +connected with her? If she would only write bad +grammar, or forget to finish a sentence, or do something +or other that looks fallible, it would be a relief. I sometimes +wish the old Colonel had got drunk and beaten +her, in the bitterness of my spirit. I know I felt a weight +taken off my heart when I heard he was extravagant. It +is quite possible to be too good for this evil world; and +unquestionably, Mrs. Hutchinson was. The way in which +she talks of herself makes one’s blood run cold. There—I +am glad to have got that out—but don’t say it to +anybody—seal of secrecy.</p> + +<p>Please tell Mr. Babington that I have never forgotten +one of his drawings—a Rubens, I think—a woman holding +up a model ship. That woman had more life in her than +ninety per cent. of the lame humans that you see crippling +about this earth.</p> + +<p>By the way, that is a feature in art which seems to +have come in with the Italians. Your old Greek statues +have scarce enough vitality in them to keep their monstrous +bodies fresh withal. A shrewd country attorney, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32"></a>32</span> +in a turned white neckcloth and rusty blacks, would just +take one of these Agamemnons and Ajaxes quietly by +his beautiful, strong arm, trot the unresisting statue down +a little gallery of legal shams, and turn the poor fellow +out at the other end, “naked, as from the earth he came.” +There is more latent life, more of the coiled spring in the +sleeping dog, about a recumbent figure of Michael Angelo’s +than about the most excited of Greek statues. The very +marble seems to wrinkle with a wild energy that we never +feel except in dreams.</p> + +<p>I think this letter has turned into a sermon, but I had +nothing interesting to talk about.</p> + +<p>I do wish you and Mr. Babington would think better +of it and come north this summer. We should be so glad +to see you both. <i>Do</i> reconsider it.—Believe me, my dear +Maud, ever your most affectionate cousin,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Alison Cunningham</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following is the first which has been preserved of many +letters to the admirable nurse whose care, during his ailing childhood, +had done so much both to preserve Stevenson’s life and +awaken his love of tales and poetry, and of whom until his death he +thought with the utmost constancy of affection. The letter bears +no sign of date or place, but by the handwriting would seem to +belong to this year:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">1871?</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—I was greatly pleased by your +letter in many ways. Of course, I was glad to hear from +you; you know, you and I have so many old stories +between us, that even if there was nothing else, even if +there was not a very sincere respect and affection, we +should always be glad to pass a nod. I say, “even if +there was not.” But you know right well there is. Do +not suppose that I shall ever forget those long, bitter +nights, when I coughed and coughed and was so unhappy, +and you were so patient and loving with a poor, sick child. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33"></a>33</span> +Indeed, Cummy, I wish I might become a man worth +talking of, if it were only that you should not have thrown +away your pains.</p> + +<p>Happily, it is not the result of our acts that makes +them brave and noble, but the acts themselves and the +unselfish love that moved us to do them. “Inasmuch as +you have done it unto one of the least of these.” My +dear old nurse, and you know there is nothing a man can +say nearer his heart except his mother or his wife—my +dear old nurse, God will make good to you all the good +that you have done, and mercifully forgive you all the +evil. And next time when the spring comes round, and +everything is beginning once again, if you should happen +to think that you might have had a child of your own, +and that it was hard you should have spent so many +years taking care of some one else’s prodigal, just you +think this—you have been for a great deal in my life; +you have made much that there is in me, just as surely +as if you had conceived me; and there are sons who are +more ungrateful to their own mothers than I am to you. +For I am not ungrateful, my dear Cummy, and it is with +a very sincere emotion that I write myself your little boy,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Louis.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>After a winter of troubled health, Stevenson had gone to Dunblane +for a change in early spring; and thence writes to his college +companion and lifelong friend, Mr. Charles Baxter:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Dunblane, Friday, 5th March 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—By the date you may perhaps +understand the purport of my letter without any words +wasted about the matter. I cannot walk with you to-morrow, +and you must not expect me. I came yesterday +afternoon to Bridge of Allan, and have been very happy +ever since, as every place is sanctified by the eighth sense, +Memory. I walked up here this morning (three miles, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34"></a>34</span> +<i>tu-dieu!</i> a good stretch for me), and passed one of my +favourite places in the world, and one that I very much +affect in spirit when the body is tied down and brought +immovably to anchor on a sickbed. It is a meadow and +bank on a corner on the river, and is connected in my +mind inseparably with Virgil’s <i>Eclogues. Hic corulis +mistos inter consedimus ulmos</i>, or something very like +that, the passage begins (only I know my short-winded +Latinity must have come to grief over even this much +of quotation); and here, to a wish, is just such a cavern +as Menalcas might shelter himself withal from the bright +noon, and, with his lips curled backward, pipe himself +blue in the face, while <i>Messieurs les Arcadiens</i> would roll +out those cloying hexameters that sing themselves in +one’s mouth to such a curious lilting chant.</p> + +<p>In such weather one has the bird’s need to whistle; +and I, who am specially incompetent in this art, must +content myself by chattering away to you on this bit of +paper. All the way along I was thanking God that he +had made me and the birds and everything just as they +are and not otherwise; for although there was no sun, +the air was so thrilled with robins and blackbirds that it +made the heart tremble with joy, and the leaves are far +enough forward on the underwood to give a fine promise +for the future. Even myself, as I say, I would not have +had changed in one <i>iota</i> this forenoon, in spite of all my +idleness and Guthrie’s lost paper, which is ever present +with me—a horrible phantom.</p> + +<p>No one can be alone at home or in a quite new place. +Memory and you must go hand in hand with (at least) +decent weather if you wish to cook up a proper dish of +solitude. It is in these little flights of mine that I get +more pleasure than in anything else. Now, at present, I +am supremely uneasy and restless—almost to the extent +of pain; but O! how I enjoy it, and how I <i>shall</i> enjoy +it afterwards (please God), if I get years enough allotted +to me for the thing to ripen in. When I am a very old +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35"></a>35</span> +and very respectable citizen with white hair and bland +manners and a gold watch, I shall hear three crows cawing +in my heart, as I heard them this morning: I vote for +old age and eighty years of retrospect. Yet, after all, I +dare say, a short shrift and a nice green grave are about +as desirable.</p> + +<p>Poor devil! how I am wearying you! Cheer up. +Two pages more, and my letter reaches its term, for I +have no more paper. What delightful things inns and +waiters and bagmen are! If we didn’t travel now and +then, we should forget what the feeling of life is. The +very cushion of a railway carriage—“the things restorative +to the touch.” I can’t write, confound it! That’s because +I am so tired with my walk.... Believe me, ever +your affectionate friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The “Spec.” is, of course, the famous and historical debating +society (the Speculative Society) of Edinburgh University, to which +Stevenson had been elected on the strength of his conversational +powers, and to whose meetings he contributed several essays.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Dunblane, Tuesday, 9th April 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—I don’t know what you mean. +I know nothing about the Standing Committee of the +Spec., did not know that such a body existed, and even +if it doth exist, must sadly repudiate all association with +such “goodly fellowship.” I am a “Rural Voluptuary” +at present. <i>That</i> is what is the matter with me. The +Spec. may go whistle. As for “C. Baxter, Esq.,” who is +he? “One Baxter, or Bagster, a secretary,” I say to +mine acquaintance, “is at present disquieting my leisure +with certain illegal, uncharitable, unchristian, and unconstitutional +documents called <i>Business Letters: The +affair is in the hands of the Police</i>.” Do you hear <i>that,</i> +you evildoer? Sending business letters is surely a far +more hateful and slimy degree of wickedness than sending +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36"></a>36</span> +threatening letters; the man who throws grenades and +torpedoes is less malicious; the Devil in red-hot hell +rubs his hands with glee as he reckons up the number +that go forth spreading pain and anxiety with each delivery +of the post.</p> + +<p>I have been walking to-day by a colonnade of beeches +along the brawling Allan. My character for sanity is +quite gone, seeing that I cheered my lonely way with the +following, in a triumphant chaunt: “Thank God for the +grass, and the fir-trees, and the crows, and the sheep, +and the sunshine, and the shadows of the fir-trees.” I +hold that he is a poor mean devil who can walk alone, in +such a place and in such weather, and doesn’t set up his +lungs and cry back to the birds and the river. Follow, +follow, follow me. Come hither, come hither, come +hither—here shall you see—no enemy—except a very +slight remnant of winter and its rough weather. My +bedroom, when I awoke this morning, was full of bird-songs, +which is the greatest pleasure in life. Come +hither, come hither, come hither, and when you come +bring the third part of the <i>Earthly Paradise</i>; you can get +it for me in Elliot’s for two and tenpence (2s. 10d.) (<i>business +habits</i>). Also bring an ounce of honeydew from Wilson’s.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the previous year, 1871, it had become apparent that Stevenson +was neither fitted by bodily health nor by inclination for the +family profession of civil engineer. Accordingly his summer excursions +were no longer to the harbour works and lighthouses of +Scotland, but to the ordinary scenes of holiday travel abroad.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Brussels, Thursday, 25th July 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I am here at last, sitting in my +room, without coat or waistcoat, and with both window +and door open, and yet perspiring like a terra-cotta jug +or a Gruyère cheese.</p> + +<p>We had a very good passage, which we certainly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37"></a>37</span> +deserved, in compensation for having to sleep on the +cabin floor, and finding absolutely nothing fit for human +food in the whole filthy embarkation. We made up for +lost time by sleeping on deck a good part of the forenoon. +When I woke, Simpson was still sleeping the sleep of the +just, on a coil of ropes and (as appeared afterwards) his +own hat; so I got a bottle of Bass and a pipe and laid +hold of an old Frenchman of somewhat filthy aspect (<i>fiat +experimentum in corpore vili</i>) to try my French upon. +I made very heavy weather of it. The Frenchman had +a very pretty young wife; but my French always deserted +me entirely when I had to answer her, and so she soon +drew away and left me to her lord, who talked of French +politics, Africa, and domestic economy with great vivacity. +From Ostend a smoking-hot journey to Brussels. At +Brussels we went off after dinner to the Parc. If any +person wants to be happy, I should advise the Parc. +You sit drinking iced drinks and smoking penny cigars +under great old trees. The band place, covered walks, +etc., are all lit up. And you can’t fancy how beautiful +was the contrast of the great masses of lamplit foliage +and the dark sapphire night sky with just one blue star +set overhead in the middle of the largest patch. In the +dark walks, too, there are crowds of people whose faces +you cannot see, and here and there a colossal white statue +at the corner of an alley that gives the place a nice, <i>artificial</i>, +eighteenth century sentiment. There was a good deal of +summer lightning blinking overhead, and the black avenues +and white statues leapt out every minute into short-lived +distinctness.</p> + +<p>I get up to add one thing more. There is in the hotel +a boy in whom I take the deepest interest. I cannot +tell you his age, but the very first time I saw him (when +I was at dinner yesterday) I was very much struck with +his appearance. There is something very leonine in his +face, with a dash of the negro especially, if I remember +aright, in the mouth. He has a great quantity of dark +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38"></a>38</span> +hair, curling in great rolls, not in little corkscrews, and +a pair of large, dark, and very steady, bold, bright eyes. +His manners are those of a prince. I felt like an overgrown +ploughboy beside him. He speaks English perfectly, +but with, I think, sufficient foreign accent to stamp +him as a Russian, especially when his manners are taken +into account. I don’t think I ever saw any one who looked +like a hero before. After breakfast this morning I was +talking to him in the court, when he mentioned casually +that he had caught a snake in the Riesengebirge. “I +have it here,” he said; “would you like to see it?” I +said yes; and putting his hand into his breast-pocket, he +drew forth not a dried serpent skin, but the head and +neck of the reptile writhing and shooting out its horrible +tongue in my face. You may conceive what a fright I +got. I send off this single sheet just now in order to let +you know I am safe across; but you must not expect +letters often.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—The snake was about a yard long, but harmless, +and now, he says, quite tame.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Landsberg, Frankfurt, +Monday, 29th July 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Last</span> night I met with rather an amusing adventurette. +Seeing a church door open, I went in, and was +led by most importunate finger-bills up a long stair to +the top of the tower. The father smoking at the door, +the mother and the three daughters received me as if I +was a friend of the family and had come in for an evening +visit. The youngest daughter (about thirteen, I suppose, +and a pretty little girl) had been learning English at the +school, and was anxious to play it off upon a real, veritable +Englander; so we had a long talk, and I was shown +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39"></a>39</span> +photographs, etc., Marie and I talking, and the others +looking on with evident delight at having such a linguist +in the family. As all my remarks were duly translated +and communicated to the rest, it was quite a good German +lesson. There was only one contretemps during the +whole interview—the arrival of another visitor, in the +shape (surely) the last of God’s creatures, a wood-worm +of the most unnatural and hideous appearance, with one +great striped horn sticking out of his nose like a boltsprit. +If there are many wood-worms in Germany, I shall come +home. The most courageous men in the world must be +entomologists. I had rather be a lion-tamer.</p> + +<p>To-day I got rather a curiosity—<i>Lieder und Balladen +von Robert Burns</i>, translated by one Silbergleit, and not +so ill done either. Armed with which, I had a swim in +the Main, and then bread and cheese and Bavarian beer +in a sort of café, or at least the German substitute for +a café; but what a falling off after the heavenly forenoons +in Brussels!</p> + +<p>I have bought a meerschaum out of local sentiment, +and am now very low and nervous about the bargain, +having paid dearer than I should in England, and got +a worse article, if I can form a judgment.</p> + +<p>Do write some more, somebody. To-morrow I expect +I shall go into lodgings, as this hotel work makes the +money disappear like butter in a furnace.—Meanwhile +believe me, ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Landsberg, Thursday, 1st August 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Yesterday</span> I walked to Eckenheim, a village a +little way out of Frankfurt, and turned into the alehouse. +In the room, which was just such as it would have been +in Scotland, were the landlady, two neighbours, and an +old peasant eating raw sausage at the far end. I soon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40"></a>40</span> +got into conversation; and was astonished when the +landlady, having asked whether I were an Englishman, +and received an answer in the affirmative, proceeded to +inquire further whether I were not also a Scotchman. +It turned out that a Scotch doctor—a professor—a poet—who +wrote books—<i>gross wie das</i>—had come nearly every +day out of Frankfurt to the <i>Eckenheimer Wirthschaft</i>, and +had left behind him a most savoury memory in the hearts +of all its customers. One man ran out to find his name +for me, and returned with the news that it was <i>Cobie</i> +(Scobie, I suspect); and during his absence the rest were +pouring into my ears the fame and acquirements of my +countryman. He was, in some undecipherable manner, +connected with the Queen of England and one of the +Princesses. He had been in Turkey, and had there married +a wife of immense wealth. They could find apparently +no measure adequate to express the size of his books. +In one way or another, he had amassed a princely fortune, +and had apparently only one sorrow, his daughter to +wit, who had absconded into a <i>Kloster</i>, with a considerable +slice of the mother’s <i>Geld</i>. I told them we had no +Klosters in Scotland, with a certain feeling of superiority. +No more had they, I was told—“<i>Hier ist unser Kloster!</i>” +and the speaker motioned with both arms round the +taproom. Although the first torrent was exhausted, yet +the Doctor came up again in all sorts of ways, and with +or without occasion, throughout the whole interview; as, +for example, when one man, taking his pipe out of his +mouth and shaking his head, remarked <i>àpropos</i> of nothing +and with almost defiant conviction, “<i>Er war ein feiner +Mann, der Herr Doctor</i>,” and was answered by another +with “<i>Yaw, yaw, und trank immer rothen Wein</i>.”</p> + +<p>Setting aside the Doctor, who had evidently turned the +brains of the entire village, they were intelligent people. +One thing in particular struck me, their honesty in admitting +that here they spoke bad German, and advising me +to go to Coburg or Leipsic for German.—“<i>Sie sprechen da</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41"></a>41</span> +<i>rein</i>” (clean), said one; and they all nodded their heads +together like as many mandarins, and repeated <i>rein, so +rein</i> in chorus.</p> + +<p>Of course we got upon Scotland. The hostess said, +“<i>Die Schottländer trinken gern Schnapps</i>,” which may be +freely translated, “Scotchmen are horrid fond of whisky.” +It was impossible, of course, to combat such a truism; +and so I proceeded to explain the construction of toddy, +interrupted by a cry of horror when I mentioned the +<i>hot</i> water; and thence, as I find is always the case, to +the most ghastly romancing about Scottish scenery and +manners, the Highland dress, and everything national or +local that I could lay my hands upon. Now that I have +got my German Burns, I lean a good deal upon him for +opening a conversation, and read a few translations to +every yawning audience that I can gather. I am grown +most insufferably national, you see. I fancy it is a punishment +for my want of it at ordinary times. Now, what +do you think, there was a waiter in this very hotel, but, +alas! he is now gone, who sang (from morning to night, +as my informant said with a shrug at the recollection) +what but <i>’s ist lange her</i>, the German version of Auld Lang +Syne; so you see, madame, the finest lyric ever written +<i>will</i> make its way out of whatsoever corner of patois it +found its birth in.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p><i>“Mein Herz ist im Hochland, mein Herz ist nicht hier,</i></p> +<p class="i05"><i>Mein Herz ist im Hochland im grünen Revier.</i></p> +<p class="i05"><i>Im grünen Reviere zu jagen das Reh;</i></p> +<p class="i05"><i>Mein Herz ist im Hochland, wo immer ich geh.“</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>I don’t think I need translate that for you.</p> + +<p>There is one thing that burthens me a good deal in my +patriotic garrulage, and that is the black ignorance in +which I grope about everything, as, for example, when +I gave yesterday a full and, I fancy, a startlingly incorrect +account of Scotch education to a very stolid German +on a garden bench: he sat and perspired under it, however, +with much composure. I am generally glad enough +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42"></a>42</span> +to fall back again, after these political interludes, upon +Burns, toddy, and the Highlands.</p> + +<p>I go every night to the theatre, except when there is +no opera. I cannot stand a play yet; but I am already +very much improved, and can understand a good deal +of what goes on.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><i>Friday, August 2, 1872.</i>—In the evening, at the theatre, +I had a great laugh. Lord Allcash in <i>Fra Diavolo</i>, with +his white hat, red guide-books, and bad German, was the +<i>pièce-de-résistance</i> from a humorous point of view; and +I had the satisfaction of knowing that in my own small +way I could minister the same amusement whenever I +chose to open my mouth.</p> + +<p>I am just going off to do some German with Simpson.—Your +affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Frankfurt, Rosengasse 13, August 4, 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—You will perceive by the head +of this page that we have at last got into lodgings, and +powerfully mean ones too. If I were to call the street +anything but <i>shady</i>, I should be boasting. The people +sit at their doors in shirt-sleeves, smoking as they do in +Seven Dials of a Sunday.</p> + +<p>Last night we went to bed about ten, for the first time +<i>householders</i> in Germany—real Teutons, with no deception, +spring, or false bottom. About half-past one there began +such a trumpeting, shouting, pealing of bells, and scurrying +hither and thither of feet as woke every person in +Frankfurt out of their first sleep with a vague sort of +apprehension that the last day was at hand. The whole +street was alive, and we could hear people talking in +their rooms, or crying to passers-by from their windows, +all around us. At last I made out what a man was saying +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43"></a>43</span> +in the next room. It was a fire in Sachsenhausen, he +said (Sachsenhausen is the suburb on the other side of +the Main), and he wound up with one of the most tremendous +falsehoods on record, “<i>Hier alles ruht</i>—here all is +still.” If it can be said to be still in an engine factory, +or in the stomach of a volcano when it is meditating an +eruption, he might have been justified in what he said, +but not otherwise. The tumult continued unabated for +near an hour; but as one grew used to it, it gradually +resolved itself into three bells, answering each other at +short intervals across the town, a man shouting at ever +shorter intervals and with superhuman energy, ”<i>Feuer—im +Sachsenhausen</i>,” and the almost continuous winding of +all manner of bugles and trumpets, sometimes in stirring +flourishes, and sometimes in mere tuneless wails. Occasionally +there was another rush of feet past the window, +and once there was a mighty drumming, down between +us and the river, as though the soldiery were turning out +to keep the peace. This was all we had of the fire, except +a great cloud, all flushed red with the glare, above the +roofs on the other side of the Gasse; but it was quite +enough to put me entirely off my sleep and make me +keenly alive to three or four gentlemen who were strolling +leisurely about my person, and every here and there +leaving me somewhat as a keepsake.... However, +everything has its compensation, and when day came at +last, and the sparrows awoke with trills and <i>carol-ets</i>, the +dawn seemed to fall on me like a sleeping draught. I +went to the window and saw the sparrows about the eaves, +and a great troop of doves go strolling up the paven Gasse, +seeking what they may devour. And so to sleep, despite +fleas and fire-alarms, and clocks chiming the hours out +of neighbouring houses at all sorts of odd times and with +the most charming want of unanimity.</p> + +<p>We have got settled down in Frankfurt, and like the +place very much. Simpson and I seem to get on very +well together. We suit each other capitally; and it is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44"></a>44</span> +an awful joke to be living (two would-be advocates, and +one a baronet) in this supremely mean abode.</p> + +<p>The abode is, however, a great improvement on the +hotel, and I think we shall grow quite fond of it.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>13 Rosengasse, Frankfurt, +Tuesday Morning, August 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Last</span> night I was at the theatre and heard <i>Die +Judin</i> (<i>La Juive</i>), and was thereby terribly excited. At +last, in the middle of the fifth act, which was perfectly +beastly, I had to slope. I could stand even seeing the +cauldron with the sham fire beneath, and the two hateful +executioners in red; but when at last the girl’s courage +breaks down, and, grasping her father’s arm, she cries +out—O so shudderfully!—I thought it high time to be +out of that <i>galère</i>, and so I do not know yet whether it +ends well or ill; but if I ever afterwards find that they +do carry things to the extremity, I shall think more meanly +of my species. It was raining and cold outside, so I went +into a <i>Bierhalle</i>, and sat and brooded over a <i>Schnitt</i> (half-glass) +for nearly an hour. An opera is far more <i>real</i> than +real life to me. It seems as if stage illusion, and particularly +this hardest to swallow and most conventional illusion +of them all—an opera—would never stale upon me. +I wish that life was an opera. I should like to <i>live</i> in +one; but I don’t know in what quarter of the globe I shall +find a society so constituted. Besides, it would soon +pall: imagine asking for three-kreuzer cigars in recitative, +or giving the washerwoman the inventory of your dirty +clothes in a sustained and <i>flourishous</i> aria.</p> + +<p>I am in a right good mood this morning to sit here +and write to you; but not to give you news. There is a +great stir of life, in a quiet, almost country fashion, all +about us here. Some one is hammering a beef-steak in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45"></a>45</span> +<i>rez-de-chaussée</i>: there is a great clink of pitchers and noise of +the pump-handle at the public well in the little square-kin +round the corner. The children, all seemingly within a +month, and certainly none above five, that always go halting +and stumbling up and down the roadway, are ordinarily +very quiet, and sit sedately puddling in the gutter, trying, +I suppose, poor little devils! to understand their <i>Muttersprache;</i> +but they, too, make themselves heard from time +to time in little incomprehensible antiphonies, about the drift +that comes down to them by their rivers from the strange +lands higher up the Gasse. Above all, there is here such a +twittering of canaries (I can see twelve out of our window), +and such continual visitation of grey doves and big-nosed +sparrows, as make our little bye-street into a perfect aviary.</p> + +<p>I look across the Gasse at our opposite neighbour, as +he dandles his baby about, and occasionally takes a +spoonful or two of some pale slimy nastiness that looks +like <i>dead porridge</i>, if you can take the conception. These +two are his only occupations. All day long you can hear +him singing over the brat when he is not eating; or see +him eating when he is not keeping baby. Besides which, +there comes into his house a continual round of visitors +that puts me in mind of the luncheon hour at home. As +he has thus no ostensible avocation, we have named him +“the W.S.” to give a flavour of respectability to the street.</p> + +<p>Enough of the Gasse. The weather is here much +colder. It rained a good deal yesterday; and though +it is fair and sunshiny again to-day, and we can still sit, +of course, with our windows open, yet there is no more +excuse for the siesta; and the bathe in the river, except +for cleanliness, is no longer a necessity of life. The Main +is very swift. In one part of the baths it is next door +to impossible to swim against it, and I suspect that, out +in the open, it would be quite impossible.—Adieu, my +dear mother, and believe me, ever your affectionate +son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson</p> + +<p style="text-align: right; padding-right: 4em;">(<i>Rentier</i>).</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page46"></a>46</span></p> + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>On the way home with Sir Walter Simpson from Germany. The +L.J.R. herein mentioned was a short-lived Essay Club of only six +members; its meetings were held in a public-house in Advocate’s +Close; the meaning of its initials (as recently divulged by Mr. +Baxter) was Liberty, Justice, Reverence; no doubt understood by +the members in some fresh and esoteric sense of their own.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Boulogne Sur Mer, Wednesday</i>, +<i>3rd or 4th September 1872.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p><span class="sc">Blame</span> me not that this epistle</p> + <p class="i1">Is the first you have from me.</p> + <p class="i2">Idleness has held me fettered,</p> + <p class="i2">But at last the times are bettered</p> +<p>And once more I wet my whistle</p> + <p class="i1">Here, in France beside the sea.</p> + +<p class="stanza">All the green and idle weather</p> + <p class="i1">I have had in sun and shower,</p> + <p class="i2">Such an easy warm subsistence,</p> + <p class="i2">Such an indolent existence</p> +<p>I should find it hard to sever</p> + <p class="i1">Day from day and hour from hour.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Many a tract-provided ranter</p> + <p class="i1">May upbraid me, dark and sour,</p> + <p class="i2">Many a bland Utilitarian</p> + <p class="i2">Or excited Millenarian,</p> +<p>—“<i>Pereunt et imputantur</i></p> + <p class="i1">You must speak to every hour.”</p> + +<p class="stanza">But (the very term’s deceptive)</p> + <p class="i1">You at least, my friend, will see,</p> + <p class="i2">That in sunny grassy meadows</p> + <p class="i2">Trailed across by moving shadows</p> +<p>To be actively receptive</p> + <p class="i1">Is as much as man can be.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page47"></a>47</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">He that all the winter grapples</p> + <p class="i1">Difficulties, thrust and ward—</p> + <p class="i2">Needs to cheer him thro’ his duty</p> + <p class="i2">Memories of sun and beauty</p> +<p>Orchards with the russet apples</p> + <p class="i1">Lying scattered on the sward.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Many such I keep in prison,</p> + <p class="i1">Keep them here at heart unseen,</p> + <p class="i2">Till my muse again rehearses</p> + <p class="i2">Long years hence, and in my verses</p> +<p>You shall meet them rearisen</p> + <p class="i1">Ever comely, ever green.</p> + +<p class="stanza">You know how they never perish,</p> + <p class="i1">How, in time of later art,</p> + <p class="i2">Memories consecrate and sweeten</p> + <p class="i2">These defaced and tempest-beaten</p> +<p>Flowers of former years we cherish,</p> + <p class="i1">Half a life, against our heart.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Most, those love-fruits withered greenly,</p> + <p class="i1">Those frail, sickly amourettes,</p> + <p class="i2">How they brighten with the distance</p> + <p class="i2">Take new strength and new existence</p> +<p>Till we see them sitting queenly</p> + <p class="i1">Crowned and courted by regrets!</p> + +<p class="stanza">All that loveliest and best is,</p> + <p class="i1">Aureole-fashion round their head,</p> + <p class="i2">They that looked in life but plainly,</p> + <p class="i2">How they stir our spirits vainly</p> +<p>When they come to us Alcestis-</p> + <p class="i1">like returning from the dead!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page48"></a>48</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">Not the old love but another,</p> + <p class="i1">Bright she comes at Memory’s call</p> + <p class="i2">Our forgotten vows reviving</p> + <p class="i2">To a newer, livelier living,</p> +<p>As the dead child to the mother</p> + <p class="i1">Seems the fairest child of all.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Thus our Goethe, sacred master,</p> + <p class="i1">Travelling backward thro’ his youth,</p> + <p class="i2">Surely wandered wrong in trying</p> + <p class="i2">To renew the old, undying</p> +<p>Loves that cling in memory faster</p> + <p class="i1">Than they ever lived in truth.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>So; <i>en voilà assez de mauvais vers.</i> Let us finish with +a word or two in honest prose, tho’ indeed I shall so soon +be back again and, if you be in town as I hope, so soon +get linked again down the Lothian road by a cigar or two +and a liquor, that it is perhaps scarce worth the postage +to send my letter on before me. I have just been long +enough away to be satisfied and even anxious to get home +again and talk the matter over with my friends. I shall +have plenty to tell you; and principally plenty that I +do not care to write; and I daresay, you, too, will have +a lot of gossip. What about Ferrier? Is the L.J.R. +think you to go naked and unashamed this winter? He +with his charming idiosyncrasy was in my eyes the vine-leaf +that preserved our self-respect. All the rest of us +are such shadows, compared to his full-flavoured personality; +but I must not spoil my own <i>début</i>. I am trenching +upon one of the essayettes which I propose to introduce +as a novelty this year before that august assembly. +For we must not let it die. It is a sickly baby, but what +with nursing, and pap, and the like, I do not see why +it should not have a stout manhood after all, and perhaps +a green old age. Eh! when we are old (if we ever should +be) that too will be one of those cherished memories I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49"></a>49</span> +have been so rhapsodizing over. We must consecrate +our room. We must make it a museum of bright recollections; +so that we may go back there white-headed, and +say “Vixi.” After all, new countries, sun, music, and all +the rest can never take down our gusty, rainy, smoky, +grim old city out of the first place that it has been making +for itself in the bottom of my soul, by all pleasant and +hard things that have befallen me for these past twenty +years or so. My heart is buried there—say, in Advocate’s +Close!</p> + +<p>Simpson and I got on very well together, and made +a very suitable pair. I like him much better than I did +when I started which was almost more than I hoped for.</p> + +<p>If you should chance to see Bob, give him my news +or if you have the letter about you, let him see it.—Ever +your Affct. friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Through the jesting tenor of this letter is to be discerned a vein +of more than half serious thinking very characteristic of R. L. S. +alike as youth and man.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, October 1872.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—I am gum-boiled and face swollen +to an unprecedented degree. It is very depressing to +suffer from gibber that cannot be brought to a head. I +cannot speak it, because my face is so swollen and stiff +that enunciation must be deliberate—a thing your true +gibberer cannot hold up his head under; and writ gibber +is somehow not gibber at all, it does not come forth, does +not <i>flow</i>, with that fine irrational freedom that it loves +in speech—it does not afford relief to the packed bosom.</p> + +<p>Hence I am suffering from <i>suppressed gibber</i>—an uneasy +complaint; and like all cases of suppressed humours, +this hath a nasty tendency to the brain. Therefore (the +more confused I get, the more I lean on Thus’s and Hences +and Therefores) you must not be down upon me, most +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50"></a>50</span> +noble Festus, altho’ this letter should smack of some +infirmity of judgment. I speak the words of soberness +and truth; and would you were not almost but altogether +as I am, except this swelling. Lord, Lord, if we could +change personalities how we should hate it. How I should +rebel at the office, repugn under the Ulster coat, and +repudiate your monkish humours thus unjustly and +suddenly thrust upon poor, infidel me! And as for you—why, +my dear Charles, “a mouse that hath its lodging +in a cat’s ear” would not be so uneasy as you in your +new conditions. I do not see how your temperament +would come thro’ the feverish longings to do things that +cannot then (or perhaps ever) be accomplished, the feverish +unrests and damnable indecisions, that it takes all my +easy-going spirits to come through. A vane can live out +anything in the shape of a wind; and that is how I can +be, and am, a more serious person than you. Just as +the light French seemed very serious to Sterne, light +L. Stevenson can afford to bob about over the top of any +deep sea of prospect or retrospect, where ironclad C. Baxter +would incontinently go down with all hands. A fool is +generally the wisest person out. The wise man must +shut his eyes to all the perils and horrors that lie round +him; but the cap and bells can go bobbing along the +most slippery ledges and the bauble will not stir up +sleeping lions. Hurray! for motley, for a good sound +<i>insouciance</i>, for a healthy philosophic carelessness!</p> + +<p>My dear Baxter, a word in your ear—“<span class="sc">DON’T YOU +WISH YOU WERE A FOOL</span>?” How easy the world would +go on with you—literally on castors. The only reason a +wise man can assign for getting drunk is that he wishes +to enjoy for a while the blessed immunities and sunshiny +weather of the land of fooldom. But a fool, who dwells +ever there, has no excuse at all. <i>That</i> is a happy land, +if you like—and not so far away either. Take a fool’s +advice and let us strive without ceasing to get into it. +Hark in your ear again: “<span class="sc">THEY ALLOW PEOPLE TO REASON</span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51"></a>51</span> +<span class="sc">IN THAT LAND</span>.” I wish I could take you by the hand +and lead you away into its pleasant boundaries. There +is no custom-house on the frontier, and you may take +in what books you will. There are no manners and customs; +but men and women grow up, like trees in a still, +well-walled garden, “at their own sweet will.” There is +no prescribed or customary folly—no motley, cap, or +bauble: out of the well of each one’s own innate absurdity +he is allowed and encouraged freely to draw and to communicate; +and it is a strange thing how this natural +fooling comes so nigh to one’s better thoughts of wisdom; +and stranger still, that all this discord of people speaking +in their own natural moods and keys, masses itself into +a far more perfect harmony than all the dismal, official +unison in which they sing in other countries. Part-singing +seems best all the world over.</p> + +<p>I who live in England must wear the hackneyed symbols +of the profession, to show that I have (at least) consular +immunities, coming as I do out of another land, +where they are not so wise as they are here, but fancy +that God likes what he makes and is not best pleased +with us when we deface and dissemble all that he has +given us and put about us to one common standard of——Highty-Tighty!—when +was a jester obliged to finish his +sentence? I cut so strong a pirouette that all my bells +jingle, and come down in an attitude, with one hand +upon my hip. The evening’s entertainment is over,—“and +if our kyind friends——“</p> + +<p>Hurrah! I feel relieved. I have put out my gibber, +and if you have read thus far, you will have taken it in. +I wonder if you will ever come this length. I shall try +a trap for you, and insult you here, on this last page. “O +Baxter what a damned humbug you are!” There,—shall +this insult bloom and die unseen, or will you come toward +me, when next we meet, with a face deformed with anger +and demand speedy and bloody satisfaction. <i>Nous verrons</i>, +which is French.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page52"></a>52</span></p> + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the winter of 1872-73 Stevenson was out of health again; +and by the beginning of spring there began the trouble which for +the next twelve months clouded his home life. The following +shows exactly in what spirit he took it:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, +Sunday, February 2, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—The thunderbolt has fallen with a +vengeance now. On Friday night after leaving you, in +the course of conversation, my father put me one or two +questions as to beliefs, which I candidly answered. I +really hate all lying so much now—a new found honesty +that has somehow come out of my late illness—that I +could not so much as hesitate at the time; but if I had +foreseen the real hell of everything since, I think I should +have lied, as I have done so often before. I so far thought +of my father, but I had forgotten my mother. And now! +they are both ill, both silent, both as down in the mouth +as if—I can find no simile. You may fancy how happy it +is for me. If it were not too late, I think I could almost +find it in my heart to retract, but it is too late; and +again, am I to live my whole life as one falsehood? Of +course, it is rougher than hell upon my father, but can +I help it? They don’t see either that my game is not +the light-hearted scoffer; that I am not (as they call me) +a careless infidel. I believe as much as they do, only +generally in the inverse ratio: I am, I think, as honest +as they can be in what I hold. I have not come hastily +to my views. I reserve (as I told them) many points +until I acquire fuller information, and do not think I +am thus justly to be called “horrible atheist.”</p> + +<p>Now, what is to take place? What a curse I am to +my parents! O Lord, what a pleasant thing it is to +have just <i>damned</i> the happiness of (probably) the only +two people who care a damn about you in the world.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page53"></a>53</span></p> + +<p>What is my life to be at this rate? What, you rascal? +Answer—I have a pistol at your throat. If all that I +hold true and most desire to spread is to be such death, +and worse than death, in the eyes of my father and mother, +what the <i>devil</i> am I to do?</p> + +<p>Here is a good heavy cross with a vengeance, and all +rough with rusty nails that tear your fingers, only it is +not I that have to carry it alone; I hold the light end, +but the heavy burden falls on these two.</p> + +<p>Don’t—I don’t know what I was going to say. I +am an abject idiot, which, all things considered, is not +remarkable.—Ever your affectionate and horrible atheist,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_3" href="#FnAnchor_3"><span class="fn">3</span></a> It was the father who, from dislike of a certain Edinburgh +Lewis, changed the sound and spelling of his son’s second name +to Louis (spoken always with the “s” sounded), and it was the +son himself who about his eighteenth year dropped the use of his +third name and initial altogether.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_4" href="#FnAnchor_4"><span class="fn">4</span></a> See a paper on <i>R. L. Stevenson in Wick</i>, by Margaret H. +Roberton, in Magazine of Wick Literary Society, Christmas 1903.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_5" href="#FnAnchor_5"><span class="fn">5</span></a> Aikman’s <i>Annals of the Persecution in Scotland</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_6" href="#FnAnchor_6"><span class="fn">6</span></a> Thomas Stevenson.</p> +</div> + + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page54"></a>54</span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + +<h3>STUDENT DAYS—<i>Continued</i></h3> + +<h5>NEW FRIENDSHIPS—ORDERED SOUTH</h5> + +<h6><span class="sc">July 1873-May 1874</span></h6> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> year 1873 was a critical one in Stevenson’s life. +Late in July he went for the second time to pay a visit +to Cockfield Rectory, the pleasant Suffolk home of his +cousin Mrs. Churchill Babington and her husband. Another +guest at the same time was Mrs. Sitwell—now my wife—an +intimate friend and connection by marriage of the +hostess. I was shortly due to join the party, when Mrs. +Sitwell wrote telling me of the “fine young spirit” she +had found under her friend’s roof, and suggesting that +I should hasten my visit so as to make his acquaintance +before he left. I came accordingly, and from that time +on the fine young spirit became a leading interest both +in her life and mine. He had thrown himself on her +sympathies, in that troubled hour of his youth, with +entire dependence almost from the first, and clung to her +devotedly for the next two years as to an inspirer, consoler, +and guide. Under her influence he began for the first +time to see his way in life, and to believe hopefully and +manfully in his own powers and future. To encourage +such hopes further, and to lend what hand one could +towards their fulfilment, became quickly one of the first +of cares and pleasures. It was impossible not to recognise, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page55"></a>55</span> +in this very un-academical type of Scottish youth, a +spirit the most interesting and full of promise. His +social charm was already at its height, and quite irresistible; +but inwardly he was full of trouble and self-doubt. +If he could steer himself or be steered safely +through the difficulties of youth, and if he could learn +to write with half the charm and genius that shone from +his presence and conversation, there seemed room to hope +for the highest from him. He went back to Edinburgh +in the beginning of September full of new hope and heart. +It had been agreed that while still reading, as his parents +desired, for the bar, he should try seriously to get ready +for publication some essays which he had already on +hand—one on Walt Whitman, one on John Knox, one +on Roads and the Spirit of the Road—and should so +far as possible avoid topics of dispute in the home circle.</p> + +<p>But after a while the news of him was not favourable. +Those differences with his father, which had been +weighing almost morbidly upon his high-strung nature, +were renewed. By mid-October his letters told of failing +health. He came to London, and instead of presenting +himself, as had been proposed, to be examined for admission +to one of the London Inns of Court, he was forced to +consult the late Sir Andrew Clark, who found him suffering +from acute nerve exhaustion, with some threat of +danger to the lungs. He was ordered to break at once +with Edinburgh for a time, and to spend the winter in +a more soothing climate and surroundings. He went +accordingly to Mentone, a place he had delighted in as +a boy ten years before, and during a stay of six months +made a slow, but for the time being a pretty complete, +recovery. I visited him twice during the winter, and +the second time found him coming fairly to himself again +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56"></a>56</span> +in the southern peace and sunshine. He was busy with +the essay <i>Ordered South</i>, and with that on <i>Victor Hugo’s +Romances</i>, which was afterwards his first contribution to +the Cornhill Magazine; was full of a thousand dreams +and projects for future work; and was passing his invalid +days pleasantly meanwhile in the companionship of two +kind and accomplished Russian ladies, who took to him +warmly, and of their children. The following record of +the time is drawn from his correspondence partly with +his parents and partly with myself, but chiefly from the +journal-letters, containing a full and intimate record of +his daily moods and doings, which he was accustomed to +send off weekly or oftener to Mrs. Sitwell.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This is from his cousin’s house in Suffolk. Some of the impressions +then received of the contrasts between Scotland and England +were later worked out in the essay <i>The Foreigner at Home</i>, printed +at the head of <i>Memories and Portraits</i>:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Cockfield Rectory, Sudbury, Suffolk, +Tuesday, July 28, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I am too happy to be much of +a correspondent. Yesterday we were away to Melford +and Lavenham, both exceptionally placid, beautiful old +English towns. Melford scattered all round a big green, +with an Elizabethan Hall and Park, great screens of trees +that seem twice as high as trees should seem, and everything +else like what ought to be in a novel, and what one +never expects to see in reality, made me cry out how +good we were to live in Scotland, for the many hundredth +time. I cannot get over my astonishment—indeed, it +increases every day—at the hopeless gulf that there is +between England and Scotland, and English and Scotch. +Nothing is the same; and I feel as strange and outlandish +here as I do in France or Germany. Everything by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57"></a>57</span> +the wayside, in the houses, or about the people, strikes +me with an unexpected unfamiliarity: I walk among surprises, +for just where you think you have them, something +wrong turns up.</p> + +<p>I got a little Law read yesterday, and some German +this morning, but on the whole there are too many amusements +going for much work; as for correspondence, I +have neither heart nor time for it to-day.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>After leaving Cockfield Stevenson spent a few days in London +and a few with me in a cottage I then had at Norwood. This and +the following letters were written in the next days after his return +home. “Bob” in the last paragraph is Robert Alan Mowbray +Stevenson, an elder cousin to whom Louis had been from boyhood +devotedly attached: afterwards known as the brilliant +painter-critic and author of <i>Velasquez</i>, etc.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i>, +<i>Monday, September 1st, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> arrived, as you see, without accident; but I +never had a more wretched journey in my life. I could +not settle to read anything; I bought Darwin’s last book +in despair, for I knew I could generally read Darwin, but +it was a failure. However, the book served me in good +stead; for when a couple of children got in at Newcastle, +I struck up a great friendship with them on the strength +of the illustrations. These two children (a girl of nine +and a boy of six) had never before travelled in a railway, +so that everything was a glory to them, and they +were never tired of watching the telegraph posts and trees +and hedges go racing past us to the tail of the train; +and the girl I found quite entered into the most daring +personifications that I could make. A little way on, +about Alnmouth, they had their first sight of the sea; +and it was wonderful how loath they were to believe that +what they saw was water; indeed it was very still and +grey and solid-looking under a sky to match. It was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58"></a>58</span> +worth the fare, yet a little farther on, to see the delight +of the girl when she passed into “another country,” with +the black Tweed under our feet, crossed by the lamps of +the passenger bridge. I remember the first time I had +gone into “another country,” over the same river from +the other side.</p> + +<p>Bob was not at the station when I arrived; but a +friend of his brought me a letter; and he is to be in the +first thing to-morrow. Do you know, I think yesterday +and the day before were the two happiest days of my +life? I would not have missed last month for eternity.—Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The paper on <i>Roads</i> herein mentioned had been planned during +walks at Cockfield; was offered to and rejected by the Saturday +Review and ultimately accepted by Mr. Hamerton for the Portfolio; +and was the first regular or paid contribution of Stevenson +to periodical literature.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i>, +<i>Saturday, September 6, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> been to-day a very long walk with my father +through some of the most beautiful ways hereabouts; +the day was cold with an iron, windy sky, and only +glorified now and then with autumn sunlight. For it is +fully autumn with us, with a blight already over the +greens, and a keen wind in the morning that makes +one rather timid of one’s tub when it finds its way +indoors.</p> + +<p>I was out this evening to call on a friend, and, coming +back through the wet, crowded, lamp-lit streets, was +singing after my own fashion, “<i>Du hast Diamanten und +Perlen</i>,” when I heard a poor cripple man in the gutter +wailing over a pitiful Scotch air, his club-foot supported +on the other knee, and his whole woebegone body propped +sideways against a crutch. The nearest lamp threw a +strong light on his worn, sordid face and the three boxes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page59"></a>59</span> +of lucifer matches that he held for sale. My own false +notes stuck in my chest. How well off I am! is the +burthen of my songs all day long—“<i>Drum ist so wohl +mir in der Welt!</i>” and the ugly reality of the cripple +man was an intrusion on the beautiful world in which +I was walking. He could no more sing than I could; +and his voice was cracked and rusty, and altogether +perished. To think that that wreck may have walked +the streets some night years ago, as glad at heart as I +was, and promising himself a future as golden and +honourable!</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><i>Sunday</i>, 11.20 <i>a.m.</i>—I wonder what you are doing +now?—in church likely, at the <i>Te Deum</i>. Everything +here is utterly silent. I can hear men’s footfalls streets +away; the whole life of Edinburgh has been sucked into +sundry pious edifices; the gardens below my windows are +steeped in a diffused sunlight, and every tree seems standing +on tiptoes, strained and silent, as though to get its +head above its neighbour’s and <i>listen</i>. You know what +I mean, don’t you? How trees do seem silently to +assert themselves on an occasion! I have been trying +to write <i>Roads</i> until I feel as if I were standing on my +head; but I mean <i>Roads</i>, and shall do something to +them.</p> + +<p>I wish I could make you feel the hush that is over +everything, only made the more perfect by rare interruptions; +and the rich, placid light, and the still autumnal +foliage. Houses, you know, stand all about our gardens: +solid, steady blocks of houses; all look empty and +asleep.</p> + +<p><i>Monday night.</i>—The drums and fifes up in the castle +are sounding the guard-call through the dark, and there +is a great rattle of carriages without. I have had (I must +tell you) my bed taken out of this room, so that I am alone +in it with my books and two tables, and two chairs, and +a coal-skuttle (or <i>scuttle</i>) (?) and a <i>débris</i> of broken pipes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60"></a>60</span> +in a corner, and my old school play-box, so full of papers +and books that the lid will not shut down, standing +reproachfully in the midst. There is something in it that +is still a little gaunt and vacant; it needs a little populous +disorder over it to give it the feel of homeliness, and perhaps +a bit more furniture, just to take the edge off the +sense of illimitable space, eternity, and a future state, +and the like, that is brought home to one, even in this +small attic, by the wide, empty floor.</p> + +<p>You would require to know, what only I can ever +know, many grim and many maudlin passages out of my +past life to feel how great a change has been made +for me by this past summer. Let me be ever so +poor and thread-paper a soul, I am going to try for the +best.</p> + +<p>These good booksellers of mine have at last got a +<i>Werther</i> without illustrations. I want you to like Charlotte. +Werther himself has every feebleness and vice that +could tend to make his suicide a most virtuous and commendable +action; and yet I like Werther too—I don’t +know why, except that he has written the most delightful +letters in the world. Note, by the way, the passage under +date June 21st not far from the beginning; it finds a +voice for a great deal of dumb, uneasy, pleasurable longing +that we have all had, times without number. I looked +that up the other day for <i>Roads</i>, so I know the reference; +but you will find it a garden of flowers from beginning +to end. All through the passion keeps steadily rising, +from the thunderstorm at the country-house—there was +thunder in that story too—up to the last wild delirious +interview; either Lotte was no good at all, or else Werther +should have remained alive after that; either he knew +his woman too well, or else he was precipitate. But an +idiot like that is hopeless; and yet, he wasn’t an idiot—I +make reparation, and will offer eighteen pounds of best +wax at his tomb. Poor devil! he was only the weakest—or, +at least, a very weak strong man.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page61"></a>61</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, +Friday, September 12, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... I was</span> over last night, contrary to my own wish, +in Leven, Fife; and this morning I had a conversation +of which, I think, some account might interest you. I +was up with a cousin who was fishing in a mill-lade, and +a shower of rain drove me for shelter into a tumble-down +steading attached to the mill. There I found a labourer +cleaning a byre, with whom I fell into talk. The man +was to all appearance as heavy, as <i>hébété</i>, as any English +clodhopper; but I knew I was in Scotland, and launched +out forthright into Education and Politics and the aims +of one’s life. I told him how I had found the peasantry +in Suffolk, and added that their state had made me feel +quite pained and down-hearted. “It but to do that,” +he said, “to onybody that thinks at a’!” Then, again, +he said that he could not conceive how anything could +daunt or cast down a man who had an aim in life. “They +that have had a guid schoolin’ and do nae mair, whatever +they do, they have done; but him that has aye something +ayont need never be weary.” I have had to mutilate +the dialect much, so that it might be comprehensible to +you; but I think the sentiment will keep, even through +a change of words, something of the heartsome ring of +encouragement that it had for me: and that from a man +cleaning a byre! You see what John Knox and his schools +have done.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—This has been a charming day for me from +morning to now (5 <span class="sc">p.m</span>.). First, I found your letter, and +went down and read it on a seat in those Public Gardens +of which you have heard already. After lunch, my father +and I went down to the coast and walked a little way +along the shore between Granton and Cramond. This +has always been with me a very favourite walk. The Firth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62"></a>62</span> +closes gradually together before you, the coast runs in a +series of the most beautifully moulded bays, hill after +hill, wooded and softly outlined, trends away in front +till the two shores join together. When the tide is out +there are great, gleaming flats of wet sand, over which +the gulls go flying and crying; and every cape runs down +into them with its little spit of wall and trees. We lay +together a long time on the beach; the sea just babbled +among the stones; and at one time we heard the hollow, +sturdy beat of the paddles of an unseen steamer somewhere +round the cape. I am glad to say that the peace +of the day and scenery was not marred by any unpleasantness +between us two.</p> + +<p>I am, unhappily, off my style, and can do nothing +well; indeed, I fear I have marred <i>Roads</i> finally by +patching at it when I was out of the humour. Only, I +am beginning to see something great about John Knox +and Queen Mary; I like them both so much, that I feel +as if I could write the history fairly.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—It has rained and blown chilly out of the +East all day. This was my first visit to church since +the last Sunday at Cockfield. I was alone, and read the +minor prophets and thought of the past all the time; a +sentimental Calvinist preached—a very odd animal, as +you may fancy—and to him I did not attend very closely. +All afternoon I worked until half-past four, when I went +out under an umbrella, and cruised about the empty, +wet, glimmering streets until near dinner time.</p> + +<p>I have finished <i>Roads</i> to-day, and send it off to you +to see. The Lord knows whether it is worth anything!—some +of it pleases me a good deal, but I fear it is quite +unfit for any possible magazine. However, I wish you +to see it, as you know the humour in which it was conceived, +walking alone and very happily about the Suffolk +highways and byeways on several splendid sunny afternoons.—Believe +me, ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page63"></a>63</span></p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—I have looked over <i>Roads</i> again, and I am +aghast at its feebleness. It is the trial of a very “’prentice +hand” indeed. Shall I ever learn to do anything <i>well</i>? +However, it shall go to you, for the reasons given above.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs Sitwell</p> + +<p class="f80">After an outpouring about difficulties at home.</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Edinburgh, Tuesday, September 16, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... I must</span> be very strong to have all this vexation +and still to be well. I was weighed the other day, and +the gross weight of my large person was eight stone six! +Does it not seem surprising that I can keep the lamp +alight, through all this gusty weather, in so frail a lantern? +And yet it burns cheerily.</p> + +<p>My mother is leaving for the country this morning, +and my father and I will be alone for the best part +of the week in this house. Then on Friday I go south to +Dumfries till Monday. I must write small, or I shall +have a tremendous budget by then.</p> + +<p>7.20 <i>p.m.</i>—I must tell you a thing I saw to-day. I +was going down to Portobello in the train, when there +came into the next compartment (third class) an artisan, +strongly marked with smallpox, and with sunken, heavy +eyes—a face hard and unkind, and without anything +lovely. There was a woman on the platform seeing him +off. At first sight, with her one eye blind and the whole +cast of her features strongly plebeian, and even vicious, +she seemed as unpleasant as the man; but there was +something beautifully soft, a sort of light of tenderness, +as on some Dutch Madonna, that came over her face +when she looked at the man. They talked for a while +together through the window; the man seemed to have +been asking money. “Ye ken the last time,” she said, +“I gave ye two shillin’s for your ludgin’, and ye said——” +it died off into whisper. Plainly Falstaff and Dame +Quickly over again. The man laughed unpleasantly, even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64"></a>64</span> +cruelly, and said something; and the woman turned her +back on the carriage and stood a long while so, and, do +what I might, I could catch no glimpse of her expression, +although I thought I saw the heave of a sob in her shoulders. +At last, after the train was already in motion, she turned +round and put two shillings into his hand. I saw her +stand and look after us with a perfect heaven of love on +her face—this poor one-eyed Madonna—until the train +was out of sight; but the man, sordidly happy with his +gains, did not put himself to the inconvenience of one +glance to thank her for her ill-deserved kindness.</p> + +<p>I have been up at the Spec. and looked out a reference +I wanted. The whole town is drowned in white, wet +vapour off the sea. Everything drips and soaks. The +very statues seem wet to the skin. I cannot pretend to +be very cheerful; I did not see one contented face in the +streets; and the poor did look so helplessly chill and +dripping, without a stitch to change, or so much as a fire +to dry themselves at, or perhaps money to buy a meal, +or perhaps even a bed. My heart shivers for them.</p> + +<p><i>Dumfries, Friday.</i>—All my thirst for a little warmth, +a little sun, a little corner of blue sky avails nothing. +Without, the rain falls with a long drawn <i>swish</i>, and the +night is as dark as a vault. There is no wind indeed, +and that is a blessed change after the unruly, bedlamite +gusts that have been charging against one round street +corners and utterly abolishing and destroying all that is +peaceful in life. Nothing sours my temper like these +coarse termagant winds. I hate practical joking; and +your vulgarest practical joker is your flaw of wind.</p> + +<p>I have tried to write some verses; but I find I have +nothing to say that has not been already perfectly said +and perfectly sung in <i>Adelaïde</i>. I have so perfect an idea +out of that song! The great Alps, a wonder in the star-light—the +river, strong from the hills, and turbulent, and +loudly audible at night—the country, a scented <i>Frühlingsgarten</i> +of orchards and deep wood where the nightingales +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65"></a>65</span> +harbour—a sort of German flavour over all—and this +love-drunken man, wandering on by sleeping village and +silent town, pours out of his full heart, <i>Einst, O Wunder, +einst</i>, etc. I wonder if I am wrong about this being the +most beautiful and perfect thing in the world—the only +marriage of really accordant words and music—both +drunk with the same poignant, unutterable sentiment.</p> + +<p>To-day in Glasgow my father went off on some business, +and my mother and I wandered about for two hours. +We had lunch together, and were very merry over what +the people at the restaurant would think of us—mother +and son they could not suppose us to be.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—And to-day it came—warmth, sunlight, and a +strong, hearty living wind among the trees. I found myself a +new being. My father and I went off a long walk, through +a country most beautifully wooded and various, under a +range of hills. You should have seen one place where the +wood suddenly fell away in front of us down a long, steep +hill between a double row of trees, with one small fair-haired +child framed in shadow in the foreground; and +when we got to the foot there was the little kirk and kirkyard +of Irongray, among broken fields and woods by the +side of the bright, rapid river. In the kirkyard there was a +wonderful congregation of tombstones, upright and recumbent +on four legs (after our Scotch fashion), and of flat-armed +fir-trees. One gravestone was erected by Scott (at a +cost, I learn, of £70) to the poor woman who served him +as heroine in the <i>Heart of Midlothian</i>, and the inscription +in its stiff, Jedediah Cleishbotham fashion is not without +something touching.<a name="FnAnchor_7" href="#Footnote_7"><span class="sp">7</span></a> We went up the stream a little +further to where two Covenanters lie buried in an oak-wood; +the tombstone (as the custom is) containing the +details of their grim little tragedy in funnily bad rhyme, +one verse of which sticks in my memory:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“We died, their furious rage to stay,</p> +<p class="i05">Near to the kirk of Iron-gray.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page66"></a>66</span></p> + +<p>We then fetched a long compass round about through +Holywood Kirk and Lincluden ruins to Dumfries. But +the walk came sadly to grief as a pleasure excursion +before our return....</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—Another beautiful day. My father and I +walked into Dumfries to church. When the service was +done I noted the two halberts laid against the pillar of +the churchyard gate; and as I had not seen the little +weekly pomp of civic dignitaries in our Scotch country +towns for some years, I made my father wait. You +should have seen the provost and three bailies going +stately away down the sunlit street, and the two town +servants strutting in front of them, in red coats and cocked +hats, and with the halberts most conspicuously shouldered. +We saw Burns’s house—a place that made me deeply +sad—and spent the afternoon down the banks of the +Nith. I had not spent a day by a river since we lunched +in the meadows near Sudbury. The air was as pure and +clear and sparkling as spring water; beautiful, graceful +outlines of hill and wood shut us in on every side; and +the swift, brown river fled smoothly away from before +our eyes, rippled over with oily eddies and dimples. +White gulls had come up from the sea to fish, and hovered +and flew hither and thither among the loops of the stream. +By good fortune, too, it was a dead calm between my +father and me. Do you know, I find these rows harder +on me than ever. I get a funny swimming in the head +when they come on that I had not before—and the like +when I think of them.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Monday, 22nd September 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> just had another disagreeable to-night. It is +difficult indeed to steer steady among the breakers: I +am always touching ground; generally it is my own +blame, for I cannot help getting friendly with my father +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67"></a>67</span> +(whom I <i>do</i> love), and so speaking foolishly with my +mouth. I have yet to learn in ordinary conversation +that reserve and silence that I must try to unlearn in +the matter of the feelings.</p> + +<p>The news that <i>Roads</i> would do reached me in good +season; I had begun utterly to despair of doing anything. +Certainly I do not think I should be in a hurry +to commit myself about the Covenanters; the whole +subject turns round about me and so branches out to +this side and that, that I grow bewildered; and one +cannot write discreetly about any one little corner of an +historical period, until one has an organic view of the +whole. I have, however—given life and health—great +hope of my Covenanters; indeed, there is a lot of +precious dust to be beaten out of that stack even by a +very infirm hand.</p> + +<p><i>Much later.</i>—I can scarcely see to write just now; so +please excuse. We have had an awful scene. All that +my father had to say has been put forth—not that it was +anything new; only it is the devil to hear. I don’t know +what to do—the world goes hopelessly round about me; +there is no more possibility of doing, living, being anything +but a <i>beast</i>, and there’s the end of it.</p> + +<p>It is eleven, I think, for a clock struck. O Lord, there +has been a deal of time through our hands since I went +down to supper! All this has come from my own folly; +I somehow could not think the gulf so impassable, and +I read him some notes on the Duke of Argyll<a name="FnAnchor_8" href="#Footnote_8"><span class="sp">8</span></a>—I thought +he would agree so far, and that we might have some +rational discussion on the rest. And now—after some +hours—he has told me that he is a weak man, and that I +am driving him too far, and that I know not what I am +doing. O dear God, this is bad work!</p> + +<p>I have lit a pipe and feel calmer. I say, my dear +friend, I am killing my father—he told me to-night (by +the way) that I alienated utterly my mother—and this is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68"></a>68</span> +the result of my attempt to start fair and fresh and to +do my best for all of them.</p> + +<p>I must wait till to-morrow ere I finish. I am to-night +too excited.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—The sun is shining to-day, which is a great +matter, and altogether the gale having blown off again, I +live in a precarious lull. On the whole I am not displeased +with last night; I kept my eyes open through it +all, and, I think, not only avoided saying anything that +could make matters worse in the future, but said something +that <i>may</i> do good. But a little better or a little +worse is a trifle. I lay in bed this morning awake, for I was +tired and cold and in no special hurry to rise, and heard +my father go out for the papers; and then I lay and +wished—O, if he would only <i>whistle</i> when he comes in +again! But of course he did not. I have stopped that +pipe.</p> + +<p>Now, you see, I have written to you this time and +sent it off, for both of which God forgive me.—Ever your +faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p>My father and I together can put about a year through +in half an hour. Look here, you mustn’t take this too +much to heart. I shall be all right in a few hours. It’s +impossible to depress me. And of course, when you can’t +do anything, there’s no need of being depressed. It’s +all waste tissue.</p> + +<p class="rt">L.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Wednesday, September 24th 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> found another “flowering isle.” All this +beautiful, quiet, sunlit day, I have been out in the country; +down by the sea on my favourite coast between +Granton and Queensferry. There was a delicate, delicious +haze over the firth and sands on one side, and on the +other was the shadow of the woods all riven with great +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69"></a>69</span> +golden rifts of sunshine. A little faint talk of waves +upon the beach; the wild strange crying of seagulls over +the sea; and the hoarse wood-pigeons and shrill, sweet +robins full of their autumn love-making among the trees, +made up a delectable concerto of peaceful noises. I spent +the whole afternoon among these sights and sounds with +Simpson. And we came home from Queensferry on the +outside of the coach and four, along a beautiful way full +of ups and downs among woody, uneven country, laid +out (fifty years ago, I suppose) by my grandfather, on +the notion of Hogarth’s line of beauty. You see my taste +for roads is hereditary.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—I was wakened this morning by a long flourish +of bugles and a roll upon the drums—the <i>réveillé</i> at the +Castle. I went to the window; it was a grey, quiet dawn, +a few people passed already up the street between the +gardens, already I heard the noise of an early cab somewhere +in the distance, most of the lamps had been extinguished +but not all, and there were two or three lit +windows in the opposite façade that showed where sick +people and watchers had been awake all night and +knew not yet of the new, cool day. This appealed +to me with a special sadness: how often in the old +times my nurse and I had looked across at these, and +sympathised!</p> + +<p>I wish you would read Michelet’s <i>Louis Quatorze et la +Révocation de l’Édit de Nantes</i>. I read it out in the +garden, and the autumnal trees and weather, and my own +autumnal humour, and the pitiable prolonged tragedies +of Madame and of Molière, as they look, darkling and +sombre, out of their niches in the great gingerbread façade +of the <i>Grand Âge</i>, go wonderfully hand in hand.</p> + +<p>I wonder if my revised paper has pleased the Saturday? +If it has not, I shall be rather sorry—no, very +sorry indeed—but not surprised and certainly not hurt. +It will be a great disappointment; but I am glad to say +that, among all my queasy, troublesome feelings, I have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70"></a>70</span> +not a sensitive vanity. Not that I am not as conceited +as you know me to be; only I go easy over the coals in +that matter.</p> + +<p>I have been out reading Hallam in the garden; and +have been talking with my old friend the gardener, a +man of singularly hard favour and few teeth. He consulted +me this afternoon on the choice of books, premising +that his taste ran mainly on war and travel. On travel +I had to own at once my ignorance. I suggested Kinglake, +but he had read that; and so, finding myself +here unhorsed, I turned about and at last recollected +Southey’s <i>Lives of the Admirals</i>, and the volumes of +Macaulay containing the wars of William. Can you +think of any other for this worthy man? I believe him +to hold me in as high an esteem as any one can do; +and I reciprocate his respect, for he is quite an intelligent +companion.</p> + +<p>On Saturday morning I read Morley’s article aloud +to Bob in one of the walks of the public garden. I was +full of it and read most excitedly; and we were ever, +as we went to and fro, passing a bench where a man sat +reading the Bible aloud to a small circle of the devout. +This man is well known to me, sits there all day, sometimes +reading, sometimes singing, sometimes distributing +tracts. Bob laughed much at the opposition preachers—I +never noticed it till he called my attention to the other; +but it did not seem to me like opposition—does it to +you?—each in his way was teaching what he thought +best.</p> + +<p>Last night, after reading Walt Whitman a long while +for my attempt to write about him, I got <i>tête-montée</i>, rushed +out up to M. S., came in, took out <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, and +without giving the poor unbeliever time to object, proceeded +to wade into him with favourite passages. I had +at least this triumph, that he swore he must read some +more of him.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page71"></a>71</span></p> + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>On the question of the authorship of the <i>Ode to the Cuckoo</i>, which +Burke thought the most beautiful lyric in our language, the debate +was between the claims of John Logan, minister of South Leith +(1745-1785), and his friend and fellow-worker Michael Bruce. +Those of Logan have, I believe, been now vindicated past doubt.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Saturday, October 4, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">It</span> is a little sharp to-day; but bright and sunny with +a sparkle in the air, which is delightful after four days of +unintermitting rain. In the streets I saw two men meet +after a long separation, it was plain. They came forward +with a little run and <i>leaped</i> at each other’s hands. You +never saw such bright eyes as they both had. It put one +in a good humour to see it.</p> + +<p><i>8 p.m.</i>—I made a little more out of my work than I +have made for a long while back; though even now I +cannot make things fall into sentences—they only sprawl +over the paper in bald orphan clauses. Then I was about +in the afternoon with Baxter; and we had a good deal +of fun, first rhyming on the names of all the shops we +passed, and afterwards buying needles and quack drugs +from open-air vendors, and taking much pleasure in their +inexhaustible eloquence. Every now and then as we +went, Arthur’s Seat showed its head at the end of a street. +Now, to-day the blue sky and the sunshine were both +entirely wintry; and there was about the hill, in these +glimpses, a sort of thin, unreal, crystalline distinctness +that I have not often seen excelled. As the sun began +to go down over the valley between the new town and +the old, the evening grew resplendent; all the gardens +and low-lying buildings sank back and became almost +invisible in a mist of wonderful sun, and the Castle stood +up against the sky, as thin and sharp in outline as a castle +cut out of paper. Baxter made a good remark about +Princes Street, that it was the most elastic street for +length that he knew; sometimes it looks, as it looked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72"></a>72</span> +to-night, interminable, a way leading right into the heart +of the red sundown; sometimes, again, it shrinks together, +as if for warmth, on one of the withering, clear +east-windy days, until it seems to lie underneath your +feet.</p> + +<p>I want to let you see these verses from an <i>Ode to the +Cuckoo</i> written by one of the ministers of Leith in the +middle of last century—the palmy days of Edinburgh—who +was a friend of Hume and Adam Smith and the +whole constellation. The authorship of these beautiful +verses has been most truculently fought about; but whoever +wrote them (and it seems as if this Logan had) they +are lovely—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“What time the pea puts on the bloom,</p> + <p class="i1">Thou fliest the vocal vale,</p> +<p>An annual guest, in other lands</p> + <p class="i1">Another spring to hail.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,</p> + <p class="i1">Thy sky is ever clear;</p> +<p>Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,</p> + <p class="i1">No winter in thy year.</p> + +<p class="stanza">O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!</p> + <p class="i1">We’d make on joyful wing</p> +<p>Our annual visit o’er the globe,</p> + <p class="i1">Companions of the spring.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—I have been at church with my mother, +where we heard “Arise, shine,” sung excellently well, +and my mother was so much upset with it that she nearly +had to leave church. This was the antidote, however, to +fifty minutes of solid sermon, varra heavy. I have been +sticking in to Walt Whitman; nor do I think I have ever +laboured so hard to attain so small a success. Still, the +thing is taking shape, I think; I know a little better what +I want to say all through; and in process of time, possibly +I shall manage to say it. I must say I am a very bad +workman, <i>mais j’ai du courage</i>: I am indefatigable at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page73"></a>73</span> +rewriting and bettering, and surely that humble quality +should get me on a little.</p> + +<p><i>Monday, October 6.</i>—It is a magnificent glimmering +moonlight night, with a wild, great west wind abroad, +flapping above one like an immense banner, and every +now and again swooping furiously against my windows. +The wind is too strong perhaps, and the trees are certainly +too leafless for much of that wide rustle that we both +remember; there is only a sharp, angry, sibilant hiss, +like breath drawn with the strength of the elements through +shut teeth, that one hears between the gusts only. I am +in excellent humour with myself, for I have worked hard +and not altogether fruitlessly; and I wished before I +turned in just to tell you that things were so. My dear +friend, I feel so happy when I think that you remember +me kindly. I have been up to-night lecturing to a friend +on life and duties and what a man could do; a coal off +the altar had been laid on my lips, and I talked quite +above my average, and hope I spread, what you would +wish to see spread, into one person’s heart; and with +a new light upon it.</p> + +<p>I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to +Portobello, in the heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing +<i>par rafales</i> off the sea (or “<i>en rafales</i>” should it be? +or what?). As I got down near the beach a poor woman, +oldish, and seemingly, lately at least, respectable, followed +me and made signs. She was drenched to the skin, +and looked wretched below wretchedness. You know, +I did not like to look back at her; it seemed as if she +might misunderstand and be terribly hurt and slighted; +so I stood at the end of the street—there was no one else +within sight in the wet—and lifted up my hand very +high with some money in it. I heard her steps draw +heavily near behind me, and, when she was near enough +to see, I let the money fall in the mud and went off at my +best walk without ever turning round. There is nothing +in the story; and yet you will understand how much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page74"></a>74</span> +there is, if one chose to set it forth. You see, she was +so ugly; and you know there is something terribly, miserably +pathetic in a certain smile, a certain sodden aspect +of invitation on such faces. It is so terrible, that it is in +a way sacred; it means the outside of degradation and +(what is worst of all in life) false position. I hope you +understand me rightly.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Tuesday, October 14, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">My</span> father has returned in better health, and I am +more delighted than I can well tell you. The one trouble +that I can see no way through is that his health, or my +mother’s, should give way. To-night, as I was walking +along Princes Street, I heard the bugles sound the recall. +I do not think I had ever remarked it before; there is +something of unspeakable appeal in the cadence. I felt +as if something yearningly cried to me out of the darkness +overhead to come thither and find rest; one felt as +if there must be warm hearts and bright fires waiting +for one up there, where the buglers stood on the damp +pavement and sounded their friendly invitation forth +into the night.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—I may as well tell you exactly about my +health. I am not at all ill; have quite recovered; only +I am what <i>MM. les médecins</i> call below par; which, in +plain English, is that I am weak. With tonics, decent +weather, and a little cheerfulness, that will go away in +its turn, and I shall be all right again.</p> + +<p>I am glad to hear what you say about the Exam.; +until quite lately I have treated that pretty cavalierly, +for I say honestly that I do not mind being plucked; I +shall just have to go up again. We travelled with the Lord +Advocate the other day, and he strongly advised me in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page75"></a>75</span> +my father’s hearing to go to the English Bar; and the +Lord Advocate’s advice goes a long way in Scotland. It +is a sort of special legal revelation. Don’t misunderstand +me. I don’t, of course, want to be plucked; but so +far as my style of knowledge suits them, I cannot make +much betterment on it in a month. If they wish +scholarship more exact, I must take a new lease +altogether.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—My head and eyes both gave in this morning, +and I had to take a day of complete idleness. I was +in the open air all day, and did no thought that I could +avoid, and I think I have got my head between my +shoulders again; however, I am not going to do much. +I don’t want you to run away with any fancy about +my being ill. Given a person weak and in some trouble, +and working longer hours than he is used to, and you +have the matter in a nutshell. You should have seen +the sunshine on the hill to-day; it has lost now that +crystalline clearness, as if the medium were spring-water +(you see, I am stupid!); but it retains that wonderful +thinness of outline that makes the delicate shape and +hue savour better in one’s mouth, like fine wine out of +a finely-blown glass. The birds are all silent now but +the crows. I sat a long time on the stairs that lead down +to Duddingston Loch—a place as busy as a great town +during frost, but now solitary and silent; and when I +shut my eyes I heard nothing but the wind in the trees; +and you know all that went through me, I dare say, without +my saying it.</p> + +<p>11.—I am now all right. I do not expect any tic +to-night, and shall be at work again to-morrow. I have +had a day of open air, only a little modified by <i>Le Capitaine +Fracasse</i> before the dining-room fire. I must write no +more, for I am sleepy after two nights, to quote my book, +“<i>sinon blanches, du moins grises</i>“; and so I must go to +bed and faithfully, hoggishly slumber.—Your faithful</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page76"></a>76</span></p> + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>On the advice of the Lord Advocate it had been agreed that +Stevenson should present himself for admission as a student at one +of the London Inns of Court and should come to town after the +middle of October to be examined for that purpose. The following +two letters refer to this purpose and to the formalities required for +effecting it:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, Oct. 15, 1873</i>], <i>Wednesday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Of course I knew as well as you +that I was merely running before an illness; but I thought +I should be in time to escape. However I was knocked +over on Monday night with a bad sore throat, fever, rheumatism, +and a threatening of pleurisy, which last is, I +think, gone. I still hope to be able to get away early +next week, though I am not very clear as to how I shall +manage the journey. If I don’t get away on Wednesday +at latest, I lose my excuse for going at all, and I do +wish to escape a little while.</p> + +<p>I shall see about the form when I get home, which I +hope will be to-morrow (I was taken ill in a friend’s house +and have not yet been moved).</p> + +<p>How could a broken-down engineer expect to make +anything of <i>Roads</i>. Requiescant. When we get well +(and if we get well), we shall do something better.—Yours +sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + +<p>Ye couche of pain.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, October 16, 1873</i>], <i>Thursday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am at my wits’ end about this +abominable form of admission. I don’t know what the +devil it is; I haven’t got one even if I did, and so +can’t sign.</p> + +<p>Monday night is the very earliest on which (even if I +go on mending at the very great pace I have made +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77"></a>77</span> +already) I can hope to be in London myself. But possibly +it is only intimation that requires to be made on +Tuesday morning; and one may possess oneself of a +form of admission up to the eleventh hour. I send herewith +a letter which I must ask you to cherish, as I count +it a sort of talisman. Perhaps you may understand it, I +don’t.</p> + +<p>If you don’t understand it, please do not trouble and +we must just hope that Tuesday morning will be early +enough to do all. Of course I fear the exam. will spin +me; indeed after this bodily and spiritual crisis I should +not dream of coming up at all; only that I require +it as a pretext for a moment’s escape, which I want +much.</p> + +<p>I am so glad that <i>Roads</i> has got in. I had almost as +soon have it in the Portfolio as the Saturday; the P. is +so nicely printed and I am <i>gourmet</i> in type. I don’t +know how to thank you for your continual kindness to +me; and I am afraid I do not even feel grateful enough—you +have let your kindnesses come on me so easily.—Yours +sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>When Stevenson a few days later came to London, it was before +the physicians and not the lawyers that he must present himself; +and the result of an examination by Sir Andrew Clark was his +prompt and peremptory despatch to Mentone for a winter’s rest and +sunshine at a distance from all causes of mental agitation. This +episode of his life gave occasion to the essay <i>Ordered South</i>, the +only one of his writings in which he took the invalid point of view +or allowed his health troubles in any degree to colour his work. +Travelling south by slow stages, he wrote on the way a long diary-letter +from which extracts follow:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Avignon</i> [<i>November 1873</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> just read your letter upon the top of the hill +beside the church and castle. The whole air was filled +with sunset and the sound of bells; and I wish I could +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78"></a>78</span> +give you the least notion of the <i>southernness</i> and <i>Provençality</i> +of all that I saw.</p> + +<p>I cannot write while I am travelling; <i>c’est un défaut;</i> +but so it is. I must have a certain feeling of being at +home, and my head must have time to settle. The new +images oppress me, and I have a fever of restlessness on +me. You must not be disappointed at such shabby +letters; and besides, remember my poor head and the +fanciful crawling in the spine.</p> + +<p>I am back again in the stage of thinking there is +nothing the matter with me, which is a good sign; but +I am wretchedly nervous. Anything like rudeness I am +simply babyishly afraid of; and noises, and especially +the sounds of certain voices, are the devil to me. A +blind poet whom I found selling his immortal works in +the streets of Sens, captivated me with the remarkable +equable strength and sweetness of his voice; and I listened +a long while and bought some of the poems; and +now this voice, after I had thus got it thoroughly into my +head, proved false metal and a really bad and horrible +voice at bottom. It haunted me some time, but I think +I am done with it now.</p> + +<p>I hope you don’t dislike reading bad style like this +as much as I do writing it: it hurts me when neither +words nor clauses fall into their places, much as it would +hurt you to sing when you had a bad cold and your voice +deceived you and missed every other note. I do feel so +inclined to break the pen and write no more; and here +<i>àpropos</i> begins my back.</p> + +<p><i>After dinner.</i>—It blows to-night from the north down +the valley of the Rhone, and everything is so cold that I +have been obliged to indulge in a fire. There is a fine +crackle and roar of burning wood in the chimney which +is very homely and companionable, though it does +seem to postulate a town all white with snow +outside.</p> + +<p>I have bought Sainte-Beuve’s Chateaubriand and am +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79"></a>79</span> +immensely delighted with the critic. Chateaubriand is +more antipathetic to me than anyone else in the +world.</p> + +<p>I begin to wish myself arrived to-night. Travelling, +when one is not quite well, has a good deal of unpleasantness. +One is easily upset by cross incidents, and wants +that <i>belle humeur</i> and spirit of adventure that makes a +pleasure out of what is unpleasant.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday, November 11th.</i>—There! There’s a date for +you. I shall be in Mentone for my birthday, with plenty +of nice letters to read. I went away across the Rhone +and up the hill on the other side that I might see the +town from a distance. Avignon followed me with its +bells and drums and bugles; for the old city has no equal +for multitude of such noises. Crossing the bridge and +seeing the brown turbid water foam and eddy about the +piers, one could scarce believe one’s eyes when one looked +down upon the stream and saw the smooth blue mirroring +tree and hill. Over on the other side, the sun beat +down so furiously on the white road that I was glad to +keep in the shadow and, when the occasion offered, to +turn aside among the olive-yards. It was nine years and +six months since I had been in an olive-yard. I found +myself much changed, not so gay, but wiser and more +happy. I read your letter again, and sat awhile looking +down over the tawny plain and at the fantastic +outline of the city. The hills seemed just fainting +into the sky; even the great peak above Carpentras +(Lord knows how many metres above the sea) seemed +unsubstantial and thin in the breadth and potency of +the sunshine.</p> + +<p>I should like to stay longer here but I can’t. I am +driven forward by restlessness, and leave this afternoon +about two. I am just going out now to visit again the +church, castle, and hill, for the sake of the magnificent +panorama, and besides, because it is the friendliest spot +in all Avignon to me.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page80"></a>80</span></p> + +<p><i>Later.</i>—You cannot picture to yourself anything more +steeped in hard bright sunshine than the view from the +hill. The immovable inky shadow of the old bridge on +the fleeting surface of the yellow river seemed more solid +than the bridge itself. Just in the place where I sat +yesterday evening a shaven man in a velvet cap was +studying music—evidently one of the singers for <i>La +Muette de Portici</i> at the theatre to-night. I turned back +as I went away: the white Christ stood out in strong +relief on his brown cross against the blue sky, and the +four kneeling angels and lanterns grouped themselves +about the foot with a symmetry that was almost laughable; +the musician read on at his music, and counted +time with his hand on the stone step.</p> + +<p><i>Menton, November 12th.</i>—My first enthusiasm was +on rising at Orange and throwing open the shutters. +Such a great living flood of sunshine poured in +upon me, that I confess to having danced and expressed +my satisfaction aloud; in the middle of which +the boots came to the door with hot water, to my +great confusion.</p> + +<p>To-day has been one long delight, coming to a magnificent +climax on my arrival here. I gave up my baggage +to an hotel porter and set off to walk at once. I was somewhat +confused as yet as to my directions, for the station +of course was new to me, and the hills had not sufficiently +opened out to let me recognise the peaks. Suddenly, as +I was going forward slowly in this confusion of mind, I +was met by a great volley of odours out of the lemon +and orange gardens, and the past linked on to the +present, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the +whole scene fell before me into order, and I was at home. +I nearly danced again.</p> + +<p>I suppose I must send off this to-night to notify my +arrival in safety and good-humour and, I think, in good +health, before relapsing into the old weekly vein. I hope +this time to send you a weekly dose of sunshine from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81"></a>81</span> +south, instead of the jet of <i>snell</i> Edinburgh east wind that +used to was.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hôtel du Pavillon, Menton, +November 13, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—The <i>Place</i> is not where I thought; +it is about where the old Post Office was. The Hôtel de +Londres is no more an hotel. I have found a charming +room in the Hôtel du Pavillon, just across the road from +the Prince’s Villa; it has one window to the south and +one to the east, with a superb view of Mentone and the +hills, to which I move this afternoon. In the old great +<i>Place</i> there is a kiosque for the sale of newspapers; a +string of omnibuses (perhaps thirty) go up and down +under the plane-trees of the Turin Road on the occasion +of each train; the Promenade has crossed both +streams, and bids fair to reach the Cap Martin. The old +chapel near Freeman’s house at the entrance to the Gorbio +valley is now entirely submerged under a shining new +villa, with pavilion annexed; over which, in all the pride +of oak and chestnut and divers coloured marbles, I was +shown this morning by the obliging proprietor. The +Prince’s Palace itself is rehabilitated, and shines afar +with white window-curtains from the midst of a garden, +all trim borders and greenhouses and carefully kept +walks. On the other side, the villas are more thronged +together, and they have arranged themselves, shelf after +shelf, behind each other. I see the glimmer of new +buildings, too, as far eastward as Grimaldi; and a +viaduct carries (I suppose) the railway past the mouth +of the bone caves. F. Bacon (Lord Chancellor) made +the remark that “Time was the greatest innovator“; +it is perhaps as meaningless a remark as was ever made; +but as Bacon made it, I suppose it is better than any +that I could make. Does it not seem as if things were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82"></a>82</span> +fluid? They are displaced and altered in ten years so +that one has difficulty, even with a memory so very vivid +and retentive for that sort of thing as mine, in identifying +places where one lived a long while in the past, and +which one has kept piously in mind during all the interval. +Nevertheless, the hills, I am glad to say, are unaltered; +though I dare say the torrents have given them many a +shrewd scar, and the rains and thaws dislodged many a +boulder from their heights, if one were only keen enough +to perceive it. The sea makes the same noise in the +shingle; and the lemon and orange gardens still discharge +in the still air their fresh perfume; and the people have +still brown comely faces; and the Pharmacie Gros still +dispenses English medicines; and the invalids (eheu!) +still sit on the promenade and trifle with their fingers in +the fringes of shawls and wrappers; and the shop of +Pascal Amarante still, in its present bright consummate +flower of aggrandisement and new paint, offers everything +that it has entered into people’s hearts to wish +for in the idleness of a sanatorium; and the “Château +des Morts” is still at the top of the town; and the fort +and the jetty are still at the foot, only there are now two +jetties; and—I am out of breath. (To be continued in +our next.)</p> + +<p>For myself, I have come famously through the journey; +and as I have written this letter (for the first time +for ever so long) with ease and even pleasure, I think my +head must be better. I am still no good at coming down +hills or stairs; and my feet are more consistently cold +than is quite comfortable. But, these apart, I feel well; +and in good spirits all round.</p> + +<p>I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get +them to-night. Continue to address Poste Restante. +Take care of yourselves.</p> + +<p>This is my birthday, by the way—O, I said that before. +Adieu.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page83"></a>83</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Menton, November 13, 1873.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I must</span> pour out my disgust at the absence of a letter; +my birthday nearly gone, and devil a letter—I beg pardon. +After all, now I think of it, it is only a week since +I left.</p> + +<p>I have here the nicest room in Mentone. Let me +explain. Ah! there’s the bell for the <i>table d’hôte</i>. Now +to see if there is anyone conversable within these walls.</p> + +<p>In the interval my letters have come; none from +you, but one from Bob, which both pained and pleased +me. He cannot get on without me at all, he writes; he +finds that I have been the whole world for him; that he +only talked to other people in order that he might tell me +afterwards about the conversation. Should I—I really +don’t know quite what to feel; I am so much astonished, +and almost more astonished that he should have expressed +it than that he should feel it; he never would +have <i>said</i> it, I know. I feel a strange sense of weight and +responsibility.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the latter part of this letter will be found the germ of the +essay <i>Ordered South</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Menton, Sunday</i> [<i>November 23, 1873</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I sat a long while up among the +olive yards to-day at a favourite corner, where one has +a fair view down the valley and on to the blue floor of +the sea. I had a Horace with me, and read a little; but +Horace, when you try to read him fairly under the open +heaven, sounds urban, and you find something of the +escaped townsman in his descriptions of the country, just +as somebody said that Morris’s sea-pieces were all taken +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84"></a>84</span> +from the coast. I tried for long to hit upon some language +that might catch ever so faintly the indefinable shifting +colour of olive leaves; and, above all, the changes and +little silverings that pass over them, like blushes over +a face, when the wind tosses great branches to and fro; +but the Muse was not favourable. A few birds scattered +here and there at wide intervals on either side of the +valley sang the little broken songs of late autumn; and +there was a great stir of insect life in the grass at my +feet. The path up to this coign of vantage, where I think +I shall make it a habit to ensconce myself a while of a +morning, is for a little while common to the peasant and +a little clear brooklet. It is pleasant, in the tempered +grey daylight of the olive shadows, to see the people +picking their way among the stones and the water and +the brambles; the women especially, with the weights +poised on their heads and walking all from the hips with +a certain graceful deliberation.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—I have been to Nice to-day to see Dr. +Bennet; he agrees with Clark that there is no disease; +but I finished up my day with a lamentable exhibition of +weakness. I could not remember French, or at least +I was afraid to go into any place lest I should not be able +to remember it, and so could not tell when the train +went. At last I crawled up to the station and sat down +on the steps, and just steeped myself there in the sunshine +until the evening began to fall and the air to grow +chilly. This long rest put me all right; and I came home +here triumphantly and ate dinner well. There is the full, +true, and particular account of the worst day I have had +since I left London. I shall not go to Nice again for some +time to come.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—I am to-day quite recovered, and got into +Mentone to-day for a book, which is quite a creditable +walk. As an intellectual being I have not yet begun to +re-exist; my immortal soul is still very nearly extinct; +but we must hope the best. Now, do take warning by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85"></a>85</span> +me. I am set up by a beneficent providence at the corner +of the road, to warn you to flee from the hebetude that is +to follow. Being sent to the South is not much good +unless you take your soul with you, you see; and my +soul is rarely with me here. I don’t see much beauty. +I have lost the key; I can only be placid and inert, and +see the bright days go past uselessly one after another; +therefore don’t talk foolishly with your mouth any more +about getting liberty by being ill and going south <i>viâ</i> +the sickbed. It is not the old free-born bird that gets +thus to freedom; but I know not what manacled and +hide-bound spirit, incapable of pleasure, the clay of a +man. Go south! Why, I saw more beauty with my eyes +healthfully alert to see in two wet windy February afternoons +in Scotland than I can see in my beautiful olive +gardens and grey hills in a whole week in my low and +lost estate, as the Shorter Catechism puts it somewhere. +It is a pitiable blindness, this blindness of the soul; I +hope it may not be long with me. So remember to +keep well; and remember rather anything than not +to keep well; and again I say, <i>anything</i> rather than +not to keep well.</p> + +<p>Not that I am unhappy, mind you. I have found the +words already—placid and inert, that is what I am. I +sit in the sun and enjoy the tingle all over me, and I am +cheerfully ready to concur with any one who says that +this is a beautiful place, and I have a sneaking partiality +for the newspapers, which would be all very well, if one +had not fallen from heaven and were not troubled with +some reminiscence of the <i>ineffable aurore</i>.</p> + +<p>To sit by the sea and to be conscious of nothing +but the sound of the waves, and the sunshine over all +your body, is not unpleasant; but I was an Archangel +once.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—If you knew how old I felt! I am sure this +is what age brings with it—this carelessness, this disenchantment, +this continual bodily weariness. I am a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86"></a>86</span> +man of seventy: O Medea, kill me, or make me young +again!<a name="FnAnchor_9" href="#Footnote_9"><span class="sp">9</span></a></p> + +<p>To-day has been cloudy and mild; and I have lain a +great while on a bench outside the garden wall (my usual +place now) and looked at the dove-coloured sea and the +broken roof of cloud, but there was no seeing in my eye. +Let us hope to-morrow will be more profitable.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The history of the scruples and ideas of duty in regard to money +expressed in the following letter is set forth and further explained +in retrospect in the fragment called <i>Lay Morals</i>, written in 1879. +The Walt Whitman essay here mentioned is not that afterwards +printed in <i>Men and Books</i>, but an earlier and more enthusiastic +version. Mr. Dowson (of whom Stevenson lost sight after these +Riviera days) was the father of the unfortunate poet Ernest Dowson. +His acquaintance was the first result of Stevenson’s search +for “anyone conversable” in the hotel.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Menton, Sunday</i> [<i>November 30, 1873</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—To-day is as hot as it has been in +the sun; and as I was a little tired and seedy, I went +down and just drank in sunshine. A strong wind has +risen out of the west; the great big dead leaves from the +roadside planes scuttled about and chased one another +over the gravel round me with a noise like little waves +under the keel of a boat, and jumped up sometimes on to +my lap and into my face. I lay down on my back at last, +and looked up into the sky. The white corner of the hotel, +with a wide projection at the top, stood out in dazzling +relief; and there was nothing else, save a few of the +plane leaves that had got up wonderfully high and turned +and eddied and flew here and there like little pieces of +gold leaf, to break the extraordinary sea of blue. It +was bluer than anything in the world here; wonderfully +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87"></a>87</span> +blue, and looking deeply peaceful, although in truth there +was a high wind blowing.</p> + +<p>I am concerned about the plane leaves. Hitherto it +has always been a great feature to see these trees standing +up head and shoulders and chest—head and body, +in fact—above the wonderful blue-grey-greens of the +olives, in one glory of red gold. Much more of this wind, +and the gold, I fear, will be all spent.</p> + +<p>9.20.—I must write you another little word. I have +found here a new friend, to whom I grow daily more +devoted—George Sand. I go on from one novel to +another and think the last I have read the most sympathetic +and friendly in tone, until I have read another. +It is a life in dreamland. Have you read <i>Mademoiselle +Merquem</i>?</p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—I did not quite know last night what to +say to you about <i>Mlle. Merquem</i>. If you want to be +unpleasantly moved, read it.</p> + +<p>I am gloomy and out of spirits to-night in consequence +of a ridiculous scene at the <i>table d’hôte</i>, where a parson +whom I rather liked took offence at something I said +and we had almost a quarrel. It was mopped up and +stifled, like spilt wine with a napkin; but it leaves an +unpleasant impression.</p> + +<p>I have again ceased all work, because I felt that it +strained my head a little, and so I have resumed the +tedious task of waiting with folded hands for better +days. But thanks to George Sand and the sunshine, I am +very jolly.</p> + +<p>That last word was so much out of key that I could +sit no longer, and went away to seek out my clergyman +and apologise to him. He was gone to bed. I don’t know +what makes me take this so much to heart. I suppose it’s +nerves or pride or something; but I am unhappy about +it. I am going to drown my sorrows in <i>Consuelo</i> and burn +some incense in my pipe to the god of Contentment and +Forgetfulness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page88"></a>88</span></p> + +<p>I do not know, but I hope, if I can only get better, I +shall be a help to you soon in every way and no more a +trouble and burthen. All my difficulties about life have +so cleared away; the scales have fallen from my eyes, +and the broad road of my duty lies out straight before me +without cross or hindrance. I have given up all hope, +all fancy rather, of making literature my hold: I see +that I have not capacity enough. My life shall be, if I +can make it, my only business. I am desirous to practise +now, rather than to preach, for I know that I should +ever preach badly, and men can more easily forgive faulty +practice than dull sermons. If Colvin does not think that +I shall be able to support myself soon by literature, I +shall give it up and go (horrible as the thought is to me) +into an office of some sort: the first and main question +is, that I must live by my own hands; after that come the +others.</p> + +<p>You will not regard me as a madman, I am sure. It +is a very rational aberration at least to try to put your +beliefs into practice. Strangely enough, it has taken +me a long time to see this distinctly with regard to my +whole creed; but I have seen it at last, praised be my +sickness and my leisure! I have seen it at last; the +sun of my duty has risen; I have enlisted for the first +time, and after long coquetting with the shilling, under +the banner of the Holy Ghost!<a name="FnAnchor_10" href="#Footnote_10"><span class="sp">10</span></a></p> + +<p>8.15.—If you had seen the moon last night! It was +like transfigured sunshine; as clear and mellow, only +showing everything in a new wonderful significance. The +shadows of the leaves on the road were so strangely black +that Dowson and I had difficulty in believing that they +were not solid, or at least pools of dark mire. And the +hills and the trees, and the white Italian houses with lit +windows! O! nothing could bring home to you the +keenness and the reality and the wonderful <i>Unheimlichkeit</i> +of all these. When the moon rises every night +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89"></a>89</span> +over the Italian coast, it makes a long path over the sea +as yellow as gold.</p> + +<p>How I happened to be out in the moonlight yesterday, +was that Dowson and I spent the evening with an odd +man called Bates, who played Italian music to us with +great feeling; all which was quite a dissipation in my +still existence.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—I cannot endure to be dependent much +longer, it stops my mouth. Something I must find shortly. +I mean when I am able for anything. However I am +much better already; and have been writing not altogether +my worst although not very well. Walt Whitman +is stopped. I have bemired it so atrociously by working +at it when I was out of humour that I must let the colour +dry; and alas! what I have been doing in its place +doesn’t seem to promise any money. However it is all +practice and it interests myself extremely. I have now +received £80, some £55 of which still remain; all this is +more debt to civilisation and my fellowmen. When +shall I be able to pay it back? You do not know how +much this money question begins to take more and more +importance in my eyes every day. It is an old phrase +of mine that money is the <i>atmosphere</i> of civilised life, and +I do hate to take the breath out of other people’s nostrils. +I live here at the rate of more than £3 a week and I do +nothing for it. If I didn’t hope to get well and do good +work yet and more than repay my debts to the world, I +should consider it right to invest an extra franc or two in +laudanum. But I <i>will</i> repay it.—Always your faithful +friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, December, 1873.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—At last, I must write. I must say +straight out that I am not recovering as I could wish. +I am no stronger than I was when I came here, and I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page90"></a>90</span> +pay for every walk, beyond say a quarter of a mile in +length, by one or two, or even three, days of more or +less prostration. Therefore let nobody be down upon +me for not writing. I was very thankful to you for +answering my letter; and for the princely action of +Simpson in writing to me, I mean before I had written +to him, I was ditto to an almost higher degree. I hope +one or another of you will write again soon; and, remember, +I still live in hope of reading Grahame Murray’s +address.</p> + +<p>I have not made a joke, upon my living soul, since I +left London. O! except one, a very small one, that I +had made before, and that I very timidly repeated in a +half-exhilarated state towards the close of dinner, like +one of those dead-alive flies that we see pretending to be +quite light and full of the frivolity of youth in the first +sunshiny days. It was about mothers’ meetings, and it +was damned small, and it was my ewe lamb—the Lord +knows I couldn’t have made another to save my life—and +a clergyman quarrelled with me, and there was as nearly +an explosion as could be. This has not fostered my leaning +towards pleasantry. I felt that it was a very cold, +hard world that night.</p> + +<p>My dear Charles, is the sky blue at Mentone? Was +that your question? Well, it depends upon what you +call blue; it’s a question of taste, I suppose. Is the sky +blue? You poor critter, you never saw blue sky worth +being called blue in the same day with it. And I should +rather fancy that the sun did shine I should. And the +moon doesn’t shine either. O no! (This last is sarcastic.) +Mentone is one of the most beautiful places in +the world, and has always had a very warm corner in +my heart since first I knew it eleven years ago.</p> + +<p><i>11th December.</i>—I live in the same hotel with Lord X. +He has black whiskers, and has been successful in raising +some kids; rather a melancholy success; they are weedy +looking kids in Highland clo’. They have a tutor with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91"></a>91</span> +them who respires Piety and that kind of humble your-lordship’s-most-obedient +sort of gentlemanliness that +noblemen’s tutors have generally. They all get livings, +these men, and silvery hair and a gold watch from their +attached pupil; and they sit in the porch and make the +watch repeat for their little grandchildren, and tell them +long stories, beginning, “When I was private tutor in +the family of,” etc., and the grandchildren cock snooks +at them behind their backs and go away whenever they +can to get the groom to teach them bad words.</p> + +<p>Sidney Colvin will arrive here on Saturday or Sunday; +so I shall have someone to jaw with. And, seriously, this +is a great want. I have not been all these weeks in idleness, +as you may fancy, without much thinking as to +my future; and I have a great deal in view that may or +may not be possible (that I do not yet know), but that +is at least an object and a hope before me. I cannot +help recurring to seriousness a moment before I stop; +for I must say that living here a good deal alone, and +having had ample time to look back upon my past, I +have become very serious all over. If I can only get +back my health, by God! I shall not be as useless as I +have been.—Ever yours, <i>mon vieux</i>,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, December, 1873</i>], <i>Sunday</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">The</span> first violet. There is more sweet trouble for the +heart in the breath of this small flower than in all the +wines of all the vineyards of Europe. I cannot contain +myself. I do not think so small a thing has ever given +me such a princely festival of pleasure. I feel as if my +heart were a little bunch of violets in my bosom; and +my brain is pleasantly intoxicated with the wonderful +odour. I suppose I am writing nonsense, but it does +not seem nonsense to me. Is it not a wonderful odour? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92"></a>92</span> +is it not something incredibly subtle and perishable? It +is like a wind blowing to one out of fairyland. No one +need tell me that the phrase is exaggerated if I say that +this violet <i>sings</i>; it sings with the same voice as the +March blackbird; and the same adorable tremor goes +through one’s soul at the hearing of it.</p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—All yesterday I was under the influence of +opium. I had been rather seedy during the night and +took a dose in the morning, and for the first time in my +life it took effect upon me. I had a day of extraordinary +happiness; and when I went to bed there was something +almost terrifying in the pleasures that besieged me in the +darkness. Wonderful tremors filled me; my head swam +in the most delirious but enjoyable manner; and the +bed softly oscillated with me, like a boat in a very gentle +ripple. It does not make me write a good style apparently, +which is just as well, lest I should be tempted to +renew the experiment; and some verses which I wrote +turn out on inspection to be not quite equal to <i>Kubla +Khan</i>. However, I was happy, and the recollection is +not troubled by any reaction this morning.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Do you know, I think I am much better. +I really enjoy things, and I really feel dull occasionally, +neither of which was possible with me before; and though +I am still tired and weak, I almost think I feel a stirring +among the dry bones. O, I should like to recover, and +be once more well and happy and fit for work! And +then to be able to begin really to my life; to have done, +for the rest of time, with preluding and doubting; and +to take hold of the pillars strongly with Samson—to +burn my ships with (whoever did it). O, I begin to feel +my spirits come back to me again at the thought!</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—I sat along the beach this morning under +some reeds (or canes—I know not which they are): everything +was so tropical; nothing visible but the glaring +white shingle, the blue sea, the blue sky, and the green +plumes of the canes thrown out against the latter some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93"></a>93</span> +ten or fifteen feet above my head. The noise of the surf +alone broke the quiet. I had somehow got <i>Ueber allen +Gipfeln ist Ruh</i> into my head; and I was happy for I +do not know how long, sitting there and repeating to +myself these lines. It is wonderful how things somehow +fall into a full satisfying harmony, and out of the fewest +elements there is established a sort of small perfection. +It was so this morning. I did not want anything further.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the third week of December I went out to join my friend for +a part of the Christmas vacation, and found him without tangible +disease, but very weak and ailing: ill-health and anxiety, however, +neither then nor at any time diminished his charm as a companion. +He left Mentone to meet me at the old town of Monaco, where we +spent a few days and from whence these stray notes of nature and +human nature were written.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monaco, Tuesday</i> [<i>December 1873</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">We</span> have been out all day in a boat; lovely weather +and almost dead calm, only the most infinitesimal and +indeterminate of oscillations moved us hither and thither; +the sails were duly set, and flapped about idly overhead. +Our boatman was a man of a delightful humour, who +told us many tales of the sea, notably one of a doctor, +who was an Englishman, and who seemed almost an +epitome of vices—drunken, dishonest, and utterly without +faith; and yet he was a <i>charmant garçon</i>. He told +us many amusing circumstances of the doctor’s incompetence +and dishonesty, and imitated his accent with a +singular success. I couldn’t quite see that he was a +charming <i>garçon</i>—“<i>O, oui</i>—<i>comme caractère, un charmant +garçon</i>.” We landed on that Cap Martin, the place of +firs and rocks and myrtle and rosemary of which I spoke to +you. As we pulled along in the fresh shadow, the wonderfully +clean scents blew out upon us, as if from islands of +spice—only how much better than cloves and cinnamon!</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—Colvin and I are sitting on a seat on the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94"></a>94</span> +battlemented gardens of Old Monaco. The day is grey +and clouded, with a little red light on the horizon, and the +sea, hundreds of feet below us, is a sort of purple dove-colour. +Shrub-geraniums, firs, and aloes cover all available +shelves and terraces, and where these become +impossible, the prickly pear precipitates headlong downwards +its bunches of oval plates; so that the whole +face of the cliff is covered with an arrested fall (please +excuse clumsy language), a sort of fall of the evil angels +petrified midway on its career. White gulls sail past +below us every now and then, sometimes singly, sometimes +by twos and threes, and sometimes in a great flight. +The sharp perfume of the shrub-geraniums fills the air.</p> + +<p>I cannot write, in any sense of the word; but I am as +happy as can be, and wish to notify the fact, before it +passes. The sea is blue, grey, purple and green; very +subdued and peaceful; earlier in the day it was marbled +by small keen specks of sun and larger spaces of faint +irradiation; but the clouds have closed together now, +and these appearances are no more. Voices of children +and occasional crying of gulls; the mechanical noise of +a gardener somewhere behind us in the scented thicket; +and the faint report and rustle of the waves on the precipice +far below, only break in upon the quietness to render +it more complete and perfect.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>After spending a few days in one of the more retired hotels of +Monte Carlo, we went on to Mentone and settled at the Hotel +Mirabeau, long since, I believe, defunct, near the eastern extremity +of the town. The little American girl mentioned in the last paragraph +is the same we shall meet later under her full name of Marie +Johnstone.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Hotel Mirabeau, Menton</i>], <i>January 2nd, 1874</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Here</span> I am over in the east bay of Mentone, where +I am not altogether sorry to find myself. I move so little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page95"></a>95</span> +that I soon exhaust the immediate neighbourhood of my +dwelling places. Our reason for coming here was however +very simple. Hobson’s choice. Mentone during my +absence has filled marvellously.</p> + +<p>Continue to address P. R.<a name="FnAnchor_11" href="#Footnote_11"><span class="sp">11</span></a> Menton; and try to conceive +it as possible that I am not a drivelling idiot. When +I wish an address changed, it is quite on the cards that +I shall be able to find language explicit enough to express +the desire. My whole desire is to avoid complication of +addresses. It is quite fatal. If two P. R.’s have contradictory +orders they will continue to play battledoor +and shuttlecock with an unhappy epistle, which will never +get farther afield but perish there miserably.</p> + +<p>You act too much on the principle that whatever I +do is done unwisely; and that whatever I do not, has +been culpably forgotten. This is wounding to my nat’ral +vanity.</p> + +<p>I have not written for three days I think; but what +days! They were very cold; and I must say I was able +thoroughly to appreciate the blessings of Mentone. Old +Smoko this winter would evidently have been very summary +with me. I could not stand the cold at all. I +exhausted all my own and all Colvin’s clothing; I then +retired to the house, and then to bed; in a condition of +sorrow for myself unequalled. The sun is forth again +(laus Deo) and the wind is milder, and I am greatly re-established. +A certain asperity of temper still lingers, +however, which Colvin supports with much mildness.</p> + +<p>In this hotel, I have a room on the first floor! Luxury, +however, is not altogether regardless of expense. We only +pay 13 francs per day—3½ more than at the Pavillon on +the third floor.—And beggars must not be choosers. We +were very nearly houseless, the night we came. And it +is rarely that such winds of adversity blow men into +king’s Palaces.</p> + +<p>Looking over what has gone before, it seems to me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96"></a>96</span> +that it is not strictly polite. I beg to withdraw all that +is offensive.</p> + +<p>At <i>table d’hôte</i>, we have some people who amuse us +much; two Americans, who would try to pass for French +people, and their daughter, the most charming of little +girls. Both Colvin and I have planned an abduction +already. The whole hotel is devoted to her; and the +waiters continually do smuggle out comfits and fruit and +pudding to her.</p> + +<p>All well.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The M’Laren herein mentioned was of course the distinguished +Scotch politician and social reformer, Duncan M’Laren, for sixteen +years M.P. for Edinburgh.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>Sunday, January 4, 1874</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—We have here fallen on the very +pink of hotels. I do not say that it is more pleasantly +conducted than the Pavillon, for that were impossible; +but the rooms are so cheery and bright and new, and +then the food! I never, I think, so fully appreciated +the phrase “the fat of the land” as I have done since I +have been here installed. There was a dish of eggs at +<i>déjeûner</i> the other day, over the memory of which I lick +my lips in the silent watches.</p> + +<p>Now that the cold has gone again, I continue to keep +well in body, and already I begin to walk a little more. +My head is still a very feeble implement, and easily set +a-spinning; and I can do nothing in the way of work +beyond reading books that may, I hope, be of some use +to me afterwards.</p> + +<p>I was very glad to see that M’Laren was sat upon, +and principally for the reason why. Deploring as I do +much of the action of the Trades Unions, these conspiracy +clauses and the whole partiality of the Master and Servant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97"></a>97</span> +Act are a disgrace to our equal laws. Equal laws become +a byeword when what is legal for one class becomes a +criminal offence for another. It did my heart good to +hear that man tell M’Laren how, as he had talked much +of getting the franchise for working men, he must now +be content to see them use it now they had got it. This +is a smooth stone well planted in the foreheads of certain +dilettanti radicals, after M’Laren’s fashion, who are willing +to give the working men words and wind, and votes and +the like, and yet think to keep all the advantages, just +or unjust, of the wealthier classes without abatement. +I do hope wise men will not attempt to fight the working +men on the head of this notorious injustice. Any +such step will only precipitate the action of the newly +enfranchised classes, and irritate them into acting hastily; +when what we ought to desire should be that they should +act warily and little for many years to come, until education +and habit may make them the more fit.</p> + +<p>All this (intended for my father) is much after the +fashion of his own correspondence. I confess it has left +my own head exhausted; I hope it may not produce +the same effect on yours. But I want him to look really +into this question (both sides of it, and not the representations +of rabid middle-class newspapers, sworn to +support all the little tyrannies of wealth), and I know he +will be convinced that this is a case of unjust law; and +that, however desirable the end may seem to him, he will +not be Jesuit enough to think that any end will justify +an unjust law.</p> + +<p>Here ends the political sermon of your affectionate +(and somewhat dogmatical) son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the first week of January I went for some necessary work +to Paris, with the intention of returning towards the end of the +month. The following letter introduces the Russian sisters, Madame +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98"></a>98</span> +Zassetsky and Madame Garschine, whose society and that of their +children was to do so much to cheer Stevenson during his remaining +months on the Riviera. The French painter Robinet (sometimes in +his day known as <i>le Raphael des cailloux</i>, from the minuteness of +detail which he put into his Provençal coast landscapes) was a +chivalrous and affectionate soul, in whom R. L. S. delighted in +spite of his fervent clerical and royalist opinions.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>January 7, 1874</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I received yesterday two most +charming letters—the nicest I have had since I left—December +26th and January 1st: this morning I got +January 3rd.</p> + +<p>Into the bargain with Marie, the American girl, who +is grace itself, and comes leaping and dancing simply +like a wave—like nothing else, and who yesterday was +Queen out of the Epiphany cake and chose Robinet (the +French painter) as her <i>favori</i> with the most pretty confusion +possible—into the bargain with Marie, we have +two little Russian girls, with the youngest of whom, a +little polyglot button of a three-year old, I had the most +laughable little scene at lunch to-day. I was watching +her being fed with great amusement, her face being as +broad as it is long, and her mouth capable of unlimited +extension; when suddenly, her eye catching mine, the +fashion of her countenance was changed, and regarding +me with a really admirable appearance of offended dignity, +she said something in Italian which made everybody +laugh much. It was explained to me that she had said +I was very <i>polisson</i> to stare at her. After this she was +somewhat taken up with me, and after some examination +she announced emphatically to the whole table, in German, +that I was a <i>Mädchen</i>; which word she repeated with +shrill emphasis, as though fearing that her proposition +would be called in question—<i>Mädchen, Mädchen, Mädchen, +Mädchen</i>. This hasty conclusion as to my sex she was +led afterwards to revise, I am informed; but her new +opinion (which seems to have been something nearer the +truth) was announced in a third language quite unknown +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99"></a>99</span> +to me, and probably Russian. To complete the scroll of +her accomplishments, she was brought round the table +after the meal was over, and said good-bye to me in very +commendable English.</p> + +<p>The weather I shall say nothing about, as I am incapable +of explaining my sentiments upon that subject +before a lady. But my health is really greatly improved: +I begin to recognise myself occasionally now and again, +not without satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Please remember me very kindly to Professor Swan; I +wish I had a story to send him; but story, Lord bless you, +I have none to tell, sir, unless it is the foregoing adventure +with the little polyglot. The best of that depends on the +significance of <i>polisson</i>, which is beautifully out of place.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday, 10th January.</i>—The little Russian kid is +only two and a half: she speaks six languages. She +and her sister (æt. 8) and May Johnstone (æt. 8) are the +delight of my life. Last night I saw them all dancing—O +it was jolly; kids are what is the matter with me. +After the dancing, we all—that is the two Russian ladies, +Robinet the French painter, Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, +two governesses, and fitful kids joining us at intervals—played +a game of the stool of repentance in the Gallic +idiom.</p> + +<p>O—I have not told you that Colvin is gone; however, +he is coming back again; has left clothes in pawn to +me.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>Sunday, 11th January 1874</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">In</span> many ways this hotel is more amusing than the +Pavillon. There are the children, to begin with; and then +there are games every evening—the stool of repentance, +question and answer, etc.; and then we speak French, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100"></a>100</span> +although that is not exactly an advantage in so far as +personal brilliancy is concerned.</p> + +<p>I am in lovely health again to-day: I-walked as far +as the Pont St. Louis very nearly, besides walking and +knocking about among the olives in the afternoon. I do +not make much progress with my French; but I do make +a little, I think. I was pleased with my success this +evening, though I do not know if others shared the +satisfaction.</p> + +<p>The two Russian ladies are from Georgia all the way. +They do not at all answer to the description of Georgian +slaves however, being graceful and refined, and only good-looking +after you know them a bit.</p> + +<p>Please remember me very kindly to the Jenkins, and +thank them for having asked about me. Tell Mrs. J. that +I am engaged perfecting myself in the “Gallic idiom,” +in order to be a worthier Vatel for the future. Monsieur +Folleté, our host, is a Vatel by the way. He cooks himself, +and is not insensible to flattery on the score of his +table. I began, of course, to complain of the wine (part +of the routine of life at Mentone); I told him that where +one found a kitchen so exquisite, one astonished oneself +that the wine was not up to the same form. “Et voilà +précisément mon côté faible, monsieur,” he replied, with +an indescribable amplitude of gesture. “Que voulez-vous? +Moi, je suis cuisinier!” It was as though Shakespeare, +called to account for some such peccadillo as the +Bohemian seaport, should answer magnificently that he +was a poet. So Folleté lives in a golden zone of a certain +sort—a golden, or rather torrid zone, whence he issues +twice daily purple as to his face—and all these clouds +and vapours and ephemeral winds pass far below him and +disturb him not.</p> + +<p>He has another hobby however—his garden, round +which it is his highest pleasure to lead the unwilling guest. +Whenever he is not in the kitchen, he is hanging round +loose, seeking whom he may show his garden to. Much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101"></a>101</span> +of my time is passed in studiously avoiding him, and I +have brought the art to a very extreme pitch of perfection. +The fox, often hunted, becomes wary.—Ever your affectionate +son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>Tuesday, 13th January 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... I lost</span> a Philipine to little Mary Johnstone last +night; so to-day I sent her a rubbishing doll’s toilet, and +a little note with it, with some verses telling how happy +children made every one near them happy also, and +advising her to keep the lines, and some day, when she +was “grown a stately demoiselle,” it would make her +“glad to know she gave pleasure long ago,” all in a very +lame fashion, with just a note of prose at the end, telling +her to mind her doll and the dog, and not trouble her +little head just now to understand the bad verses; for +some time when she was ill, as I am now, they would be +plain to her and make her happy. She has just been +here to thank me, and has left me very happy. Children +are certainly too good to be true.</p> + +<p>Yesterday I walked too far, and spent all the afternoon +on the outside of my bed; went finally to rest at +nine, and slept nearly twelve hours on the stretch. Bennet +(the doctor), when told of it this morning, augured well +for my recovery; he said youth must be putting in strong; +of course I ought not to have slept at all. As it was, +I dreamed <i>horridly</i>; but not my usual dreams of social +miseries and misunderstandings and all sorts of crucifixions +of the spirit; but of good, cheery, physical things—of +long successions of vaulted, dimly lit cellars full of +black water, in which I went swimming among toads and +unutterable, cold, blind fishes. Now and then these cellars +opened up into sort of domed music-hall places, where +one could land for a little on the slope of the orchestra, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102"></a>102</span> +but a sort of horror prevented one from staying long, +and made one plunge back again into the dead waters. +Then my dream changed, and I was a sort of Siamese +pirate, on a very high deck with several others. The ship +was almost captured, and we were fighting desperately. +The hideous engines we used and the perfectly incredible +carnage that we effected by means of them kept me cheery, +as you may imagine; especially as I felt all the time my +sympathy with the boarders, and knew that I was only +a prisoner with these horrid Malays. Then I saw a signal +being given, and knew they were going to blow up the +ship. I leaped right off, and heard my captors splash +in the water after me as thick as pebbles when a bit of +river bank has given way beneath the foot. I never +heard the ship blow up; but I spent the rest of the night +swimming about some piles with the whole sea full of +Malays, searching for me with knives in their mouths. +They could swim any distance under water, and every +now and again, just as I was beginning to reckon myself +safe, a cold hand would be laid on my ankle—ugh!</p> + +<p>However, my long sleep, troubled as it was, put me +all right again, and I was able to work acceptably this +morning and be very jolly all day. This evening I have +had a great deal of talk with both the Russian ladies; +they talked very nicely, and are bright, likable women +both. They come from Georgia.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday, 10.30.</i>—We have all been to tea to-night +at the Russians’ villa. Tea was made out of a samovar, +which is something like a small steam engine, and whose +principal advantage is that it burns the fingers of all who +lay their profane touch upon it. After tea Madame Z. +played Russian airs, very plaintive and pretty; so the +evening was Muscovite from beginning to end. Madame +G.’s daughter danced a tarantella, which was very pretty.</p> + +<p>Whenever Nelitchka cries—and she never cries except +from pain—all that one has to do is to start “Malbrook +s’en va-t-en guerre.” She cannot resist the attraction; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103"></a>103</span> +she is drawn through her sobs into the air; and in a +moment there is Nellie singing, with the glad look that +comes into her face always when she sings, and all the +tears and pain forgotten.</p> + +<p>It is wonderful, before I shut this up, how that child +remains ever interesting to me. Nothing can stale her +infinite variety; and yet it is not very various. You see +her thinking what she is to do or to say next, with a funny +grave air of reserve, and then the face breaks up into a +smile, and it is probably “Berecchino!” said with that +sudden little jump of the voice that one knows in children, +as the escape of a jack-in-the-box, and, somehow, I am +quite happy after that!</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, January 1874</i>], <i>Wednesday</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—It is still so cold, I cannot tell +you how miserable the weather is. I have begun my +“Walt Whitman” again seriously. Many winds have +blown since I last laid it down, when sickness took me +in Edinburgh. It seems almost like an ill-considered jest +to take up these old sentences, written by so different a +person under circumstances so different, and try to string +them together and organise them into something anyway +whole and comely; it is like continuing another man’s +book. Almost every word is a little out of tune to me +now but I shall pull it through for all that and make +something that will interest you yet on this subject that +I had proposed to myself and partly planned already, +before I left for Cockfield last July.</p> + +<p>I am very anxious to hear how you are. My own +health is quite very good; I am a healthy octogenarian; +very old, I thank you and of course not so active as a +young man, but hale withal: a lusty December. This is +so; such is R. L. S.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page104"></a>104</span></p> + +<p>I am a little bothered about Bob, a little afraid that +he is living too poorly. The fellow he chums with spends +only two francs a day on food, with a little excess every +day or two to keep body and soul together, and though +Bob is not so austere I am afraid he draws it rather too +fine himself.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—We have all got our photographs; it is +pretty fair, they say, of me and as they are particular +in the matter of photographs, and besides partial judges +I suppose I may take that for proven. Of Nellie there +is one quite adorable. The weather is still cold. My +“Walt Whitman” at last looks really well: I think it +is going to get into shape in spite of the long gestation.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—Still cold and grey, and a high imperious +wind off the sea. I see nothing particularly <i>couleur de +rose</i> this morning: but I am trying to be faithful to my +creed and hope. O yes, one can do something to make +things happier and better; and to give a good example +before men and show them how goodness and fortitude +and faith remain undiminished after they have been +stripped bare of all that is formal and outside. We must +do that; you have done it already; and I shall follow +and shall make a worthy life, and you must live to +approve of me.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following are two different impressions of the Mediterranean, +dated on two different Mondays in January:—</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="sc">Yes</span>, I am much better; very much better I think I +may say. Although it is funny how I have ceased to be +able to write with the improvement of my health. Do +you notice how for some time back you have had no +descriptions of anything? The reason is that I can’t +describe anything. No words come to me when I see a +thing. I want awfully to tell you to-day about a little +“<i>piece</i>” of green sea, and gulls, and clouded sky with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105"></a>105</span> +the usual golden mountain-breaks to the southward. It +was wonderful, the sea near at hand was living emerald; +the white breasts and wings of the gulls as they circled +above—high above even—were dyed bright green by the +reflection. And if you could only have seen or if any +right word would only come to my pen to tell you how +wonderfully these illuminated birds floated hither and +thither under the grey purples of the sky!</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>To-day has been windy but not cold. The sea was +troubled and had a fine fresh saline smell like our own +seas, and the sight of the breaking waves, and above all +the spray that drove now and again in my face, carried +me back to storms that I have enjoyed, O how much! in +other places. Still (as Madame Zassetsky justly remarked) +there is something irritating in a stormy sea whose waves +come always to the same spot and never farther: it looks +like playing at passion: it reminds one of the loathsome +sham waves in a stage ocean.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, January 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I write to let you know that my +cousin may possibly come to Paris before you leave; he +will likely look you up to hear about me, etc. I want to +tell you about him before you see him, as I am tired of +people misjudging him. You know <i>me</i> now. Well, Bob +is just such another mutton, only somewhat farther +wandered. He has all the same elements of character +that I have: no two people were ever more alike, only +that the world has gone more unfortunately for him +although more evenly. Besides which, he is really a +gentleman, and an admirable true friend, which is not +a common article. I write this as a letter of introduction +in case he should catch you ere you leave.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page106"></a>106</span></p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—No letters to-day. <i>Sacré chien, Dieu de +Dieu</i>—and I have written with exemplary industry. But +I am hoping that no news is good news and shall continue +so to hope until all is blue.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>It had been a very cold Christmas at Monaco and Monte Carlo, +and Stevenson had no adequate overcoat, so it was agreed that +when I went to Paris I should try and find him a warm cloak or +wrap. I amused myself looking for one suited to his taste for the +picturesque and piratical in apparel, and found one in the style +of 1830-40, dark blue and flowing, and fastening with a snake +buckle.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, January 1874</i>], <i>Friday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thank you very much for your +note. This morning I am stupid again; can do nothing +at all; am no good “comme plumitif.” I think it must +be the cold outside. At least that would explain my +addled head and intense laziness.</p> + +<p>O why did you tell me about that cloak? Why didn’t +you buy it? Isn’t it in <i>Julius Cæsar</i> that Pompey blames—no +not Pompey but a friend of Pompey’s—well, Pompey’s +friend, I mean the friend of Pompey—blames somebody +else who was his friend—that is who was the friend of +Pompey’s friend—because he (the friend of Pompey’s +friend) had not done something right off, but had come +and asked him (Pompey’s friend) whether he (the friend +of Pompey’s friend) ought to do it or no? There I fold +my hands with some complacency: that’s a piece of very +good narration. I am getting into good form. These +classical instances are always distracting. I was talking +of the cloak. It’s awfully dear. Are there no cheap and +nasty imitations? Think of that—if, however, it were +the opinion (ahem) of competent persons that the great +cost of the mantle in question was no more than proportionate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107"></a>107</span> +to its durability; if it were to be a joy for +ever; if it would cover my declining years and survive +me in anything like integrity for the comfort of my +executors; if—I have the word—if the price indicates +(as it seems) the quality of <i>perdurability</i> in the fabric; if, +in fact, it would not be extravagant, but only the leariest +economy to lay out £5 .. 15 .. in a single mantle without +seam and without price, and if—and if—it really fastens +with an agrafe—I would <span class="sc">Buy</span> it. But not unless. If +not a cheap imitation would be the move.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following is in answer to a set of numbered questions, of +which the first three are of no general interest.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>Monday, January 19th, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Answers</span> to a series of questions.</p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 3em;">........</p> + +<p>4. Nelitchka, or Nelitska, as you know already by this +time, is my adorable kid’s name. Her laugh does more +good to one’s health than a month at the seaside: as +she said to-day herself, when asked whether she was a +boy or a girl, after having denied both with gravity, she +is an angel.</p> + +<p>5. O no, her brain is not in a chaos; it is only the +brains of those who hear her. It is all plain sailing for +her. She wishes to refuse or deny anything, and there is +the English “No fank you” ready to her hand; she +wishes to admire anything, and there is the German +“schön“; she wishes to sew (which she does with admirable +seriousness and clumsiness), and there is the French +“coudre“; she wishes to say she is ill, and there is the +Russian “bulla“; she wishes to be down on any one, +and there is the Italian “Berecchino“; she wishes to play +at a railway train, and there is her own original word +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108"></a>108</span> +“Collie” (say the o with a sort of Gaelic twirl). And all +these words are equally good.</p> + +<p>7. I am called M. Stevenson by everybody except +Nelitchka, who calls me M. Berecchino.</p> + +<p>8. The weather to-day is no end: as bright and as +warm as ever. I have been out on the beach all afternoon +with the Russians. Madame Garschine has been +reading Russian to me; and I cannot tell prose from +verse in that delectable tongue, which is a pity. Johnson +came out to tell us that Corsica was visible, and there it +was over a white, sweltering sea, just a little darker than +the pallid blue of the sky, and when one looked at it +closely, breaking up into sun-brightened peaks.</p> + +<p>I may mention that Robinet has never heard an +Englishman with so little accent as I have—ahem—ahem—eh?—What +do you say to that? I don’t suppose I +have said five sentences in English to-day; all French; +all bad French, alas!</p> + +<p>I am thought to be looking better. Madame Zassetsky +said I was all green when I came here first, but +that I am all right in colour now, and she thinks fatter. +I am very partial to the Russians; I believe they are +rather partial to me. I am supposed to be an <i>esprit +observateur! À mon age, c’est étonnant comme je suis +observateur!</i></p> + +<p>The second volume of <i>Clément Marot</i> has come. Where +and O where is the first?—Ever your affectionate</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p><i>The Bottle</i> here mentioned is a story that had been some time +in hand called <i>The Curate of Anstruther’s Bottle</i>; afterwards abandoned +like so many early attempts of the same kind.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, January 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR S. C.</span>,—I suppose this will be my last note +then. I think you will find everything very jolly here, I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109"></a>109</span> +am very jolly myself. I worked six hours to-day. I +am occupied in transcribing <i>The Bottle</i>, which is pleasant +work to me; I find much in it that I still think excellent +and much that I am doubtful about; my convention +is so terribly difficult that I have to put out much that +pleases me, and much that I still preserve I only preserve +with misgiving. I wonder if my convention is not +a little too hard and too much in the style of those +decadent curiosities, poems without the letter E, poems +going with the alphabet and the like. And yet the idea, +if rightly understood and treated as a convention always +and not as an abstract principle, should not so much +hamper one as it seems to do. The idea is not, of course, +to put in nothing but what would naturally have been +noted and remembered and handed down, but not to +put in anything that would make a person stop and say—how +could this be known? Without doubt it has the +advantage of making one rely on the essential interest +of a situation and not cocker up and validify feeble +intrigue with incidental fine writing and scenery, and +pyrotechnic exhibitions of inappropriate cleverness and +sensibility. I remember Bob once saying to me that +the quadrangle of Edinburgh University was a good +thing and our having a talk as to how it could be employed +in different arts. I then stated that the different doors +and staircases ought to be brought before a reader of a +story not by mere recapitulation but by the use of them, +by the descent of different people one after another by +each of them. And that the grand feature of shadow +and the light of the one lamp in the corner should also +be introduced only as they enabled people in the story +to see one another or prevented them. And finally that +whatever could not thus be worked into the evolution of +the action had no right to be commemorated at all. After +all, it is a story you are telling; not a place you are to +describe; and everything that does not attach itself to +the story is out of place.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page110"></a>110</span></p> + +<p>This is a lecture not a letter, and it seems rather like +sending coals to Newcastle to write a lecture to a subsidised +professor. I hope you have seen Bob by this +time. I know he is anxious to meet you and I am in +great anxiety to know what you think of his prospects—frankly, +of course: as for his person, I don’t care a damn +what you think of it: I am case-hardened in that matter.</p> + +<p>I wrote a French note to Madame Zassetsky the other +day, and there were no errors in it. The complete Gaul, +as you may see.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, January, 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Last</span> night I had a quarrel with the American +on politics. It is odd how it irritates you to hear certain +political statements made. He was excited, and he +began suddenly to abuse our conduct to America. I, of +course, admitted right and left that we had behaved disgracefully +(as we had); until somehow I got tired of +turning alternate cheeks and getting duly buffeted; and +when he said that the Alabama money had not wiped +out the injury, I suggested, in language (I remember) of +admirable directness and force, that it was a pity they +had taken the money in that case. He lost his temper +at once, and cried out that his dearest wish was a war +with England; whereupon I also lost my temper, and, +thundering at the pitch of my voice, I left him and went +away by myself to another part of the garden. A very +tender reconciliation took place, and I think there will +come no more harm out of it. We are both of us nervous +people, and he had had a very long walk and a good deal +of beer at dinner: that explains the scene a little. But +I regret having employed so much of the voice with +which I have been endowed, as I fear every person in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111"></a>111</span> +the hotel was taken into confidence as to my sentiments, +just at the very juncture when neither the sentiments nor +(perhaps) the language had been sufficiently considered.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—You have not yet heard of my book?—<i>Four +Great Scotsmen</i>—John Knox, David Hume, Robert Burns, +Walter Scott. These, their lives, their work, the social +media in which they lived and worked, with, if I can so +make it, the strong current of the race making itself felt +underneath and throughout—this is my idea. You must +tell me what you think of it. The Knox will really be +new matter, as his life hitherto has been disgracefully +written, and the events are romantic and rapid; the +character very strong, salient, and worthy; much interest +as to the future of Scotland, and as to that part of him +which was truly modern under his Hebrew disguise. +Hume, of course, the urbane, cheerful, gentlemanly, letter-writing +eighteenth century, full of attraction, and much +that I don’t yet know as to his work. Burns, the sentimental +side that there is in most Scotsmen, his poor +troubled existence, how far his poems were his personally, +and how far national, the question of the framework of +society in Scotland, and its fatal effect upon the finest +natures. Scott again, the ever delightful man, sane, +courageous, admirable; the birth of Romance, in a dawn +that was a sunset; snobbery, conservatism, the wrong +thread in History, and notably in that of his own land. +<i>Voilà, madame, le menu. Comment le trouvez-vous? Il +y a de la bonne viande, si on parvient à la cuire convenablement.</i></p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>Monday, January 26th, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Heh! Heh! business letter finished. +Receipt acknowledged without much ado, and I think +with a certain commercial decision and brevity. The +signature is good but not original.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page112"></a>112</span></p> + +<p>I should rather think I <i>had</i> lost my heart to the wee +princess. Her mother demanded the other day “<i>À quand +les noces?</i>” which Mrs. Stevenson will translate for you +in case you don’t see it yourself.</p> + +<p>I had a political quarrel last night with the American; +it was a real quarrel for about two minutes; we relieved +our feelings and separated; but a mutual feeling of shame +led us to a most moving reconciliation, in which the +American vowed he would shed his best blood for +England. In looking back upon the interview, I feel +that I have learned something; I scarcely appreciated +how badly England had behaved, and how well she +deserves the hatred the Americans bear her. It would +have made you laugh if you could have been present and +seen your unpatriotic son thundering anathemas in the +moonlight against all those that were not the friend of +England. Johnson being nearly as nervous as I, we were +both very ill after it, which added a further pathos to +the reconciliation.</p> + +<p>There is no good in sending this off to-day, as I have +sent another letter this morning already.</p> + +<p>O, a remark of the Princess’s amused me the other +day. Somebody wanted to give Nelitchka garlic as a +medicine. “<i>Quoi? Une petite amour comme ça, qu’on +ne pourrait pas baiser? Il n’y a pas de sens en cela!</i>“</p> + +<p>I am reading a lot of French histories just now, and +the spelling keeps one in a good humour all day long—I +mean the spelling of English names.—Your affectionate +son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, January 29, 1874</i>], <i>Thursday.</i></p> + +<p><i>Marot</i> vol. 1 arrived. The post has been at its old +games. A letter of the 31st and one of the 2nd arrive +at the same moment.</p> + +<p>I have had a great pleasure. Mrs. Andrews had a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113"></a>113</span> +book of Scotch airs, which I brought over here, and set +Madame Z. to work upon. They are so like Russian airs +that they cannot contain their astonishment. I was +quite out of my mind with delight. “The Flowers of +the Forest“—“Auld Lang Syne“—“Scots wha hae“—“Wandering +Willie“—“Jock o’ Hazeldean“—“My Boy +Tammie,” which my father whistles so often—I had no +conception how much I loved them. The air which +pleased Madame Zassetsky the most was “Hey, Johnnie +Cope, are ye waukin yet?” It is certainly no end. And +I was so proud that they were appreciated. No triumph +of my own, I am sure, could ever give me such vain-glorious +satisfaction. You remember, perhaps, how conceited +I was to find “Auld Lang Syne” popular in its +German dress; but even that was nothing to the pleasure +I had yesterday at the success of our dear airs.</p> + +<p>The edition is called <i>The Songs of Scotland without +Words for the Pianoforte</i>, edited by J. T. Surenne, published +by Wood in George Street. As these people have +been so kind to me, I wish you would get a copy of this +and send it out. If that should be too dear, or anything, +Mr. Mowbray would be able to tell you what is the best +substitute, would he not? <i>This</i> I really would like you +to do, as Madame proposes to hire a copyist to copy +those she likes, and so it is evident she wants them.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>With reference to the political allusions in the following it will be +remembered that this was the date of Mr. Gladstone’s dissolution, +followed by his defeat at the polls notwithstanding his declared +intention of abolishing the income-tax.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>February 1st, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I am</span> so sorry to hear of poor Mr. M.’s death. He was +really so amiable and kind that no one could help liking +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114"></a>114</span> +him, and carrying away a pleasant recollection of his +simple, happy ways. I hope you will communicate to all +the family how much I feel with them.</p> + +<p>Madame Zassetsky is Nelitchka’s mamma. They have +both husbands, and they are in Russia, and the ladies are +both here for their health. They make it very pleasant +for me here. To-day we all went a drive to the Cap +Martin, and the Cap was adorable in the splendid sunshine.</p> + +<p>I read J. H. A. Macdonald’s speech with interest; his +sentiments are quite good, I think. I would support him +against M’Laren at once. What has disgusted me most +as yet about this election is the detestable proposal to do +away with the income tax. Is there no shame about the +easy classes? Will those who have nine hundred and +ninety-nine thousandths of the advantage of our society, +never consent to pay a single tax unless it is to be paid +also by those who have to bear the burthen and heat of +the day, with almost none of the reward? And the +selfishness here is detestable, because it is so deliberate. +A man may not feel poverty very keenly and may live +a quiet self-pleasing life in pure thoughtlessness; but it +is quite another matter when he knows thoroughly what +the issues are, and yet wails pitiably because he is asked +to pay a little more, even if it does fall hardly sometimes, +than those who get almost none of the benefit. It is like +the healthy child crying because they do not give him +a goody, as they have given to his sick brother to take +away the taste of the dose. I have not expressed myself +clearly; but for all that, you ought to understand, I +think.</p> + +<p><i>Friday, February 6th.</i>—The wine has arrived, and a +dozen of it has been transferred to me; it is much better +than Folleté’s stuff. We had a masquerade last night at +the Villa Marina; Nellie in a little red satin cap, in a red +satin suit of boy’s clothes, with a funny little black tail +that stuck out behind her, and wagged as she danced +about the room, and gave her a look of Puss in Boots; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115"></a>115</span> +Pella as a contadina; Monsieur Robinet as an old woman, +and Mademoiselle as an old lady with blue spectacles.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we had a visit from one of whom I had +often heard from Mrs. Sellar—Andrew Lang. He is good-looking, +delicate, Oxfordish, etc.</p> + +<p>My cloak is the most admirable of all garments. For +warmth, unequalled; for a sort of pensive, Roman stateliness, +sometimes warming into Romantic guitarism, it is +simply without concurrent; it starts alone. If you could +see me in my cloak, it would impress you. I am hugely +better, I think: I stood the cold these last few days without +trouble, instead of taking to bed, as I did at Monte +Carlo. I hope you are going to send the Scotch music.</p> + +<p>I am stupid at letter-writing again; I don’t know +why. I hope it may not be permanent; in the meantime, +you must take what you can get and be hopeful. +The Russian ladies are as kind and nice as ever.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, February 6, 1874</i>], <i>Friday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Last</span> night we had a masquerade at the Villa Marina. +Pella was dressed as a contadina and looked beautiful; +and little Nellie, in red satin cap and wonderful red satin +jacket and little breeches as of a nondescript impossible +boy; to which Madame Garschine had slily added a +little black tail that wagged comically behind her as she +danced about the room, and got deliriously tilted up over +the middle bar of the back of her chair as she sat at tea, +with an irresistible suggestion of Puss in Boots—well, +Nellie thus masqueraded (to get back to my sentence +again) was all that I could have imagined. She held +herself so straight and stalwart, and had such an infinitesimal +dignity of carriage; and then her big baby face, +already quite definitely marked with her sex, came in so +funnily atop that she got clear away from all my power +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116"></a>116</span> +of similes and resembled nothing in the world but Nellie +in masquerade. Then there was Robinet in a white night +gown, old woman’s cap (<i>mutch</i>, in my vernacular), snuff-box +and crutch doubled up and yet leaping and gyrating +about the floor with incredible agility; and lastly, Mademoiselle +in a sort of elderly walking-dress and with blue +spectacles. And all this incongruous impossible world +went tumbling and dancing and going hand in hand, in +flying circles to the music; until it was enough to make +one forget one was in this wicked world, with Conservative +majorities and Presidents MacMahon and all other +abominations about one.</p> + +<p>Also last night will be memorable to me for another +reason, Madame Zassetsky having given me a light as +to my own intellect. They were talking about things in +history remaining in their minds because they had assisted +them to generalisations. And I began to explain how +things remained in my mind yet more vividly for no +reason at all. She got interested, and made me give her +several examples; then she said, with her little falsetto +of discovery, “Mais c’est que vous êtes tout simplement +enfant!” This <i>mot</i> I have reflected on at leisure and +there is some truth in it. Long may I be so. Yesterday +too I finished <i>Ordered South</i> and at last had some pleasure +and contentment with it. S. C. has sent it off to Macmillan’s +this morning and I hope it may be accepted; I +don’t care whether it is or no except for the all-important +lucre; the end of it is good, whether the able editor sees +it or no.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>February 22nd, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I am glad to hear you are better +again: nobody can expect to be <i>quite</i> well in February, +that is the only consolation I can offer you.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page117"></a>117</span></p> + +<p>Madame Garschine is ill, I am sorry to say, and was +confined to bed all yesterday, which made a great difference +to our little society. À propos of which, what keeps +me here is just precisely the said society. These people +are so nice and kind and intelligent, and then as I shall +never see them any more I have a disagreeable feeling +about making the move. With ordinary people in +England, you have more or less chance of re-encountering +one another; at least you may see their death in the +papers; but with these people, they die for me and I die +for them when we separate.</p> + +<p>Andrew Lang, O you of little comprehension, called +on Colvin.</p> + +<p>You had not told me before about the fatuous person +who thought <i>Roads</i> like Ruskin—surely the vaguest of +contemporaneous humanity. Again my letter writing is +of an enfeebled sort.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>March 1st, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—The weather is again beautiful, +soft, warm, cloudy and soft again, in provincial sense. +Very interesting, I find Robertson; and Dugald Stewart’s +life of him a source of unquenchable laughter. Dugald +Stewart is not much better than M<span class="sp">c</span>Crie,<a name="FnAnchor_12" href="#Footnote_12"><span class="sp">12</span></a> and puts me +much in mind of him. By the way, I want my father to +find out whether any more of Knox’s Works was ever +issued than the five volumes, as I have them. There are +some letters that I am very anxious to see, not printed +in any of the five, and perhaps still in MS.</p> + +<p>I suppose you are now home again in Auld Reekie: +that abode of bliss does not much attract me yet a bit.</p> + +<p>Colvin leaves at the end of this week, I fancy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page118"></a>118</span></p> + +<p>How badly yours sincerely writes. O! Madame +Zassetsky has a theory that “Dumbarton Drums” is an +epitome of my character and talents. She plays it, and +goes into ecstasies over it, taking everybody to witness +that each note, as she plays it, is the moral of Berecchino. +Berecchino is my stereotype name in the world now. I +am announced as M. Berecchino; a German hand-maiden +came to the hotel, the other night, asking for M. +Berecchino; said hand-maiden supposing in good faith +that sich was my name.</p> + +<p>Your letter come. O, I am all right now about the +parting, because it will not be death, as we are to write. +Of course the correspondence will drop off: but that’s no +odds, it breaks the back of the trouble.—Ever your +affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>Monday, March 9th, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">We</span> have all been getting photographed, and the proofs +are to be seen to-day. How they will look I know not. +Madame Zassetsky arranged me for mine, and then said +to the photographer: “<i>C’est mon fils. Il vient d’avoir +dix-neuf ans. Il est tout fier de sa jeune moustache. Tâchez de +la faire paraître</i>,” and then bolted leaving me solemnly +alone with the artist. The artist was quite serious, and +explained that he would try to “<i>faire ressortir ce que +veut Madame la Princesse</i>” to the best of his ability; +he bowed very much to me, after this, in quality of +Prince you see. I bowed in return and handled the +flap of my cloak after the most princely fashion I could +command.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>March 20, 1874.</i></p> + +<p>I. <i>My Cloak.</i>—An exception occurs to me to the +frugality described a letter (or may be two) ago; my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page119"></a>119</span> +cloak: it would certainly have been possible to have got +something less expensive; still it is a fine thought for +absent parents that their son possesses simply <span class="sc">the greatest</span> +vestment in Mentone. It is great in size, and unspeakably +great in design; <i>qua</i> raiment, it has not its +equal.</p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 3em;">........</p> + +<p>III. <i>About Spain.</i>—Well, I don’t know about <i>me</i> and +Spain. I am certainly in no humour and in no state of +health for voyages and travels. Towards the end of May +(see end), up to which time I seem to see my plans, I +might be up to it, or I might not; I think <i>not</i> myself. I +have given up all idea of going on to Italy, though it +seems a pity when one is so near; and Spain seems to +me in the same category. But for all that, it need not +interfere with your voyage thither: I would not lose the +chance, if I wanted.</p> + +<p>IV. <i>Money.</i>—I am much obliged. That makes £180 +now. This money irks me, one feels it more than when +living at home. However, if I have health, I am in a fair +way to make a bit of a livelihood for myself. Now please +don’t take this up wrong; don’t suppose I am thinking of +the transaction between you and me; I think of the +transaction between me and mankind. I think of all this +money wasted in keeping up a structure that may never +be worth it—all this good money sent after bad. I shall +be seriously angry if you take me up wrong.</p> + +<p>V. <i>Roads.</i>—The familiar false concord is not certainly +a form of colloquialism that I should feel inclined to +encourage. It is very odd; I wrote it very carefully, +and you seem to have read it very carefully, and yet +none of us found it out. The Deuce is in it.</p> + +<p>VI. <i>Russian Prince.</i>—A cousin of these ladies is come +to stay with them—Prince Léon Galitzin. He is the +image of—whom?—guess now—do you give it up?—Hillhouse.</p> + +<p>VII. <i>Miscellaneous.</i>—I send you a pikler of me in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120"></a>120</span> +cloak. I think it is like a hunchback. The moustache is +clearly visible to the naked eye—O diable! what do I +hear in my lug? A mosquito—the first of the season. +Bad luck to him!</p> + +<p>Good nicht and joy be wi’ you a’. I am going to bed.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>Note to III.</i>—I had counted on being back at Embro’ +by the last week or so of May.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This describes another member of the Russian party, recently +arrived at Mentone, who did his best, very nearly with success, +to persuade Stevenson to join him in the study of law for some +terms under the celebrated Professor Jhering at Göttingen.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton</i>], <i>March 28, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Beautiful weather, perfect weather; +sun, pleasant cooling winds; health very good; only +incapacity to write.</p> + +<p>The only new cloud on my horizon (I mean this in no +menacing sense) is the Prince, I have philosophical and +artistic discussions with the Prince. He is capable of +talking for two hours upon end, developing his theory of +everything under Heaven from his first position, which +is that there is no straight line. Doesn’t that sound like +a game of my father’s—I beg your pardon, you haven’t +read it—I don’t mean <i>my</i> father, I mean Tristram +Shandy’s. He is very clever, and it is an immense joke +to hear him unrolling all the problems of life—philosophy, +science, what you will—in this charmingly cut-and-dry, +here-we-are-again kind of manner. He is better to listen +to than to argue withal. When you differ from him, he +lifts up his voice and thunders; and you know that the +thunder of an excited foreigner often miscarries. One +stands aghast, marvelling how such a colossus of a man, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121"></a>121</span> +in such a great commotion of spirit, can open his mouth +so much and emit such a still small voice at the hinder +end of it all. All this while he walks about the room, +smokes cigarettes, occupies divers chairs for divers brief +spaces, and casts his huge arms to the four winds like the +sails of a mill. He is a most sportive Prince.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Menton, April 1874</i>], <i>Monday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">My</span> last night at Mentone. I cannot tell how strange +and sad I feel. I leave behind me a dear friend whom +I have but little hope of seeing again between the +eyes.</p> + +<p>To-day, I hadn’t arranged all my plans till five o’clock: +I hired a poor old cabman, whose uncomfortable vehicle +and sorry horse make everyone despise him, and set off +to get money and say farewells. It was a dark misty +evening; the mist was down over all the hills; the peach-trees +in beautiful pink bloom. Arranged my plans; that +merits a word by the way if I can be bothered. I have +half arranged to go to Göttingen in summer to a course of +lectures. Galitzin is responsible for this. He tells me +the professor is to law what Darwin has been to Natural +History, and I should like to understand Roman Law +and a knowledge of law is so necessary for all I hope +to do.</p> + +<p>My poor old cabman; his one horse made me three-quarters +of an hour too late for dinner, but I had not the +heart to discharge him and take another. Poor soul, he +was so pleased with his pourboire, I have made Madame +Zassetsky promise to employ him often; so he will be +something the better for me, little as he will know it.</p> + +<p>I have read <i>Ordered South</i>; it is pretty decent I think, +but poor, stiff, limping stuff at best—not half so well +straightened up as <i>Roads</i>. However the stuff is good.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page122"></a>122</span></p> + +<p>God help us all, this is a rough world: address Hotel +St. Romain, rue St. Roch, Paris. I draw the line: a +chapter finished.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p>The line.</p> + +<hr style="width: 90%; background-color: black; height: 1px;" /> + +<p>That bit of childishness has made me laugh, do you +blame me?</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_7" href="#FnAnchor_7"><span class="fn">7</span></a> See Scott himself, in the preface to the Author’s edition.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_8" href="#FnAnchor_8"><span class="fn">8</span></a> <i>i.e.</i> on his book, <i>The Reign of Law</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_9" href="#FnAnchor_9"><span class="fn">9</span></a> Compare the paragraph in <i>Ordered South</i> describing the state +of mind of the invalid doubtful of recovery, and ending: “He will +pray for Medea; when she comes, let her either rejuvenate or slay.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_10" href="#FnAnchor_10"><span class="fn">10</span></a> Alluding to Heine’s <i>Ritter von dem heiligen Geist</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_11" href="#FnAnchor_11"><span class="fn">11</span></a> <i>Poste Restante</i></p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_12" href="#FnAnchor_12"><span class="fn">12</span></a> Thomas M<span class="sp">c</span>Crie, D.D., author of the <i>Life of John Knox</i>, <i>Life of +Andrew Melville</i>, etc.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page123"></a>123</span></p> +<h3>III</h3> + +<h3>STUDENT DAYS—<i>Concluded</i></h3> + +<h5>HOME AGAIN—LITERATURE AND LAW</h5> + +<h6><span class="sc">May 1874—June 1875</span></h6> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Returning</span> to Edinburgh by way of Paris in May 1874, +Stevenson went to live with his parents at Swanston and +Edinburgh and resumed his reading for the Bar. Illness +and absence had done their work, and the old harmony +of the home was henceforth quite re-established. In his +spare time during the next year he worked hard at his +chosen art, trying his hand at essays, short stories, +criticisms, and prose poems. In all this experimental +writing he had neither the aims nor the facility of the +journalist, but strove always after the higher qualities +of literature, and was never satisfied with what he had +done. To find for all he had to say words of vital aptness +and animation—to communicate as much as possible of +what he has somewhere called “the incommunicable thrill +of things“—was from the first his endeavour in literature, +nay more, it was the main passion of his life: and the +instrument that should serve his purpose could not be +forged in haste. Neither was it easy for this past master +of the random, the unexpected, the brilliantly back-foremost +and topsy-turvy in talk, to learn in writing the +habit of orderly arrangement and organic sequence which +even the lightest forms of literature cannot lack.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page124"></a>124</span></p> + +<p>In the course of this summer Stevenson’s excursions +included a week or two spent with me at Hampstead, +during which he joined the Savile Club and made some +acquaintance with London literary society; a yachting +trip with his friend Sir Walter Simpson in the western +islands of Scotland; a journey to Barmouth and Llandudno +with his parents; and in the late autumn a walking +tour in Buckinghamshire. The Scottish winter (1874-75) +tried him severely, as Scottish winters always did, but +was enlivened by a new and what was destined to be a +very fruitful and intimate friendship, the origin of which +was described in the following letters, namely that of +Mr. W. E. Henley. In April 1875 he made his first visit, +in the company of his cousin R. A. M. Stevenson to the +artist haunts of the forest of Fontainebleau, whence he +returned to finish his reading for the Scottish Bar and +face the examination which was before him in July. During +all this year, as will be seen, his chief, almost his +exclusive, correspondents and confidants continued to be +the same as in the preceding winter.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Written in Paris on his way home to Edinburgh. Some of our +talk at Mentone had run on the scheme of a spectacle play on +the story of the burning of the temple of Diana at Ephesus by +Herostratus, the type of insane vanity <i>in excelsis</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Hôtel St. Romain, Paris, end of April 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am a great deal better, but still +have to take care. I have got quite a lot of Victor Hugo +done; and not I think so badly: pitching into this work +has straightened me up a good deal. It is the devil’s +own weather but that is a trifle. I must know when +Cornhill must see it. I can send some of it in a week +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125"></a>125</span> +easily, but I still have to read <i>The Laughing Man</i>,<a name="FnAnchor_13" href="#Footnote_13"><span class="sp">13</span></a> and +I mean to wait until I get to London and have the loan +of that from you. If I buy anything more this production +will not pay itself. The first part is not too well +written, though it has good stuff in it.</p> + +<p>My people have made no objection to my going to +Göttingen; but my body has made I think very strong +objections. And you know if it is cold here, it must be +colder there. It is a sore pity; that was a great chance +for me and it is gone. I know very well that between +Galitzin and this swell professor I should have become +a good specialist in law and how that would have changed +and bettered all my work it is easy to see; however I +must just be content to live as I have begun, an ignorant, +<i>chic-y</i> penny-a-liner. May the Lord have mercy on my +soul!</p> + +<p>Going home not very well is an astonishing good hold +for me. I shall simply be a prince.</p> + +<p>Have you had any thought about Diana of the +Ephesians? I will straighten up a play for you, but it +may take years. A play is a thing just like a story, it +begins to disengage itself and then unrolls gradually in +block. It will disengage itself some day for me and then +I will send you the nugget and you will see if you can +make anything out of it.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This and the following letters were written after Stevenson’s +return to Scotland. The essay <i>Ordered South</i> appeared in Macmillan’s +Magazine at this date; that on Victor Hugo’s romances +in the Cornhill a little later.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston</i>], <i>May 1874, Monday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">We</span> are now at Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. +The garden is but little clothed yet, for, you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126"></a>126</span> +know, here we are six hundred feet above the sea. It is +very cold, and has sleeted this morning. Everything +wintry. I am very jolly, however, having finished Victor +Hugo, and just looking round to see what I should next +take up. I have been reading Roman Law and Calvin +this morning.</p> + +<p><i>Evening.</i>—I went up the hill a little this afternoon. +The air was invigorating, but it was so cold that my scalp +was sore. With this high wintry wind, and the grey sky, +and faint northern daylight, it was quite wonderful to +hear such a clamour of blackbirds coming up to me out +of the woods, and the bleating of sheep being shorn in a +field near the garden, and to see golden patches of blossom +already on the furze, and delicate green shoots upright +and beginning to frond out, among last year’s russet +bracken. Flights of crows were passing continually between +the wintry leaden sky and the wintry cold-looking hills. +It was the oddest conflict of seasons. A wee rabbit—this +year’s making, beyond question—ran out from under my +feet, and was in a pretty perturbation, until he hit upon +a lucky juniper and blotted himself there promptly. Evidently +this gentleman had not had much experience of life.</p> + +<p>I have made an arrangement with my people: I am to +have £84 a year—I only asked for £80 on mature reflection—and +as I should soon make a good bit by my pen, I shall +be very comfortable. We are all as jolly as can be together, +so that is a great thing gained.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Yesterday I received a letter that gave +me much pleasure from a poor fellow-student of mine, +who has been all winter very ill, and seems to be but +little better even now. He seems very much pleased with +<i>Ordered South</i>. “A month ago,” he says, “I could +scarcely have ventured to read it; to-day I felt on reading +it as I did on the first day that I was able to sun myself +a little in the open air.” And much more to the like +effect. It is very gratifying.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page127"></a>127</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Mr. John Morley had asked for a notice by R. L. S. for the +Fortnightly Review, which he was then editing, of Lord Lytton’s +newly published volume, <i>Fables in Song.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston, Lothianburn, Edinburgh</i> [<i>May 1874</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="sc">All</span> right. I’ll see what I can do. Before I could +answer I had to see the book; and my good father, after +trying at all our libraries, bought it for me. I like the +book; that is some of it and I’ll try to lick up four or +five pages for the Fortnightly.</p> + +<p>It is still as cold as cold, hereaway. And the Spring +hammering away at the New Year in despite. Poor +Spring, scattering flowers with red hands and preparing +for Summer’s triumphs all in a shudder herself. Health +still good, and the humour for work enduring.</p> + +<p>Jenkin wrote to say he would second me in such a +kind little notelet. I shall go in for it (the Savile I mean) +whether <i>Victor Hugo</i> is accepted or not, being now a man +of means. Have I told you by the way that I have now +an income of £84, or as I prefer to put it for dignity’s +sake, two thousand one hundred francs, a year.</p> + +<p>In lively hope of better weather and your arrival +hereafter.—I remain, yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston, Wednesday, May 1874.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Struggling</span> away at <i>Fables in Song</i>. I am much +afraid I am going to make a real failure; the time is so +short, and I am so out of the humour. Otherwise very +calm and jolly: cold still <i>impossible</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—I feel happier about the <i>Fables</i>, and it is +warmer a bit; but my body is most decrepit, and I can +just manage to be cheery and tread down hypochondria +under foot by work. I lead such a funny life, utterly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128"></a>128</span> +without interest or pleasure outside of my work: nothing, +indeed, but work all day long, except a short walk alone +on the cold hills, and meals, and a couple of pipes with +my father in the evening. It is surprising how it suits +me, and how happy I keep.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—“My dear Stevenson how do you do? do +you annoying yourself or no? when we go to the Olivses +it allways rememberse us you. Nelly and my aunt went +away. And when the organ come and play the Soldaten +it mak us think of Nelly. It is so sad I allmoste went +away. I make my baths; and then we go to Franzensbad; +will you come to see us?”</p> + +<p>There is Pella’s letter facsimile, punctuation, spelling +and all. Mme. Garschine’s was rather sad and gave me +the blues a bit; I think it very likely I may run over to +Franzensbad for a week or so this autumn, if I am wanted +that is to say: I shall be able to afford it easily.</p> + +<p>I have got on rather better with the <i>Fables</i>; perhaps +it won’t be a failure, though I fear. To-day the sun shone +brightly although the wind was cold: I was up the hill +a good time. It is very solemn to see the top of one hill +steadfastly regarding you over the shoulder of another: +I never before to-day fully realised the haunting of such +a gigantic face, as it peers over into a valley and seems +to command all corners. I had a long talk with the shepherd +about foreign lands, and sheep. A Russian had +once been on the farm as a pupil; he told me that he +had the utmost pity for the Russian’s capacities, since +(dictionary and all) he had never managed to understand +him; it must be remembered that my friend the shepherd +spoke Scotch of the broadest and often enough employs +words which I do not understand myself.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—I have received such a nice long letter +(four sides) from Leslie Stephen to-day about my <i>Victor +Hugo</i>. It is accepted. This ought to have made me gay, +but it hasn’t. I am not likely to be much of a tonic +to-night. I have been very cynical over myself to-day, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129"></a>129</span> +partly, perhaps, because I have just finished some of the +deedest rubbish about Lord Lytton’s <i>Fables</i> that an +intelligent editor ever shot into his wastepaper basket. +If Morley prints it I shall be glad, but my respect for +him will be shaken.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Enclosing Mr. Leslie Stephen’s letter accepting the article on +Victor Hugo: the first of Stevenson’s many contributions to the +Cornhill Magazine.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, May 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I send you L. Stephen’s letter +which is certainly very kind and jolly to get<a name="FnAnchor_14" href="#Footnote_14"><span class="sp">14</span></a>. I wrote +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130"></a>130</span> +some stuff about Lord Lytton, but I had not the heart +to submit it to you. I sent it direct to Morley, with a +Spartan billet. God knows it is bad enough; but it cost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131"></a>131</span> +me labour incredible. I was so out of the vein, it would +have made you weep to see me digging the rubbish out +of my seven wits with groanings unutterable. I certainly +mean to come to London, and likely before long if all +goes well; so on that ground, I cannot force you to come +to Scotland. Still, the weather is now warm and jolly, +and of course it would not be expensive to live here so +long as that did not bore you. If you could see the +hills out of my window to-night, you would start incontinent. +However do as you will, and if the mountain +will not come to Mahomet Mahomet will come to the +mountain in due time, Mahomet being me and the +mountain you, Q.E.D., F.R.S.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, May 1874</i>], <i>Tuesday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Another</span> cold day; yet I have been along the hillside, +wondering much at idiotic sheep, and raising partridges +at every second step. One little plover is the object of +my firm adherence. I pass his nest every day, and if you +saw how he flies by me, and almost into my face, crying +and flapping his wings, to direct my attention from his +little treasure, you would have as kind a heart to him as +I. To-day I saw him not, although I took my usual +way; and I am afraid that some person has abused his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132"></a>132</span> +simple wiliness and harried (as we say in Scotland) the +nest. I feel much righteous indignation against such +imaginary aggressor. However, one must not be too +chary of the lower forms. To-day I sat down on a tree-stump +at the skirt of a little strip of planting, and thoughtlessly +began to dig out the touchwood with an end of +twig. I found I had carried ruin, death, and universal +consternation into a little community of ants; and this +set me a-thinking of how close we are environed with +frail lives, so that we can do nothing without spreading +havoc over all manner of perishable homes and interests +and affections; and so on to my favourite mood of an +holy terror for all action and all inaction equally—a +sort of shuddering revulsion from the necessary responsibilities +of life. We must not be too scrupulous of others, +or we shall die. Conscientiousness is a sort of moral +opium; an excitant in small doses, perhaps, but at bottom +a strong narcotic.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—I have been two days in Edinburgh, and +so had not the occasion to write to you. Morley has +accepted the <i>Fables</i>, and I have seen it in proof, and think +less of it than ever. However, of course, I shall send you +a copy of the magazine without fail, and you can be as +disappointed as you like, or the reverse if you can. I +would willingly recall it if I could.</p> + +<p>Try, by way of change, Byron’s <i>Mazeppa</i>; you will be +astonished. It is grand and no mistake, and one sees +through it a fire, and a passion, and a rapid intuition +of genius, that makes one rather sorry for one’s own +generation of better writers, and—I don’t know what to +say; I was going to say “smaller men“; but that’s +not right; read it, and you will feel what I cannot express. +Don’t be put out by the beginning; persevere, and you +will find yourself thrilled before you are at an end with it.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—The white mist has obliterated the hills +and lies heavily round the cottage, as though it were +laying siege to it; the trees wave their branches in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133"></a>133</span> +wind, with a solemn melancholy manner, like people +swaying themselves to and fro in pain. I am alone in +the house, all the world being gone to church; and even +in here at the side of the fire, the air clings about one +like a wet blanket. Yet this morning, when I was just +awake, I had thought it was going to be a fine day. First, +a cock crew, loudly and beautifully and often; then +followed a long interval of silence and darkness, the grey +morning began to get into my room; and then from the +other side of the garden, a blackbird executed one long +flourish, and in a moment as if a spring had been touched +or a sluice-gate opened, the whole garden just brimmed +and ran over with bird-songs.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>For a part of June Stevenson had come south, spending most of +his time in lodgings with me at Hampstead (where he got the idea +for part of his essay <i>Notes on the Movements of Young Children</i>) and +making his first appearance at the Savile Club. Trouble awaited +him after his return.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, June 1874</i>], <i>Wednesday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">News</span> reaches me that Bob is laid down with diphtheria; +and you know what that means.</p> + +<p><i>Night.</i>—I am glad to say that I have on the whole a +good account of Bob and I do hope he may pull through +in spite of all. I went down and saw the doctor; but it +is not thought right that I should go in to see him in +case of contagion: you know it is a very contagious malady.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—It is curious how calm I am in such a case. +I wait with perfect composure for farther news; I can +do nothing; why should I disturb myself? And yet if +things go wrong I shall be in a fine way I can tell +you.</p> + +<p>How curiously we are built up into our false positions. +The other day, having toothache and the black dog on +my back generally, I was rude to one of the servants at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134"></a>134</span> +the dinner-table. And nothing of course can be more +disgusting than for a man to speak harshly to a young +woman who will lose her place if she speak back to him; +and of course I determined to apologise. Well, do you +know, it was perhaps four days before I found courage +enough, and I felt as red and ashamed as could be. Why? +because I had been rude? not a bit of it; because I +was doing a thing that would be called ridiculous in thus +apologising. I did not know I had so much respect of +middle-class notions before; this is my right hand which +I must cut off. Hold the arm please: once—twice—thrice: +the offensive member is amputated: let us hope +I shall never be such a cad any more as to be ashamed +of being a gentleman.</p> + +<p><i>Night.</i>—I suppose I must have been more affected +than I thought; at least I found I could not work this +morning and had to go out. The whole garden was +filled with a high westerly wind, coming straight out of +the hills and richly scented with furze—or whins, as we +would say. The trees were all in a tempest and roared +like a heavy surf; the paths all strewn with fallen apple-blossom +and leaves. I got a quiet seat behind a yew +and went away into a meditation. I was very happy after +my own fashion, and whenever there came a blink of +sunshine or a bird whistled higher than usual, or a little +powder of white apple-blossom came over the hedge and +settled about me in the grass, I had the gladdest little +flutter at my heart and stretched myself for very voluptuousness. +I wasn’t altogether taken up with my private +pleasures, however, and had many a look down ugly vistas +in the future, for Bob and others. But we must all be +content and brave, and look eagerly for these little passages +of happiness by the wayside, and go on afterwards, +savouring them under the tongue.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—Our garden has grown beautiful at last, +beautiful with fresh foliage and daisied grass. The sky +is still cloudy and the day perhaps even a little gloomy; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135"></a>135</span> +but under this grey roof, in this shaded temperate light, +how delightful the new summer is.</p> + +<p>When I shall come to London must always be problematical +like all my movements, and of course this sickness +of Bob’s makes it still more uncertain. If all goes +well I may have to go to the country and take care of him +in his convalescence. But I shall come shortly. Do not +hurry to write to me; I had rather <i>you</i> had ten minutes +more of good, friendly sleep, than I a longer letter; and +you know I am rather partial to your letters. Yesterday, +by the bye, I received the proof of <i>Victor Hugo</i>; it +is not nicely written, but the stuff is capital, I think. +Modesty is my most remarkable quality, I may remark +in passing.</p> + +<p>1.30.—I was out, behind the yew hedge, reading the +<i>Comtesse de Rudolstadt</i> when I found my eyes grow weary, +and looked up from the book. O the rest of the quiet +greens and whites, of the daisied surface! I was very +peaceful, but it began to sprinkle rain and so I fain to +come in for a moment and chat with you. By the way, +I must send you <i>Consuelo</i>; you said you had quite forgotten +it if I remember aright; and surely a book that +could divert me, when I thought myself on the very edge +of the grave, from the work that I so much desired and +was yet unable to do, and from many painful thoughts, +should somewhat support and amuse you under all the +hard things that may be coming upon you. If you should +wonder why I am writing to you so voluminously, know +that it is because I am not suffering myself to work, and +in idleness, as in death, etc.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—I have had a very cruel day. I heard this +morning that yesterday Bob had been very much worse +and I went down to Portobello with all sorts of horrible +presentiments. I was glad when I turned the corner and +saw the blinds still up. He was definitely better, if the +word definitely can be used about such a detestably +insidious complaint. I have ordered <i>Consuelo</i> for you, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136"></a>136</span> +and you should have it soon this week; I mean next +week of course; I am thinking when you will receive +this letter, not of now when I am writing it.</p> + +<p>I am so tired; but I am very hopeful. All will be well +some time, if it be only when we are dead. One thing I +see so clearly. Death is the end neither of joy nor sorrow. +Let us pass into the clods and come up again as grass and +flowers; we shall still be this wonderful, shrinking, sentient +matter—we shall still thrill to the sun and grow relaxed +and quiet after rain, and have all manner of pains and +pleasures that we know not of now. Consciousness, and +ganglia, and suchlike, are after all but theories. And +who knows? This God may not be cruel when all is done; +he may relent and be good to us <i>à la fin des fins</i>. Think +of how he tempers our afflictions to us, of how tenderly +he mixes in bright joys with the grey web of trouble and +care that we call our life. Think of how he gives, who +takes away. Out of the bottom of the miry clay I write +this; and I look forward confidently; I have faith after +all; I believe, I hope, I <i>will</i> not have it reft from me; +there <i>is</i> something good behind it all, bitter and terrible +as it seems. The infinite majesty (as it will be always in +regard to us the bubbles of an hour) the infinite majesty +must have moments, if it were no more, of greatness; must +sometimes be touched with a feeling for our infirmities, +must sometimes relent and be clement to those frail playthings +that he has made, and made so bitterly alive. Must +it not be so, my dear friend, out of the depths I cry? I +feel it, now when I am most painfully conscious of his +cruelty. He must relent. He must reward. He must +give some indemnity, if it were but in the quiet of a daisy, +tasting of the sun and the soft rain and the sweet shadow +of trees, for all the dire fever that he makes us bear in +this poor existence. We make too much of this human +life of ours. It may be that two clods together, two +flowers together, two grown trees together touching each +other deliciously with their spread leaves, it may be that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137"></a>137</span> +these dumb things have their own priceless sympathies, +surer and more untroubled than ours.</p> + +<p>I don’t know quite whether I have wandered. Forgive +me, I feel as if I had relieved myself; so perhaps it may +not be unpleasant for you either.—Believe me, ever your +faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston, Sunday</i> (<i>June 1874</i>).</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I fear to have added something to +your troubles by telling you of the grief in which I find +myself; but one cannot always come to meet a friend +smiling, although we should try for the best cheer possible. +All to-day I have been very weary, resting myself after +the trouble and fatigue of yesterday. The day was warm +enough, but it blew a whole gale of wind; and the noise +and the purposeless rude violence of it somehow irritated +and depressed me. There was good news however, though +the anxiety must still be long. O peace, peace, whither +are you fled and where have you carried my old quiet +humour? I am so bitter and disquiet and speak even +spitefully to people. And somehow, though I promise +myself amendment, day after day finds me equally rough +and sour to those about me. But this would pass with +good health and good weather; and at bottom I am not +unhappy; the soil is still good although it bears thorns; +and the time will come again for flowers.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—I got your letter this morning and have +to thank you so much for it. Bob is much better; and +I do hope out of danger. To-day has been more glorious +than I can tell you. It has been the first day of blue +sky that we have had; and it was happiness for a week +to see the clear bright outline of the hills and the glory +of sunlit foliage and the darkness of green shadows, and +the big white clouds that went voyaging overhead deliberately. +My two cousins from Portobello were here; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138"></a>138</span> +they and I and Maggie ended the afternoon by lying half +an hour together on a shawl. The big cloud had all been +carded out into a thin luminous white gauze, miles away; +and miles away too seemed the little black birds that +passed between this and us as we lay with faces upturned. +The similarity of what we saw struck in us a curious +similarity of mood; and in consequence of the small size +of the shawl, we all lay so close that we half pretended, +half felt, we had lost our individualities and had become +merged and mixed up in a quadruple existence. We +had the shadow of an umbrella over ourselves, and when +any one reached out a brown hand into the golden sunlight +overhead we all feigned that we did not know whose hand +it was, until at last I don’t really think we quite did. +Little black insects also passed over us and in the same +half wanton manner we pretended we could not distinguish +them from the birds. There was a splendid sunlit +silence about us, and as Katharine said the heavens seemed +to be dropping oil on us, or honey-dew—it was all so +bland.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday evening</i>.—I have seen Bob again, and I +am charmed at his convalescence. Le bon Dieu has +been <i>so</i> bon this time: here’s his health! Still the danger +is not over by a good way; it is so miserable a thing +for reverses.</p> + +<p>I hear the wind outside roaring among our leafy trees +as the surf on some loud shore. The hill-top is whelmed +in a passing rain-shower and the mist lies low in the valleys. +But the night is warm and in our little sheltered garden +it is fair and pleasant, and the borders and hedges and +evergreens and boundary trees are all distinct in an equable +diffusion of light from the buried moon and the day not +altogether passed away. My dear friend, as I hear the +wind rise and die away in that tempestuous world of +foliage, I seem to be conscious of I know not what breath +of creation. I know what this warm wet wind of the +west betokens, I know how already, in this morning’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139"></a>139</span> +sunshine, we could see all the hills touched and accentuated +with little delicate golden patches of young fern; +how day by day the flowers thicken and the leaves unfold; +how already the year is a-tip-toe on the summit of its +finished youth; and I am glad and sad to the bottom +of my heart at the knowledge. If you knew how different +I am from what I was last year; how the knowledge of +you has changed and finished me, you would be glad and +sad also.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The strain of anxiety recorded in the two last letters had given +a shake to Stevenson’s own health, and it was agreed that he should +go for a yachting tour with Sir Walter Simpson in the Inner +Hebrides.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, June 1874</i>], <i>Thursday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> been made so miserable by Chopin’s <i>Marche +funèbre</i>. Try two of Schubert’s songs, “<i>Ich unglückselige +Atlas</i>” and “<i>Du schönes Fischermädchen</i>“—they are very +jolly. I have read aloud my death-cycle from Walt Whitman +this evening. I was very much affected myself, +never so much before, and it fetched the auditory considerable. +Reading these things that I like aloud when +I am painfully excited is the keenest artistic pleasure I +know. It does seem strange that these dependent arts—singing, +acting, and in its small way reading aloud +seem the best rewarded of all arts. I am sure it is +more exciting for me to read than it was for W. W. +to write; and how much more must this be so with +singing.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—I am going in the yacht on Wednesday. I +am not right yet, and I hope the yacht will set me up. +I am too tired to-night to make more of it. Good-bye.—Ever +your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page140"></a>140</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, June 1874</i>], <i>Friday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am seedy—very seedy, I may say. +I am quite unfit for any work or any pleasure; and generally +very sick. I am going away next week on Wednesday +for my cruise which I hope will set me up again. I should +like a proof here up to Wednesday morning, or at Greenock, +Tontine Hotel, up to Friday morning, as I don’t quite +know my future address. I hope you are better, and +that it was not that spell of work you had that did the +harm. It is to my spurt of work that I am <i>redevable</i> for +my harm. Walt Whitman is at the bottom of it all, +<i>’cré nom</i>! What a pen I have!—a new pen, God be +praised, how smoothly it functions! Would that I could +work as well. Chorus—Would that both of us could work +as well—would that all of us could work as well!—Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Bob is better; but he might be better yet. All +goes smoothly except my murrained health.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston</i> [<i>Summer 1874</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I am back again here, as brown +as a berry with sun, and in good form. I have been and +gone and lost my portmanteau, with <i>Walt Whitman</i> in it +and a lot of notes. This is a nuisance. However, I am +pretty happy, only wearying for news of you and for +your address.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—<i>À la bonne heure!</i> I hear where you are +and that you are apparently fairish well. That is good +at least. I am full of Reformation work; up to the eyes +in it; and begin to feel learned. A beautiful day outside, +though something cold.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page141"></a>141</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Of the projects here mentioned, that of the little book of essays +on the enjoyment of the world never took shape, nor were those +contributions towards it which he printed in the Portfolio ever +re-published until after the writer’s death. <i>The Appeal to the Clergy +of the Church of Scotland</i> was printed in 1874, published as a pamphlet +in February 1875, and attracted, I believe, no attention whatever. +The “fables” must have been some of the earliest numbers of the +series continued at odd times till near the date of his death and +published posthumously: I do not know which, but should guess +<i>The House of Eld</i>, <i>Yellow Paint</i>, and perhaps those in the vein +of Celtic mystery, <i>The Touchstone</i>, <i>The Poor Thing</i>, <i>The Song of +To-morrow</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, Summer</i> 1874], <i>Tuesday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—What is new with you? There +is nothing new with me: Knox and his females begin to +get out of restraint altogether; the subject expands so +damnably, I know not where to cut it off. I have another +paper for the PTFL<a name="FnAnchor_15" href="#Footnote_15"><span class="sp">15</span></a> on the stocks: a sequel to the +two others; also, that is to say, a word in season as to +contentment and a hint to the careless to look around +them for disregarded pleasures. Seeley wrote to me +asking me “to propose” something: I suppose he means—well, +I suppose I don’t know what he means. But I +shall write to him (if you think it wise) when I send him +this paper, saying that my writing is more a matter of +God’s disposition than of man’s proposal; that I had +from <i>Roads</i> upward ever intended to make a little budget +of little papers all with this intention before them, call +it ethical or æsthetic as you will; and thus I shall leave +it to him (if he likes) to regard this little budget, as slowly +they come forth, as a unity in its own small way. Twelve +or twenty such essays, some of them mainly ethical and +expository, put together in a little book with narrow +print in each page, antique, vine leaves about, and the +following title.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page142"></a>142</span></p> + +<p class="center scs">XII (OR XX) ESSAYS ON THE ENJOYMENT +OF THE WORLD:</p> + +<p class="center">By Robert Louis Stevenson</p> + +<p class="center">(<i>A motto in italics</i>)</p> + +<p class="center">Publisher</p> + +<p class="center">Place and date</p> + +<p class="noind">You know the class of old book I have in my head. I +smack my lips; would it not be nice! I am going to +launch on Scotch ecclesiastical affairs, in a tract addressed +to the Clergy; in which doctrinal matters being laid +aside, I contend simply that they should be just and +dignified men at a certain crisis: this for the honour of +humanity. Its authorship must, of course, be secret or +the publication would be useless. You shall have a copy +of course, and may God help you to understand it.</p> + +<p>I have done no more to my fables. I find I must let +things take their time. I am constant to my schemes; +but I must work at them fitfully as the humour moves.</p> + +<p>—To return, I wonder, if I have to make a budget of +such essays as I dream, whether Seeley would publish +them: I should give them unity, you know, by the +doctrinal essays; nor do I think these would be the least +agreeable. You must give me your advice and tell me +whether I should throw out this delicate feeler to R. S.<a name="FnAnchor_16" href="#Footnote_16"><span class="sp">16</span></a>; +or if not, what I am to say to this “proposal” business.</p> + +<p>I shall go to England or Wales, with parents, shortly: +after which, dash to Poland before setting in for the +dismal session at Edinburgh.</p> + +<p>Spirits good, with a general sense of hollowness underneath: +wanity of wanities etc.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Parents capital; thanks principally to them; +yours truly still rather bitter, but less so.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page143"></a>143</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The last paragraph of the following means that Dr. Appleton, +the amiable and indefatigable editor of the Academy, then recently +founded, had been a little disturbed in mind by some of the contributions +of his brilliant young friend, but allowed his academic +conscience to be salved by the fact of their signature.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, Summer 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Am I mad? Have I lived thus +long and have you known me thus long, to no purpose? +Do you imagine I could ever write an essay a month, or +promise an essay even every three months? I declare I +would rather die than enter into any such arrangement. +The Essays must fall from me, Essay by Essay, as they +ripen; and all that my communication with Seeley would +effect would be to make him see more in them than mere +occasional essays; or at least <i>look</i> far more faithfully, in +which spirit men rarely look in vain. You know both +<i>Roads</i> and my little girls<a name="FnAnchor_17" href="#Footnote_17"><span class="sp">17</span></a> are a part of the scheme which +dates from early at Mentone. My word to Seeley, therefore, +would be to inform him of what I hope will lie ultimately +behind them, of how I regard them as contributions +towards a friendlier and more thoughtful way of looking +about one, etc. One other purpose of telling him would +be that I should feel myself more at liberty to write as I +please, and not bound to drag in a tag about Art every +time to make it more suitable. Tying myself down to +time is an impossibility. You know my own description +of myself as a person with a poetic character and no poetic +talent: just as my prose muse has all the ways of a poetic +one, and I must take my Essays as they come to me. If +I got 12 of ’em done in two years, I should be pleased. +Never, please, let yourself imagine that I am fertile; I +am constipated in the brains.</p> + +<p>Look here, Appleton dined here last night and was +delightful after the manner of our Appleton: I was none +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144"></a>144</span> +the less pleased, because I was somewhat amused, to +hear of your kind letter to him in defence of my productions. +I was amused at the tranquil dishonesty with +which he told me that I must put my name to all I write +and then all will be well.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Written on an expedition to Wales with his parents.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Train between Edinburgh and +Chester, August</i> 8, 1874.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">My</span> father and mother reading. I think I shall talk to +you for a moment or two. This morning at Swanston, +the birds, poor creatures, had the most troubled hour or +two; evidently there was a hawk in the neighbourhood; +not one sang; and the whole garden thrilled with little +notes of warning and terror. I did not know before that +the voice of birds could be so tragically expressive. I +had always heard them before express their trivial satisfaction +with the blue sky and the return of daylight. +Really, they almost frightened me; I could hear mothers +and wives in terror for those who were dear to them; it +was easy to translate, I wish it were as easy to write; +but it is very hard in this flying train, or I would write +you more.</p> + +<p><i>Chester.</i>—I like this place much; but somehow I feel +glad when I get among the quiet eighteenth century +buildings, in cosy places with some elbow room about +them, after the older architecture. This other is bedevilled +and furtive; it seems to stoop; I am afraid of +trap-doors, and could not go pleasantly into such houses. +I don’t know how much of this is legitimately the effect +of the architecture; little enough possibly; possibly +far the most part of it comes from bad historical +novels and the disquieting statuary that garnishes some +façades.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page145"></a>145</span></p> + +<p>On the way, to-day, I passed through my dear Cumberland +country. Nowhere to as great a degree can one find +the combination of lowland and highland beauties; the +outline of the blue hills is broken by the outline of many +tumultuous tree-clumps; and the broad spaces of moorland +are balanced by a network of deep hedgerows that +might rival Suffolk, in the foreground.—How a railway +journey shakes and discomposes one, mind and body! +I grow blacker and blacker in humour as the day goes +on; and when at last I am let out, and have the fresh +air about me, it is as though I were born again, and +the sick fancies flee away from my mind like swans in +spring.</p> + +<p>I want to come back on what I have said about +eighteenth century and middle-age houses: I do not +know if I have yet explained to you the sort of loyalty, +of urbanity, that there is about the one to my mind; the +spirit of a country orderly and prosperous, a flavour of +the presence of magistrates and well-to-do merchants in +bag-wigs, the clink of glasses at night in fire-lit parlours, +something certain and civic and domestic, is all about +these quiet, staid, shapely houses, with no character but +their exceeding shapeliness, and the comely external +utterance that they make of their internal comfort. Now +the others are, as I have said, both furtive and bedevilled; +they are sly and grotesque; they combine their sort of +feverish grandeur with their sort of secretive baseness, +after the manner of a Charles the Ninth. They are peopled +for me with persons of the same fashion. Dwarfs and +sinister people in cloaks are about them; and I seem +to divine crypts, and, as I said, trap-doors. O God be +praised that we live in this good daylight and this good +peace.</p> + +<p><i>Barmouth, August 9th.</i>—To-day we saw the cathedral +at Chester; and, far more delightful, saw and heard a +certain inimitable verger who took us round. He was +full of a certain recondite, far-away humour that did not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146"></a>146</span> +quite make you laugh at the time, but was somehow +laughable to recollect. Moreover, he had so far a just +imagination, and could put one in the right humour for +seeing an old place, very much as, according to my favourite +text, Scott’s novels and poems do for one. His account +of the monks in the Scriptorium, with their cowls over +their heads, in a certain sheltered angle of the cloister +where the big cathedral building kept the sun off the +parchments, was all that could be wished; and so too +was what he added of the others pacing solemnly behind +them and dropping, ever and again, on their knees before +a little shrine there is in the wall, “to keep ’em in the +frame of mind.” You will begin to think me unduly biassed +in this verger’s favour if I go on to tell you his opinion of +me. We got into a little side chapel, whence we could +hear the choir children at practice, and I stopped a moment +listening to them, with, I dare say, a very bright face, +for the sound was delightful to me. “Ah,” says he, +“you’re <i>very</i> fond of music.” I said I was. “Yes, I +could tell that by your head,” he answered. “There’s a +deal in that head.” And he shook his own solemnly. I said +it might be so, but I found it hard, at least, to get it out. +Then my father cut in brutally, said anyway I had no +ear, and left the verger so distressed and shaken in the +foundations of his creed that, I hear, he got my father +aside afterwards and said he was sure there was something +in my face, and wanted to know what it was, +if not music. He was relieved when he heard that I +occupied myself with literature (which word, note here, +I do now spell correctly). Good-night, and here’s the +verger’s health!</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—Yesterday received the letter you know of. +I have finished my Portfolio paper, not very good but +with things in it: I don’t know if they will take it; and I +have got a good start made with my <i>John Knox</i> articles. +The weather here is rainy and miserable and windy: it +is warm and not over boisterous for a certain sort of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147"></a>147</span> +pleasure. This place, as I have made my first real +inquisition into it to-night is curious enough; all the +days I have been here, I have been at work, and so I +was quite new to it.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—A most beautiful day. We took a most +beautiful drive, also up the banks of the river. The +heather and furze are in flower at once and make up a +splendid richness of colour on the hills; the trees were +beautiful; there was a bit of winding road with larches +on one hand and oaks on the other; the oaks were in +shadow and printed themselves off at every corner on the +sunlit background of the larches. We passed a little +family of children by the roadside. The youngest of all +sat a good way apart from the others on the summit of +a knoll; it was ensconced in an old tea-box, out of which +issued its head and shoulders in a blue cloak and scarlet +hat. O if you could have seen its dignity! It was +deliciously humorous: and this little piece of comic self-satisfaction +was framed in wonderfully by the hills and +the sunlit estuary. We saw another child in a cottage +garden. She had been sick, it seemed, and was taking +the air quietly for health’s sake. Over her pale face, she +had decorated herself with all available flowers and weeds; +and she was driving one chair as a horse, sitting in another +by way of carriage. We cheered her as we passed, and +she acknowledged the compliment like a queen. I like +children better every day, I think, and most other things +less. <i>John Knox</i> goes on, and a horrible story of a nurse +which I think almost too cruel to go on with: I wonder +why my stories are always so nasty.<a name="FnAnchor_18" href="#Footnote_18"><span class="sp">18</span></a> I am still well, +and in good spirits. I say, by the way, have you any +means of finding Madame Garschine’s address. If you +have, communicate with me. I fear my last letter has +been too late to catch her at Franzensbad; and so I shall +have to go without my visit altogether, which would +vex me.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page148"></a>148</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Barmouth, September 1874</i>], <i>Tuesday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I wonder</span> if you ever read Dickens’ Christmas books? +I don’t know that I would recommend you to read them, +because they are too much perhaps. I have only read +two of them yet, and feel so good after them and would +do anything, yes and shall do everything, to make it a +little better for people. I wish I could lose no time; I +want to go out and comfort some one; I shall never +listen to the nonsense they tell one about not giving +money—I <i>shall</i> give money; not that I haven’t done so +always, but I shall do it with a high hand now.</p> + +<p>It is raining here; and I have been working at John +Knox, and at the horrid story I have in hand, and walking +in the rain. Do you know this story of mine is horrible; +I only work at it by fits and starts, because I feel as if +it were a sort of crime against humanity—it is so cruel.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—I saw such nice children again to-day; +one little fellow alone by the roadside, putting a stick +into a spout of water and singing to himself—so wrapt +up that we had to poke him with our umbrellas to attract +his attention; and again, two solid, fleshly, grave, double-chinned +burgomasters in black, with black hats on ’em, +riding together in what they call, I think, a double perambulator. +My father is such fun here. He is always +skipping about into the drawing-room, and speaking to +all the girls, and telling them God knows what about us +all. My mother and I are the old people who sit aloof, +receive him as a sort of prodigal when he comes back +to us, and listen indulgently to what he has to tell.</p> + +<p><i>Llandudno, Thursday.</i>—A cold bleak place of stucco +villas with wide streets to let the wind in at you. A +beautiful journey, however, coming hither.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—Seeley has taken my paper, which is, as I +now think, not to beat about the bush, bad. However, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149"></a>149</span> +there are pretty things in it, I fancy; we shall see what +you shall say.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—I took my usual walk before turning in last +night, and dallied over it a little. It was a cool, dark, +solemn night, starry, but the sky charged with big black +clouds. The lights in house windows you could see, but +the houses themselves were lost in the general blackness. +A church clock struck eleven as I went past, and rather +startled me. The whiteness of the road was all I had to +go by. I heard an express train roaring away down the +coast into the night, and dying away sharply in the distance; +it was like the noise of an enormous rocket, or a +shot world, one would fancy. I suppose the darkness +made me a little fanciful; but when at first I was puzzled +by this great sound in the night, between sea and hills, +I thought half seriously that it might be a world broken +loose—this world to wit. I stood for I suppose five +seconds with this looking-for of destruction in my head, +not exactly frightened but put out; and I wanted badly +not to be overwhelmed where I was, unless I could cry +out a farewell with a great voice over the ruin and make +myself heard.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“John Knox” and “J. K.” herein mentioned are the two papers +on <i>John Knox and His Relations with Women</i>, first printed in Macmillan’s +Magazine and afterwards in <i>Familiar Studies of Men and +Books</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston, Wednesday</i> [<i>Autumn</i>], 1874.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> been hard at work all yesterday, and besides +had to write a long letter to Bob, so I found no time until +quite late, and then was sleepy. Last night it blew a fearful +gale; I was kept awake about a couple of hours, and +could not get to sleep for the horror of the wind’s noise; +the whole house shook; and, mind you, our house is a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150"></a>150</span> +house, a great castle of jointed stone that would weigh +up a street of English houses; so that when it quakes, +as it did last night, it means something. But the quaking +was not what put me about; it was the horrible howl of +the wind round the corner; the audible haunting of an +incarnate anger about the house; the evil spirit that was +abroad; and, above all, the shuddering silent pauses +when the storm’s heart stands dreadfully still for a moment. +O how I hate a storm at night! They have been a great +influence in my life, I am sure; for I can remember them +so far back—long before I was six at least, for we left the +house in which I remember listening to them times without +number when I was six. And in those days the storm had +for me a perfect impersonation, as durable and unvarying +as any heathen deity. I always heard it, as a horseman +riding past with his cloak about his head, and somehow +always carried away, and riding past again, and being +baffled yet once more, <i>ad infinitum</i>, all night long. I +think I wanted him to get past, but I am not sure; I +know only that I had some interest either for or against +in the matter; and I used to lie and hold my breath, +not quite frightened, but in a state of miserable exaltation.</p> + +<p>My first <i>John Knox</i> is in proof, and my second is on +the anvil. It is very good of me so to do; for I want +so much to get to my real tour and my sham tour, the real +tour first; it is always working in my head, and if I can +only turn on the right sort of style at the right moment, +I am not much afraid of it. One thing bothers me; what +with hammering at this J. K., and writing necessary +letters, and taking necessary exercise (that even not +enough, the weather is so repulsive to me, cold and windy), +I find I have no time for reading except times of fatigue, +when I wish merely to relax myself. O—and I read over +again for this purpose Flaubert’s <i>Tentation de St. Antoine</i>; +it struck me a good deal at first, but this second time +it has fetched me immensely. I am but just done with +it, so you will know the large proportion of salt to take +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151"></a>151</span> +with my present statement, that it’s the finest thing I +ever read! Of course, it isn’t that, it’s full of <i>longueurs</i>, +and is not quite “redd up,” as we say in Scotland, not +quite articulated; but there are splendid things in it.</p> + +<p>I say, <i>do</i> take your macaroni with oil: <i>do, please</i>. +It’s <i>beastly</i> with butter.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Mr. (later Sir) George Grove was for some years before and after +this date the editor of Macmillan’s Magazine (but the true monument +to his memory is of course his <i>Dictionary of Music</i>). After the +Knox articles no more contributions from R. L. S. appeared in this +magazine, partly, I think, because Mr. Alexander Macmillan disapproved +of his essay on Burns published the following year. +The Portfolio paper here mentioned is that entitled <i>On the Enjoyment +of Unpleasant Places</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, Autumn 1874</i>], <i>Thursday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I have another letter from Grove, +about my <i>John Knox</i>, which is flattering in its way: he +is a very gushing and spontaneous person. I am busy +with another Portfolio paper for which I can find no +name; I think I shall require to leave it without.</p> + +<p>I am afraid I shall not get to London on my way +to Poland, but I must try to manage it on my way back; +I must see you anyway, before I tackle this sad winter +work, just to get new heart. As it is, I am as jolly as +three, in good health, fairish working trim and on good, +very good, terms with my people.</p> + +<p>Look here, I must have people well. If they will keep +well, I am all right: if they won’t—well I’ll do as well as +I can, and forgive them, and try to be something of a +comfortable thought in spite. So with that cheerful +sentiment, good-night dear friend and good health to you.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—Your letter to-day. Thank you. It is a +horrid day, outside. You talk of my setting to a book, +as if I could; don’t you know that things must <i>come</i> to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152"></a>152</span> +me? I can do but little; I mostly wait and look out. I +am struggling with a Portfolio paper just now, which will +not come straight somehow and <i>will</i> get too gushy; but +a little patience will get it out of the kink and sober it +down I hope. I have been thinking over my movements, +and am not sure but that I may get to London on my way +to Poland after all. Hurrah! But we must not halloo +till we are out of the wood; this may be only a clearing.</p> + +<p>God help us all, it is a funny world. To see people +skipping all round us with their eyes sealed up with indifference, +knowing nothing of the earth or man or woman, +going automatically to offices and saying they are happy +or unhappy out of a sense of duty, I suppose, surely at +least from no sense of happiness or unhappiness, unless +perhaps they have a tooth that twinges, is it not like a +bad dream? Why don’t they stamp their foot upon the +ground and awake? There is the moon rising in the +east, and there is a person with their heart broken and +still glad and conscious of the world’s glory up to the +point of pain; and behold they know nothing of all this! +I should like to kick them into consciousness, for damp +gingerbread puppets as they are. S. C. is down on me +for being bitter; who can help it sometimes, especially +after they have slept ill?</p> + +<p>I am going to have a lot of lunch presently; and then +I shall feel all right again, and the loneliness will pass away +as often before. It is the flesh that is weak. Already I +have done myself all the good in the world by this scribble, +and feel alive again and pretty jolly.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—What a day! Cold and dark as mid-winter. +I shall send with this two new photographs of myself for +your opinion. My father regards this life “as a shambling +sort of omnibus which is taking him to his hotel.” Is that +not well said? It came out in a rather pleasant and +entirely amicable discussion which we had this afternoon +on a walk. The colouring of the world, to-day is of +course hideous; we saw only one pleasant sight, a couple +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153"></a>153</span> +of lovers under a thorn-tree by the wayside, he with his +arm about her waist: they did not seem to find it so cold +as we. I have made a lot of progress to-day with my +Portfolio paper. I think some of it should be nice, but +it rambles a little; I like rambling, if the country be +pleasant; don’t you?—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>October 27, 1874</i>], <i>Edinburgh, Thursday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">It</span> is cold, but very sunshiny and dry; I wish you +were here; it would suit you and it doesn’t suit me; if +we could change? This is the Fast day—Thursday preceding +bi-annual Holy Sacrament that is—nobody does +any work, they go to Church twice, they read nothing +secular (except the newspapers, that is the nuance between +Fast day and Sunday), they eat like fighting-cocks. +Behold how good a thing it is and becoming well to fast +in Scotland. I am progressing with <i>John Knox and +Women No. 2</i>; I shall finish it, I think, in a fortnight +hence; and then I shall begin to enjoy myself. <i>J. K. +and W. No. 2</i> is not uninteresting however; it only bores +me because I am so anxious to be at something else which +I like better. I shall perhaps go to Church this afternoon +from a sort of feeling that it is rather a wholesome +thing to do of an afternoon; it keeps one from work and +it lets you out so late that you cannot weary yourself +walking and so spoil your evening’s work.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—I got your letter this morning, and whether +owing to that, or to the fact that I had spent the evening +before in comparatively riotous living, I managed to work +five hours and a half well and without fatigue; besides +reading about an hour more at history. This is a thing +to be proud of.</p> + +<p>We have had lately some of the most beautiful sunsets; +our autumn sunsets here are always admirable in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154"></a>154</span> +colour. To-night there was just a little lake of tarnished +green deepening into a blood-orange at the margins, +framed above by dark clouds and below by the long roof-line +of the Egyptian buildings on what we call the Mound, +the statues on the top (of her Britannic Majesty and +diverse nondescript Sphinxes) printing themselves off +black against the lit space.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—It has been colder than ever; and to-night +there is a truculent wind about the house, shaking the +windows and making a hollow inarticulate grumbling in +the chimney. I cannot say how much I hate the cold. +It makes my scalp so tight across my head and gives me +such a beastly rheumatism about my shoulders, and +wrinkles and stiffens my face; O I have such a <i>Sehnsucht</i> +for Mentone, where the sun is shining and the air still, +and (a friend writes to me) people are complaining of +the heat.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—I was chased out by my lamp again last +night; it always goes out when I feel in the humour to +write to you. To-day I have been to Church, which has +not improved my temper I must own. The clergyman +did his best to make me hate him, and I took refuge in +that admirable poem the Song of Deborah and Barak; +I should like to make a long scroll of painting (say to go +all round a cornice) illustrative of this poem; with the +people seen in the distance going stealthily on footpaths +while the great highways go vacant; with the archers +besetting the draw-wells; with the princes in hiding on +the hills among the bleating sheep-flocks; with the overthrow +of Sisera, the stars fighting against him in their +courses and that ancient river, the river Kishon, sweeping +him away in anger; with his mother looking and +looking down the long road in the red sunset, and never +a banner and never a spear-clump coming into sight, and +her women with white faces round her, ready with lying +comfort. To say nothing of the people on white asses.</p> + +<p>O, I do hate this damned life that I lead. Work—work—work; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155"></a>155</span> +that’s all right, it’s amusing; but I want +women about me and I want pleasure. John Knox had +a better time of it than I, with his godly females all leaving +their husbands to follow after him; I would I were +John Knox; I hate living like a hermit. Write me a +nice letter if ever you are in the humour to write to me, +and it doesn’t hurt your head. Good-bye.—Ever your +faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The projected visit to his Russian friend in Poland did not come +off, and shortly after the preceding letter Stevenson went for a few +days’ walking tour in the Chiltern Hills of Buckinghamshire, as +recorded in his essay <i>An Autumn Effect</i>. He then came on for a +visit to London.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>London, November 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">When</span> I left you I found an organ-grinder in Russell +Square playing to a child; and the simple fact that there +was a child listening to him, that he was giving this +pleasure, entitled him, according to my theory, as you +know, to some money; so I put some coppers on the ledge +of his organ, without so much as looking at him, and I +was going on when a woman said to me: “Yes, sir, he +do look bad, don’t he? scarcely fit like to be working.” +And then I looked at the man, and O! he was so ill, so +yellow and heavy-eyed and drooping. I did not like to +go back somehow, and so I gave the woman a shilling +and asked her to give it to him for me. I saw her do so +and walked on; but the face followed me, and so when I +had got to the end of the division, I turned and came +back as hard as I could and filled his hand with money—ten +to thirteen shillings, I should think. I was sure he +was going to be ill, you know, and he was a young man; +and I dare say he was alone, and had no one to love him.</p> + +<p>I had my reward; for a few yards farther on, here was +another organ-grinder playing a dance tune, and perhaps +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156"></a>156</span> +a dozen children all dancing merrily to his music, singly, +and by twos and threes, and in pretty little figures together. +Just what my organ-grinder in my story wanted +to have happen to him! It was so gay and pleasant in +the twilight under the street lamp.</p> + +<p>I am very well, have eaten well, and am so sleepy I +can write no more. This I write to let you know I am no +worse; all the better.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, November 1874</i>], <i>Sunday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I was</span> never more sorry to leave you, but I never left +you with a better heart, than last night. I had a long +journey and a cold one; but never was sick nor sorry +the whole way. It was a long one because when we got to +Berwick, we had to go round through the hills by Kelso, +as there was a block on the main line. I knew nothing +of this, and you may imagine my bewilderment when I +came to myself, the train standing and whistling dismally +in the black morning, before a little vacant half-lit station, +with a name up that I had never heard before. My fellow-traveller +woke up and wanted to know what was wrong. +“O, it’s nothing,” I said, “nothing at all, it’s an evil +dream.” However we had the thing explained to us at +the end of ends, and trailed on in the dark among the +snowy hills, stopping every now and again and whistling +in an appealing kind of way, as much as to say, “God +knows where we are, for God’s sake don’t run into us“; +until at last we came to a dead standstill and remained so +for perhaps an hour and a quarter. This wakened us up +for a little; and we managed, at last, to attract the +attention of one of the officials whom we could see picking +their way about the snow with lanterns. This man +(very wide awake, and hale, and lusty) informed us we +were waiting for another conductor, as our own guard +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157"></a>157</span> +did not know the line. “Where is the new guard coming +from?” we ask. “O, close by; only—he, he—he was +married last night.” And immediately we heard much +hoarse laughter in the dark about us; and the moving +lanterns were shaken to and fro, as if in a wind. This +poor conductor! However, I recomposed myself for +slumber, and did not re-awake much before Edinburgh, +where I was discharged three hours too late and found +my father waiting for me in the snow, with a very long +face.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I forget what the Japanese prints were which I had been sending +to Stevenson at his wish, but they sound like specimens of Hiroshigé +and Kuniyoshi. The taste for these things was then quite +new and had laid hold on him strongly.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, November 1874.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thank you, and God bless you for +ever: this is a far better lot than the last; I have chosen +four complete sets out of it for setting, quite admirable: +the others are not quite one’s taste; I find the colour far +from always being agreeable, it is a great toss up. They +have sent me duplicates of first a mad little scene with a +white horse, a red monarch and a blue arm of the sea in +it; and second of a night scene with water, flowers and +a black and white umbrella and a wonderful grey distance +and a wonderful general effect—one of my best in fact. +Do not now force yourself to make any more purchases +for me; but if ever you see a thing you would like to +lecture off, remember I am the person who is ready to +buy it and let you have the use of it: keep this in view +<i>always</i>.</p> + +<p>I am working very hard (for me) and am very happy +over my picters.</p> + +<p>Goodbye, <i>mon vieux</i>.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page158"></a>158</span></p> + +<p>P.S.—In fact if ever you see anything exceptionally +fine, purchase for R. L. S. I owe you lots of money besides +this, don’t I? <i>John Knox</i> is red and sparkling on +the anvil and the hammer goes about six hours on him.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>During his days in London Stevenson had gone with Mrs. Sitwell +to revisit the Elgin marbles, and had carried off photographs of +them to put up in his room at Edinburgh. <i>King Matthias’s Hunting +Horn</i> has perished like so many other stories of this time.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, November 1874</i>], <i>Tuesday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Well</span>, I’ve got some women now, and they’re better +than nothing. Three, without heads, who have been +away getting framed. And you know they are more to +me, after a fashion, than they can be to you, because, +after a fashion also, they are women. I have come now +to think the sitting figure in spite of its beautiful drapery +rather a blemish, rather an interruption to the sentiment. +The two others are better than one has ever dreamed; +I think these two women are the only things in the world +that have been better than, in Bible phrase, it had entered +into my heart to conceive. Who made them? Was it +Pheidias? or do they not know? It is wonderful what +company they are—noble company. And then I have +now three Japanese pictures that are after my own heart, +and I get up from time to time and turn a bit of favourite +colour over and over, roll it under my tongue, savour it +till it gets all through me; and then back to my chair +and to work.</p> + +<p>This afternoon about six there was a small orange +moon, lost in a great world of blue evening. A few leafless +boughs, and a bit of garden railing, criss-cross its +face; and below it there was blueness and the spread +lights of Leith, lost in blue haze. To the east, the town, +also subdued to the same blue, piled itself up, with here +and there a lit window, until it could print off its outline +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159"></a>159</span> +against a faint patch of green and russet that remained +behind the sunset.</p> + +<p>I must tell you about my way of life, which is regular +to a degree. Breakfast 8.30; during breakfast and my +smoke afterwards till ten, when I begin work, I read +Reformation; from ten, I work until about a quarter to +one; from one until two, I lunch and read a book on +Schopenhauer or one on Positivism; two to three work, +three to six anything; if I am in before six, I read about +Japan: six, dinner and a pipe with my father and coffee +until 7.30; 7.30 to 9.30, work; after that either supper +and a pipe at home, or out to Simpson’s or Baxter’s: +bed between eleven and twelve.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Two good things have arrived to me +to-day: your letter for one, and the end of <i>John Knox</i> for +another. I cannot write English because I have been +speaking French all evening with some French people of +my knowledge. It’s a sad thing the state I get into, when +I cannot remember English and yet do not know French! +And it is worse when it is complicated, as at present, +with a pen that will not write! If you knew how I have +to paint and how I have to manœuvre to get the stuff +legible at all.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—I have said the Fates are only women +after a fashion; and that is one of the strangest things +about them. They are wonderfully womanly—they are +more womanly than any woman—and those girt draperies +are drawn over a wonderful greatness of body instinct +with sex; I do not see a line in them that could be a +line in a man. And yet, when all is said, they are not +women for us; they are of another race, immortal, separate; +one has no wish to look at them with love, only +with a sort of lowly adoration, physical, but wanting +what is the soul of all love, whether admitted to oneself +or not, hope; in a word “the desire of the moth for the +star.” O great white stars of eternal marble, O shapely, +colossal women, and yet not women. It is not love that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page160"></a>160</span> +we seek from them, we do not desire to see their great eyes +troubled with our passions, or the great impassive members +contorted by any hope or pain or pleasure; only +now and again, to be conscious that they exist, to have +knowledge of them far off in cloudland or feel their steady +eyes shining, like quiet watchful stars, above the turmoil +of the earth.</p> + +<p>I write so ill; so cheap and miserable and penny-a-linerish +is this <i>John Knox</i> that I have just sent, that I am +low. Only I keep my heart up by thinking of you. And +if all goes to the worst, shall I not be able to lay my +head on the great knees of the middle Fate—O these +great knees—I know all Baudelaire meant now with his +<i>géante</i>—to lay my head on her great knees and go +to sleep.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—I have finished <i>The Story of King Matthias’ +Hunting Horn</i>, whereof I spoke to you, and I think it +should be good. It excites me like wine, or fire, or death, +or love, or something; nothing of my own writing ever +excited me so much; it does seem to me so weird and +fantastic.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—I know now that there is a more subtle +and dangerous sort of selfishness in habit than there ever +can be in disorder. I never ceased to be generous when +I was most <i>déréglé</i>; now when I am beginning to settle +into habits, I see the danger in front of me—one might +cease to be generous and grow hard and sordid in time +and trouble. However, thank God it is life I want, and +nothing posthumous, and for two good emotions I would +sacrifice a thousand years of fame. Moreover I know so +well that I shall never be much as a writer that I am not +very sorely tempted.</p> + +<p>My only chance is in my stories; and so you will forgive +me if I postpone everything else to copy out <i>King +Matthias</i>; I have learned by experience that a story +should be copied out and finished fairly off at the first +heat if ever. I am even thinking of finishing up half-a-dozen +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161"></a>161</span> +perhaps and trying the publishers? what do you +say? Give me your advice?</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—Good-bye. A long story to tell but no time +to tell it: well and happy. Adieu.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>Sunday, November 1874</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Here</span> is my long story: yesterday night, after having +supped, I grew so restless that I was obliged to go out +in search of some excitement. There was a half-moon +lying over on its back, and incredibly bright in the midst +of a faint grey sky set with faint stars: a very inartistic +moon, that would have damned a picture.</p> + +<p>At the most populous place of the city I found a little +boy, three years old perhaps, half frantic with terror, and +crying to every one for his “Mammy.” This was about +eleven, mark you. People stopped and spoke to him, and +then went on, leaving him more frightened than before. +But I and a good-humoured mechanic came up together; +and I instantly developed a latent faculty for setting the +hearts of children at rest. Master Tommy Murphy (such +was his name) soon stopped crying, and allowed me to +take him up and carry him; and the mechanic and I +trudged away along Princes Street to find his parents. +I was soon so tired that I had to ask the mechanic to +carry the bairn; and you should have seen the puzzled +contempt with which he looked at me, for knocking in +so soon. He was a good fellow, however, although very +impracticable and sentimental; and he soon bethought +him that Master Murphy might catch cold after his excitement, +so we wrapped him up in my greatcoat. “Tobauga +(Tobago) Street” was the address he gave us; and we +deposited him in a little grocer’s shop and went through +all the houses in the street without being able to find +any one of the name of Murphy. Then I set off to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page162"></a>162</span> +head police office, leaving my greatcoat in pawn about +Master Murphy’s person. As I went down one of the +lowest streets in the town, I saw a little bit of life that +struck me. It was now half-past twelve, a little shop +stood still half-open, and a boy of four or five years old +was walking up and down before it imitating cockcrow. +He was the only living creature within sight.</p> + +<p>At the police offices no word of Master Murphy’s +parents; so I went back empty-handed. The good +groceress, who had kept her shop open all this time, could +keep the child no longer; her father, bad with bronchitis, +said he must forth. So I got a large scone with currants +in it, wrapped my coat about Tommy, got him up on my +arm, and away to the police office with him: not very +easy in my mind, for the poor child, young as he was—he +could scarce speak—was full of terror for the “office,” +as he called it. He was now very grave and quiet and +communicative with me; told me how his father thrashed +him, and divers household matters. Whenever he saw a +woman on our way he looked after her over my shoulder +and then gave his judgment: “That’s no <i>her</i>,” adding +sometimes, “She has a wean wi’ her.” Meantime I was +telling him how I was going to take him to a gentleman +who would find out his mother for him quicker than ever +I could, and how he must not be afraid of him, but be +brave, as he had been with me. We had just arrived at +our destination—we were just under the lamp—when he +looked me in the face and said appealingly, “He’ll no put +me in the office?” And I had to assure him that he +would not, even as I pushed open the door and took him in.</p> + +<p>The serjeant was very nice, and I got Tommy comfortably +seated on a bench, and spirited him up with good +words and the scone with the currants in it; and then, +telling him I was just going out to look for Mammy, I +got my greatcoat and slipped away.</p> + +<p>Poor little boy! he was not called for, I learn, until ten +this morning. This is very ill written, and I’ve missed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163"></a>163</span> +half that was picturesque in it; but to say truth, I am +very tired and sleepy: it was two before I got to bed. +However, you see, I had my excitement.</p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—I have written nothing all morning; I cannot +settle to it. Yes—I <i>will</i> though.</p> + +<p>10.45.—And I did. I want to say something more to +you about the three women. I wonder so much why +they should have been <i>women</i>, and halt between two +opinions in the matter. Sometimes I think it is because +they were made by a man for men; sometimes, again, +I think there is an abstract reason for it, and there is +something more substantive about a woman than ever +there can be about a man. I can conceive a great +mythical woman, living alone among inaccessible mountain-tops +or in some lost island in the pagan seas, and +ask no more. Whereas if I hear of a Hercules, I ask after +Iole or Dejanira. I cannot think him a man without +women. But I can think of these three deep-breasted +women, living out all their days on remote hilltops, seeing +the white dawn and the purple even, and the world +outspread before them for ever, and no more to them +for ever than a sight of the eyes, a hearing of the ears, a +far-away interest of the inflexible heart, not pausing, not +pitying, but austere with a holy austerity, rigid with a +calm and passionless rigidity; and I find them none the +less women to the end.</p> + +<p>And think, if one could love a woman like that once, +see her once grow pale with passion, and once wring your +lips out upon hers, would it not be a small thing to die? +Not that there is not a passion of a quite other sort, much +less epic, far more dramatic and intimate, that comes +out of the very frailty of perishable women; out of the +lines of suffering that we see written about their eyes, +and that we may wipe out if it were but for a moment; +out of the thin hands, wrought and tempered in agony +to a fineness of perception, that the indifferent or the +merely happy cannot know; out of the tragedy that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164"></a>164</span> +lies about such a love, and the pathetic incompleteness. +This is another thing, and perhaps it is a higher. I look +over my shoulder at the three great headless Madonnas, +and they look back at me and do not move; see me, and +through and over me, the foul life of the city dying to +its embers already as the night draws on; and over miles +and miles of silent country, set here and there with lit +towns, thundered through here and there with night +expresses scattering fire and smoke; and away to the +ends of the earth, and the furthest star, and the blank +regions of nothing; and they are not moved. My quiet, +great-kneed, deep-breasted, well-draped ladies of Necessity, +I give my heart to you!</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>] <i>December 23, 1874.</i></p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—I have come from a concert, and the concert +was rather a disappointment. Not so my afternoon +skating—Duddingston, our big loch, is bearing; and I +wish you could have seen it this afternoon, covered with +people, in thin driving snow flurries, the big hill +grim and white and alpine overhead in the thick +air, and the road up the gorge, as it were into the +heart of it, dotted black with traffic. Moreover, I +<i>can</i> skate a little bit; and what one can do is always +pleasant to do.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—I got your letter to-day, and was so glad +thereof. It was of good omen to me also. I worked +from ten to one (my classes are suspended now for Xmas +holidays), and wrote four or five Portfolio pages of my +Buckinghamshire affair. Then I went to Duddingston +and skated all afternoon. If you had seen the moon +rising, a perfect sphere of smoky gold, in the dark air +above the trees, and the white loch thick with skaters, +and the great hill, snow-sprinkled, overhead! It was a +sight for a king.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page165"></a>165</span></p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—I stayed on Duddingston to-day till after +nightfall. The little booths that hucksters set up round +the edge were marked each one by its little lamp. There +were some fires too; and the light, and the shadows +of the people who stood round them to warm themselves, +made a strange pattern all round on the snow-covered ice. +A few people with torches began to travel up and down +the ice, a lit circle travelling along with them over the +snow. A gigantic moon rose, meanwhile, over the trees +and the kirk on the promontory among perturbed and +vacillating clouds.</p> + +<p>The walk home was very solemn and strange. Once, +through a broken gorge, we had a glimpse of a little +space of mackerel sky, moon-litten, on the other side +of the hill; the broken ridges standing grey and spectral +between; and the hilltop over all, snow-white, and +strangely magnified in size.</p> + +<p>This must go to you to-morrow, so that you may +read it on Christmas Day for company. I hope it may be +good company to you.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—Outside, it snows thick and steadily. The +gardens before our house are now a wonderful fairy forest. +And O, this whiteness of things, how I love it, how it +sends the blood about my body! Maurice de Guérin +hated snow; what a fool he must have been! Somebody +tried to put me out of conceit with it by +saying that people were lost in it. As if people don’t +get lost in love, too, and die of devotion to art; +as if everything worth were not an occasion to some +people’s end.</p> + +<p>What a wintry letter this is! Only I think it is +winter seen from the inside of a warm greatcoat. And +there is, at least, a warm heart about it somewhere. Do +you know, what they say in Xmas stories is true. I +think one loves their friends more dearly at this season.—Ever +your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page166"></a>166</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The Portfolio article here mentioned is <i>An Autumn Effect</i> (see +<i>Essays of Travel</i>). The Italian story so delightedly begun was by +and by condemned and destroyed like all the others of this time.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, January 1875</i>], <i>Monday</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Have</span> come from a concert. Sinico sang, <i>tant bien +que mal</i>, “Ah perfido spergiuro!”; and then we had the +Eroica symphony (No. 3). I can, and need, say no more; +I am rapt out of earth by it; Beethoven is certainly the +greatest man the world has yet produced. I wonder, is +there anything so superb—I can find no word for it more +specific than superb—all I know is that all my knowledge +is transcended. I finished to-day and sent off (and +a mighty mean detail it is, to set down after Beethoven’s +grand passion) my Portfolio article about Buckinghamshire. +In its own way I believe it to be a good thing; and +I hope you will find something in it to like; it touches, +in a dry enough manner, upon most things under heaven, +and if you like me, I think you ought to like this intellectual—no, +I withdraw the word—this artistic dog of mine. +Thaw—thaw—thaw, up here; and farewell skating, and +farewell the clear dry air and the wide, bright, white snow-surface, +and all that was so pleasant in the past.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Yesterday I wasn’t well and to-night I +have been ever so busy. There came a note from the +Academy, sent by John H. Ingram, the editor of the +edition of Poe’s works I have been reviewing, challenging +me to find any more faults. I have found nearly +sixty; so I may be happy; but that makes me none the +less sleepy; so I must go to bed.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—I am awfully out of the humour to write; +I am very inert although quite happy; I am informed +by those who are more expert that I am bilious. <i>Bien</i>; +let it be so; I am still content; and though I can do no +original work, I get forward making notes for my Knox +at a good trot.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page167"></a>167</span></p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—I am so happy. I am no longer here in +Edinburgh. I have been all yesterday evening and this +forenoon in Italy, four hundred years ago, with one +Sannazzaro, a sculptor, painter, poet, etc., and one +Ippolita, a beautiful Duchess. O I like it badly! I +wish you could hear it at once; or rather I wish you +could see it immediately in beautiful type on such a +page as it ought to be, in my first little volume of stories. +What a change this is from collecting dull notes for +<i>John Knox</i>, as I have been all the early part of the week—the +difference between life and death.—I am quite well +again and in such happy spirits, as who would not be, +having spent so much of his time at that convent on +the hills with these sweet people. <i>Vous verrez</i>, and if +you don’t like this story—well, I give it up if you don’t +like it. Not but what there’s a long way to travel yet; +I am no farther than the threshold; I have only set the +men, and the game has still to be played, and a lot of dim +notions must become definite and shapely, and a deal be +clear to me that is anything but clear as yet. The story +shall be called, I think, <i>When the Devil was well</i>, in allusion +to the old proverb.</p> + +<p>Good-bye.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i> [<i>January 1875</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have worked too hard; I have +given myself one day of rest, and that was not enough; +so I am giving myself another. I shall go to bed again +likewise so soon as this is done, and slumber most potently.</p> + +<p>9 <span class="scs">P.M.</span>—Slept all afternoon like a lamb.</p> + +<p>About my coming south, I think the still small unanswerable +voice of coins will make it impossible until +the session is over (end of March); but for all that, I +think I shall hold out jolly. I do not want you to come +and bother yourself; indeed, it is still not quite certain +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page168"></a>168</span> +whether my father will be quite fit for you, although I +have now no fear of that really. Now don’t take up +this wrongly; I wish you could come; and I do not +know anything that would make me happier, but I see +that it is wrong to expect it, and so I resign myself: some +time after. I offered Appleton a series of papers on the +modern French school—the Parnassiens, I think they call +them—de Banville, Coppée, Soulary, and Sully Prudhomme. +But he has not deigned to answer my +letter.</p> + +<p>I shall have another Portfolio paper so soon as I am +done with this story, that has played me out; the story +is to be called <i>When the Devil was well</i>: scene, Italy, +Renaissance; colour, purely imaginary of course, my +own unregenerate idea of what Italy then was. O, when +shall I find the story of my dreams, that shall never halt +nor wander nor step aside, but go ever before its face, +and ever swifter and louder, until the pit receives it, +roaring? The Portfolio paper will be about Scotland and +England.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, January 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">I wish</span> I could write better letters to you. Mine must +be very dull. I must try to give you news. Well, I was +at the annual dinner of my old Academy schoolfellows +last night. We sat down ten, out of seventy-two! The +others are scattered all over the places of the earth, some +in San Francisco, some in New Zealand, some in India, +one in the backwoods—it gave one a wide look over the +world to hear them talk so. I read them some verses. +It is great fun; I always read verses, and in the vinous +enthusiasm of the moment they always propose to have +them printed; <i>Ce qui n’arrive jamais du reste</i>: in the +morning, they are more calm.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—It occurs to me that one reason why there is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page169"></a>169</span> +no news in my letters is because there is so little in my +life. I always tell you of my concerts: I was at another +yesterday afternoon: a recital of Hallé and Norman +Neruda. I went in the evening to the pantomime with +the Mackintoshes—cousins of mine. Their little boy, +aged four, was there for the first time. To see him with +his eyes fixed and open like saucers, and never varying +his expression save in so far as he might sometimes open +his mouth a little wider, was worth the money. He +laughed only once—when the giant’s dwarf fed his master +as though he were a child. Coming home, he was much +interested as to who made the fairies, and wanted to +know if they were like <i>berries</i>. I should like to know +how much this question was due to the idea of their +coming up from under the stage, and how much to a +vague idea of rhyme. When he was told that they were +not like berries, he then asked if they had not been flowers +before they were fairies. It was a good deal in the vein +of Herbert Spencer’s primitive man all this.</p> + +<p>I am pretty well but have not got back to work much +since Tuesday. I work far too hard at the story; but I +wish I had finished it before I stopped as I feel somewhat +out of the swing now.—Ever your faithful</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Another of the literary projects which came to naught, no one +of the stories mentioned having turned out according to Stevenson’s +dream and desire at its first conception, or even having been preserved +for use afterwards as the foundation of riper work. “Clytie” +is of course the famous Roman bust from the Townley collection +in the British Museum.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, January 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks for your letter, I too am +in such a state of business that I know not when to find +the time to write. Look here—Seeley does not seem to +me to have put that paper of mine in this month; so I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page170"></a>170</span> +remain unable to pay you; which is a sad pity and must +be forgiven me.</p> + +<p>What am I doing? Well I wrote my second <i>John +Knox</i>, which is not a bad piece of work for me; begun +and finished ready for press in nine days. Then I have +since written a story called <i>King Matthias’s Hunting Horn</i>, +and I am engaged in finishing another called <i>The Two +Falconers of Cairnstane</i>. I find my stories affect me rather +more perhaps than is wholesome. I have only been two +hours at work to-day, and yet I have been crying and +am shaking badly, as you can see in my handwriting, and +my back is a bit bad. They give me pleasure though, quite +worth all results. However I shall work no more to-day.</p> + +<p>I am to get £1000 when I pass Advocate, it seems; +which is good.</p> + +<p>O I say, will you kindly tell me all about the bust of +Clytie.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>Then I had the wisdom to stop and look over Japanese +picture books until lunch time.</p> + +<p>Well, tell me all about Clytie, how old is it, who did +it, what’s it about, etc. Send it on a sheet that I can +forward without indiscretion to another, as I desire the +information for a friend whom I wish to please.</p> + +<p>Now, look here. When I have twelve stories ready—these +twelve—</p> + +<table class="nobctr" width="100%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc1" rowspan="4">All<br />Scotch.</td> + <td class="tc1" style="width: 5%; padding-top: 15px;" rowspan="4"><span style="font-size: 7em; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #778899;">{</span></td> + <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Devil on Cramond Sands (needs copying about half).</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Curate of Anstruther’s Bottle (needs copying altogether).</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Two Falconers of Cairnstane (wants a few pages).</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="tc3">Strange Adventures of Mr. Nehemiah Solny (wants reorganisation).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">V.</td> + <td class="tc3">King Matthias’s Hunting Horn (all ready).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">VI.</td> + <td class="tc3">Autolycus at Court (in gremio).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">VII.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Family of Love (in gremio). <span class="pagenum"><a name="page171"></a>171</span></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">VIII.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Barrel Organ (all ready).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">IX.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Last Sinner (wants copying).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">X.</td> + <td class="tc3">Margery Bonthron (wants a few pages).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">XI.</td> + <td class="tc3">Martin’s Madonna (in gremio).</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td class="tc2">XII.</td> + <td class="tc3">Life and Death (all ready).</td></tr> +</table> + +<p class="noind">—when I have these twelve ready, should I not do better +to try to get a publisher for them, call them <i>A Book of +Stories</i> and put a good dedicatory letter at the fore end +of them. I should get less coin than by going into magazines +perhaps; but I should also get more notice, should +I not? and so, do better for myself in the long run. Now, +should I not? Besides a book with boards is a book +with boards, even if it bain’t a very fat one and has no +references to Ammianus Marcellinus and German critics +at the foot of the pages. On all this, I shall want your +serious advice. I am sure I shall stand or fall by the stories; +and you’ll think so too, when you see those poor excrescences +the two John Knox and Women games. However, judge +for yourself and be prudent on my behalf, like a good soul.</p> + +<p>Yes, I’ll come to Cambridge then or thereabout, if +God doesn’t put a real tangible spoke in my wheel.</p> + +<p>My terms with my parents are admirable; we are a +very united family.</p> + +<p>Good-bye, <i>mon cher, je ne puis plus écrire</i>. I have +not quite got over a damned affecting part in my story +this morning. O cussed stories, they will never affect +any one but me I fear.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the following is related Stevenson’s first introduction to +Mr. W. E. Henley. The acquaintance thus formed ripened +quickly, as is well known, into a close and stimulating friendship. +Of the story called <i>A Country Dance</i> no trace remains.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Edinburgh, Tuesday</i> [<i>February 1875</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="sc">I got</span> your nice long gossiping letter to-day—I mean +by that that there was more news in it than usual—and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page172"></a>172</span> +so, of course, I am pretty jolly. I am in the house, however, +with such a beastly cold in the head. Our east +winds begin already to be very cold.</p> + +<p>O, I have such a longing for children of my own; and +yet I do not think I could bear it if I had one. I fancy +I must feel more like a woman than like a man about +that. I sometimes hate the children I see on the street—you +know what I mean by hate—wish they were somewhere +else, and not there to mock me; and sometimes, +again, I don’t know how to go by them for the love of +them, especially the very wee ones.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—I have been still in the house since I wrote, +and I <i>have</i> worked. I finished the Italian story; not well, +but as well as I can just now; I must go all over it again, +some time soon, when I feel in the humour to better and +perfect it. And now I have taken up an old story, begun +years ago; and I have now re-written all I had written +of it then, and mean to finish it. What I have lost and +gained is odd. As far as regards simple writing, of course, +I am in another world now; but in some things, though +more clumsy, I seem to have been freer and more plucky: +this is a lesson I have taken to heart. I have got a jolly +new name for my old story. I am going to call it <i>A Country +Dance</i>; the two heroes keep changing places, you know; +and the chapter where the most of this changing goes +on is to be called “Up the middle, down the middle.” +It will be in six or (perhaps) seven chapters. I have +never worked harder in my life than these last four days. +If I can only keep it up.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down +here to lecture, called on me and took me up to see a +poor fellow, a sort of poet who writes for him, and +who has been eighteen months in our infirmary, and +may be, for all I know, eighteen months more. It was +very sad to see him there, in a little room with two beds, +and a couple of sick children in the other bed; a girl +came in to visit the children, and played dominoes on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173"></a>173</span> +the counterpane with them; the gas flared and crackled, +the fire burned in a dull economical way; Stephen and +I sat on a couple of chairs, and the poor fellow sat up +in his bed with his hair and beard all tangled, and talked +as cheerfully as if he had been in a King’s palace, or the +great King’s palace of the blue air. He has taught himself +two languages since he has been lying there. I shall +try to be of use to him.</p> + +<p>We have had two beautiful spring days, mild as milk, +windy withal, and the sun hot. I dreamed last night I +was walking by moonlight round the place where the +scene of my story is laid; it was all so quiet and sweet, +and the blackbirds were singing as if it was day; it made +my heart very cool and happy.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>] <i>February 8, 1875.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Forgive my bothering you. Here +is the proof of my second <i>Knox</i>. Glance it over, like a +good fellow, and if there’s anything very flagrant send it +to me marked. I have no confidence in myself; I feel +such an ass. What have I been doing? As near as I +can calculate, nothing. And yet I have worked all this +month from three to five hours a day, that is to say, +from one to three hours more than my doctor allows me; +positively no result.</p> + +<p>No, I can write no article just now; I am <i>pioching</i>, +like a madman, at my stories, and can make nothing of +them; my simplicity is tame and dull—my passion tinsel, +boyish, hysterical. Never mind—ten years hence, if I +live, I shall have learned, so help me God. I know one +must work, in the meantime (so says Balzac) <i>comme le +mineur enfoui sous un éboulement</i>.</p> + +<p><i>J’y parviendrai, nom de nom de nom!</i> But it’s a long +look forward.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page174"></a>174</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>As the spring advanced Stevenson had again been much out +of sorts, and had gone for a change, in the company of Mr. R. A. M. +Stevenson, on his first visit to the artist haunts of Fontainebleau +which were afterwards so much endeared to him.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Barbizon, April 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—This is just a line to say I am +well and happy. I am here in my dear forest all day in +the open air. It is very be—no, not beautiful exactly, +just now, but very bright and living. There are one or +two song birds and a cuckoo; all the fruit-trees are in +flower, and the beeches make sunshine in a shady place. +I begin to go all right; you need not be vexed about my +health; I really was ill at first, as bad as I have been for +nearly a year; but the forest begins to work, and the air, +and the sun, and the smell of the pines. If I could stay +a month here, I should be as right as possible. Thanks +for your letter.—Your faithful</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, Tuesday, April 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I have been so busy, away to +Bridge of Allan with my father first, and then with Simpson +and Baxter out here from Saturday till Monday. I +had no time to write, and, as it is, am strangely incapable. +Thanks for your letter. I have been reading such lots +of law, and it seems to take away the power of writing +from me. From morning to night, so often as I have a +spare moment, I am in the embrace of a law book—barren +embraces. I am in good spirits; and my heart +smites me as usual, when I am in good spirits, about my +parents. If I get a bit dull, I am away to London without +a scruple; but so long as my heart keeps up, I am +all for my parents.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page175"></a>175</span></p> + +<p>What do you think of Henley’s hospital verses?<a name="FnAnchor_19" href="#Footnote_19"><span class="sp">19</span></a> +They were to have been dedicated to me, but Stephen +wouldn’t allow it—said it would be pretentious.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—I meant to have made this quite a decent +letter this morning, but listen. I had pain all last night, +and did not sleep well, and now am cold and sickish, and +strung up ever and again with another flash of pain. +Will you remember me to everybody? My principal +characteristics are cold, poverty, and Scots Law—three +very bad things. Oo, how the rain falls! The mist is +quite low on the hill. The birds are twittering to each +other about the indifferent season. O, here’s a gem for +you. An old godly woman predicted the end of the +world, because the seasons were becoming indistinguishable; +my cousin Dora objected that last winter had been +pretty well marked. “Yes, my dear,” replied the soothsayeress; +“but I think you’ll find the summer will be +rather co-amplicated.”—Ever your faithful</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The rehearsals were those of Shakespeare’s <i>Twelfth Night</i> for +amateur theatricals at Professor Fleeming Jenkin’s, in which +Stevenson played the part of Orsino.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, April 1875</i>] <i>Saturday</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">I am</span> getting on with my rehearsals, but I find the +part very hard. I rehearsed yesterday from a quarter +to seven, and to-day from four (with interval for dinner) to +eleven. You see the sad strait I am in for ink.—<i>À demain.</i></p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—This is the third ink-bottle I have tried, +and still it’s nothing to boast of. My journey went off +all right, and I have kept ever in good spirits. Last +night, indeed, I did think my little bit of gaiety was going +away down the wind like a whiff of tobacco smoke, but +to-day it has come back to me a little. The influence +of this place is assuredly all that can be worst against +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176"></a>176</span> +one; <i>mais il faut lutter</i>. I was haunted last night when +I was in bed by the most cold, desolate recollections of +my past life here; I was glad to try and think of the +forest, and warm my hands at the thought of it. O the +quiet, grey thickets, and the yellow butterflies, and the +woodpeckers, and the outlook over the plain as it were +over a sea! O for the good, fleshly stupidity of the woods, +the body conscious of itself all over and the mind forgotten, +the clean air nestling next your skin as though your clothes +were gossamer, the eye filled and content, the whole <span class="sc">MAN +HAPPY</span>! Whereas here it takes a pull to hold yourself +together; it needs both hands, and a book of stoical +maxims, and a sort of bitterness at the heart by way of +armour.—Ever your faithful</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—I am so played out with a cold in my +eye that I cannot see to write or read without difficulty. +It is swollen <i>horrible</i>; so how I shall look as Orsino, God +knows! I have my fine clothes tho’. Henley’s sonnets +have been taken for the Cornhill. He is out of hospital +now, and dressed, but still not too much to brag of in +health, poor fellow, I am afraid.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—So. I have still rather bad eyes, and a +nasty sore throat. I play Orsino every day, in all the +pomp of Solomon, splendid Francis the First clothes, +heavy with gold and stage jewellery. I play it ill enough, +I believe; but me and the clothes, and the wedding +wherewith the clothes and me are reconciled, produce +every night a thrill of admiration. Our cook told my +mother (there is a servants’ night, you know) that she +and the housemaid were “just prood to be able to say it +was oor young gentleman.” To sup afterwards with +these clothes on, and a wonderful lot of gaiety and Shakespearean +jokes about the table, is something to live for. +It is so nice to feel you have been dead three hundred +years, and the sound of your laughter is faint and far +off in the centuries.—Ever your faithful</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page177"></a>177</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, April 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—A moment at last. These last few days +have been as jolly as days could be, and by good fortune +I leave to-morrow for Swanston, so that I shall not feel +the whole fall back to habitual self. The pride of life +could scarce go further. To live in splendid clothes, +velvet and gold and fur, upon principally champagne +and lobster salad, with a company of people nearly all of +whom are exceptionally good talkers; when your days +began about eleven and ended about four—I have lost +that sentence; I give it up; it is very admirable sport, +any way. Then both my afternoons have been so pleasantly +occupied—taking Henley drives. I had a business +to carry him down the long stair, and more of a business +to get him up again, but while he was in the carriage it +was splendid. It is now just the top of spring with us. +The whole country is mad with green. To see the cherry-blossom +bitten out upon the black firs, and the black firs +bitten out of the blue sky, was a sight to set before a king. +You may imagine what it was to a man who has been +eighteen months in an hospital ward. The look of his +face was a wine to me. He plainly has been little in +the country before. Imagine this: I always stopped him +on the Bridges to let him enjoy the great <i>cry</i> of green that +goes up to Heaven out of the river beds, and he asked +(more than once) “What noise is that?”—“The water.”—“O!” +almost incredulously; and then quite a long +while after: “Do you know the noise of the water +astonished me very much?” I was much struck by his +putting the question <i>twice</i>; I have lost the sense of +wonder of course; but there must be something to wonder +at, for Henley has eyes and ears and an immortal soul +of his own.</p> + +<p>I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178"></a>178</span> +address—Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. +Salute the faithful in my name. Salute Priscilla, salute +Barnabas, salute Ebenezer—O no, he’s too much, I withdraw +Ebenezer; enough of early Christians.—Ever your +faithful</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, May or June 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">I say</span>, we have a splendid picture here in Edinburgh. +A Ruysdael of which one can never tire: I think it is +one of the best landscapes in the world: a grey still day, +a grey still river, a rough oak wood on one shore, on the +other chalky banks with very complicated footpaths, oak +woods, a field where a man stands reaping, church towers +relieved against the sky and a beautiful distance, neither +blue nor green. It is so still, the light is so cool and +temperate, the river woos you to bathe in it. O I like it!</p> + +<p>I say, I wonder if our Scottish Academy’s exhibition +is going to be done at all for Appleton or whether he does +not care for it. It might amuse me, although I am not +fit for it. Why and O why doesn’t Grove publish me?—Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I was at this time, if I remember rightly, preparing some +lectures on Hogarth for a course at Cambridge.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, June 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am a devil certainly; but write +I cannot. Look here, you had better get hold of G. C. +Lichtenberg’s <i>Ausfürliche Erklarung der Hogarthischen +Kupferstiche</i>: Göttingen, 1794 to 1816 (it was published +in numbers seemingly). Douglas the publisher lent it to +me: and tho’ I hate the damned tongue too cordially to +do more than dip into it, I have seen some shrewd things. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page179"></a>179</span> +If you cannot get it for yourself, (it seems scarce), I dare +say I could negotiate with Douglas for a loan. This +adorable spring has made me quite drunken, drunken +with green colour and golden sound. We have the best +blackbird here that we have had for years; we have two; +but the other is but an average performer. Anything so +rich and clear as the pipe of our first fiddle, it never entered +into the heart of man to fancy. How the years slip away, +Colvin; and we walk little cycles, and turn in little abortive +spirals, and come out again, hot and weary, to find +the same view before us, the same hill barring the road. +Only, bless God for it, we have still the same eye to see +with, and if the scene be not altogether unsightly, we +can enjoy it whether or no. I feel quite happy, but +curiously inert and passive, something for the winds to +blow over, and the sun to glimpse on and go off again, as +it might be a tree or a gravestone. All this willing and +wishing and striving leads a man nowhere after all. Here +I am back again in my old humour of a sunny equanimity; +to see the world fleet about me; and the days chase each +other like sun patches, and the nights like cloud-shadows, +on a windy day; content to see them go and no wise +reluctant for the cool evening, with its dew and stars and +fading strain of tragic red. And I ask myself why +I ever leave this humour? What I have gained? +And the winds blow in the trees with a sustained +“Pish“! and the birds answer me in a long derisive +whistle.</p> + +<p>So that for health, happiness, and indifferent literature, +apply to—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“<i>Burns</i>” means the article on Burns which R. L. S. had been +commissioned to write for the Encyclopædia Britannica. The +“awfully nice man” was the Hon. J. Seed, formerly Secretary to +the Customs and Marine Department of New Zealand; and it was +from his conversation that the notion of the Samoan Islands as a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180"></a>180</span> +place of refuge for the sick and world-worn first entered Stevenson’s +mind, to lie dormant (I never heard him speak of it) and be revived +thirteen years later.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, June 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Simply</span> a scratch. All right, jolly, well, and through +with the difficulty. My father pleased about the <i>Burns</i>. +Never travel in the same carriage with three able-bodied +seamen and a fruiterer from Kent; the A.-B.’s speak all +night as though they were hailing vessels at sea; and +the fruiterer as if he were crying fruit in a noisy market-place—such, +at least, is my <i>funeste</i> experience. I wonder +if a fruiterer from some place else—say Worcestershire—would +offer the same phenomena? insoluble doubt.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p><i>Later.</i>—Forgive me, couldn’t get it off. Awfully nice +man here to-night. Public servant—New Zealand. Telling +us all about the South Sea Islands till I was sick with +desire to go there: beautiful places, green for ever; perfect +climate; perfect shapes of men and women, with red +flowers in their hair; and nothing to do but to study +oratory and etiquette, sit in the sun, and pick up the +fruits as they fall. Navigator’s Island is the place; absolute +balm for the weary.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The examination for the Bar at Edinburgh was approaching. +<i>Fontainebleau</i> is the paper called <i>Forest Notes</i>, afterwards printed +in the Cornhill Magazine. The church is Glencorse Church in the +Pentlands, to the thoughts of which Stevenson reverted in his last +days with so much emotion (see <i>Weir of Hermiston</i>, chap. v.).</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston. End of June 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—This day fortnight I shall fall or conquer. +Outside the rain still soaks; but now and again the hilltop +looks through the mist vaguely. I am very comfortable, +very sleepy, and very much satisfied with the +arrangements of Providence.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page181"></a>181</span></p> + +<p><i>Saturday—no, Sunday</i>, 12.45.—Just been—not grinding, +alas!—I couldn’t—but doing a bit of <i>Fontainebleau</i>. +I don’t think I’ll be plucked. I am not sure though—I +am so busy, what with this d——d law, and this <i>Fontainebleau</i> +always at my elbow, and three plays (three, think +of that!) and a story, all crying out to me, “Finish, finish, +make an entire end, make us strong, shapely, viable +creatures!” It’s enough to put a man crazy. Moreover, +I have my thesis given out now, which is a fifth (is it +fifth? I can’t count) incumbrance.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—I’ve been to church, and am not depressed—a +great step. I was at that beautiful church my <i>petit +poëme en prose</i> was about. It is a little cruciform place, +with heavy cornices and string course to match, and a +steep slate roof. The small kirkyard is full of old gravestones. +One of a Frenchman from Dunkerque—I suppose +he died prisoner in the military prison hard by—and one, +the most pathetic memorial I ever saw, a poor school-slate, +in a wooden frame, with the inscription cut into it +evidently by the father’s own hand. In church, old Mr. +Torrence preached—over eighty, and a relic of times forgotten, +with his black thread gloves and mild old foolish +face. One of the nicest parts of it was to see John Inglis, +the greatest man in Scotland, our Justice-General, and +the only born lawyer I ever heard, listening to the piping +old body, as though it had all been a revelation, grave +and respectful.—Ever your faithful</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, July 15, 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Passed.</span></p> + +<p class="center">Ever your<br /> +R.<br /> +L.<br /> +S.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_13" href="#FnAnchor_13"><span class="fn">13</span></a> <i>L’Homme qui rit.</i></p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_14" href="#FnAnchor_14"><span class="fn">14</span></a> This letter, accepting the first contribution of R. L. S., has by +an accident been preserved, and is so interesting, both for its occasion +and for the light it throws on the writer’s care and kindness +as an editor, that by permission of his representatives I here print +it. ’93 stands, of course, for the novel <i>Quatre-vingt Treize</i>.</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>15 Waterloo Place, S. W., 15/5/74</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR SIR</span>,—I have read with great interest your article on Victor +Hugo and also that which appeared in the last number of Macmillan. +I shall be happy to accept Hugo, and if I have been rather +long in answering you, it is only because I wished to give a second +reading to the article, and have lately been very much interrupted.</p> + +<p>I will now venture to make a few remarks, and by way of +preface I must say that I do not criticise you because I take a low +view of your powers: but for the very contrary reason. I think +very highly of the promise shown in your writings and therefore +think it worth while to write more fully than I can often to contributors. +Nor do I set myself up as a judge—I am very sensible +of my own failings in the critical department and merely submit +what has occurred to me for your consideration.</p> + +<p>I fully agree with the greatest portion of your opinions and +think them very favourably expressed. The following points +struck me as doubtful when I read and may perhaps be worth +notice.</p> + +<p>First, you seem to make the distinction between dramatic and +novelistic art coincide with the distinction between romantic and +18th century. This strikes me as doubtful, as at least to +require qualification. To my mind Hugo is far more dramatic in +spirit than Fielding, though his method involves (as you show +exceedingly well) a use of scenery and background which would +hardly be admissible in drama. I am not able—I fairly confess—to +define the dramatic element in Hugo or to say why I think it +absent from Fielding and Richardson. Yet surely Hugo’s own +dramas are a sufficient proof that a drama may be romantic as well +as a novel: though, of course, the pressure of the great moral +forces, etc., must be indicated by different means. The question is +rather a curious one and too wide to discuss in a letter. I merely +suggest what seems to me to be an obvious criticism on your +argument.</p> + +<p>Secondly, you speak very sensibly of the melodramatic and +clap-trap element in Hugo. I confess that it seems to me to go +deeper into his work than you would apparently allow. I think it, +for example, very palpable even in <i>Notre Dame</i>, and I doubt the +historical fidelity though my ignorance of mediæval history prevents +me from putting my finger on many faults. The consequence +is that in my opinion you are scarcely just to Scott or Fielding as +compared with Hugo. Granting fully his amazing force and fire, +he seems to me to be deficient often in that kind of healthy realism +which is so admirable in Scott’s best work. For example, though +my Scotch blood (for I can boast of some) may prejudice me I am +profoundly convinced that Balfour of Burley would have knocked +M. Lantenac into a cocked hat and stormed la Tourgue if it had +been garrisoned by 19 x 19 French spouters of platitude in half +the time that Gauvain and Cimourdain took about it. In fact, +Balfour seems to me to be flesh and blood and Gauvain & Co. to +be too often mere personified bombast: and therefore I fancy +that <i>Old Mortality</i> will outlast ’93, though <i>Notre Dame</i> is far better +than <i>Quentin Durward</i>, and <i>Les Misérables</i>, perhaps, better than +any. This is, of course, fair matter of opinion.</p> + +<p>Thirdly, I don’t think that you quite bring out your meaning in +saying that ’93 is a decisive symptom. I confess that I don’t quite +see in what sense it decides precisely what question. A sentence or +so would clear this up.</p> + +<p>Fourthly, as a matter of form, I think (but I am very doubtful) +that it might possibly have been better not to go into each novel +in succession; but to group the substance of your remarks a little +differently. Of course I don’t want you to alter the form, I merely +notice the point as suggesting a point in regard to any future +article.</p> + +<p>Many of your criticisms in detail strike me as very good. I was +much pleased by your remarks on the storm in the <i>Travailleurs</i>. +There was another very odd storm, as it struck me on a hasty +reading in ’93, where there is mention of a beautiful summer evening +and yet the wind is so high that you can’t hear the tocsin. +You do justice also and more than justice to Hugo’s tenderness +about children. That, I think, points to one great source of his +power.</p> + +<p>It would be curious to compare Hugo to a much smaller man, +Chas. Reade, who is often a kind of provincial or Daily Telegraph +Hugo. However that would hardly do in the Cornhill. I shall +send your article to the press and hope to use it in July. Any +alterations can be made when the article is in type, if any are +desirable. I cannot promise definitely in advance; but at any +rate it shall appear as soon as may be.</p> + +<p>Excuse this long rigmarole and believe me to be, yours very +truly,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Leslie Stephen.</p> + +<p>I shall hope to hear from you again. If ever you come to town +you will find me at 8 Southwell Gardens (close to the Gloucester +Road Station of the Underground). I am generally at home, +except from 3 to 5.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_15" href="#FnAnchor_15"><span class="fn">15</span></a> Portfolio.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_16" href="#FnAnchor_16"><span class="fn">16</span></a> Richmond Seeley.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_17" href="#FnAnchor_17"><span class="fn">17</span></a> The essay <i>Notes on the Movements of Young Children</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_18" href="#FnAnchor_18"><span class="fn">18</span></a> I remember nothing of either the title or the tenor of this story.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_19" href="#FnAnchor_19"><span class="fn">19</span></a> Printed by Mr. Leslie Stephen in the Cornhill.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page182"></a>182</span></p> +<h3>IV</h3> + +<h3>ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR</h3> + +<h5>EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU</h5> + +<h6><span class="sc">July 1875-July 1879</span></h6> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Having</span> on the 14th of July 1875 passed with credit his +examination for the Bar at Edinburgh, Stevenson thenceforth +enjoyed whatever status and consideration attaches +to the title of Advocate. But he made no serious attempt +to practise, and by the 25th of the same month had started +with Sir Walter Simpson for France. Here he lived and +tramped for several weeks among the artist haunts of +Fontainebleau and the neighbourhood, occupying himself +chiefly with studies of the French poets and poetry of the +fifteenth century, which afterwards bore fruit in his papers +on Charles of Orleans and François Villon. Thence he +travelled to join his parents at Wiesbaden and Homburg. +Returning in the autumn to Scotland, he made, to please +them, an effort to live the ordinary life of an Edinburgh +advocate—attending trials and spending his mornings in +wig and gown at the Parliament House. But this attempt +was before long abandoned as tending to waste of time +and being incompatible with his real occupation of literature. +Through the next winter and spring he remained +in Edinburgh, except for a short winter walking tour in +Ayrshire and Galloway, and a month spent among his +friends in London. In the late summer of 1876, after a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183"></a>183</span> +visit to the West Highlands, he made the canoe trip with +Sir Walter Simpson which furnished the subject of the +<i>Inland Voyage</i>, followed by a prolonged autumn stay at +Grez and Barbizon. The life, atmosphere, and scenery +of these forest haunts had charmed and soothed him, +as we have seen, since he was first introduced to them +by his cousin, Mr. R. A. M. Stevenson, in the spring of +1875. An unfettered, unconventional, open-air existence, +passed face to face with nature and in the company of +congenial people engaged, like himself, in grappling with +the problems and difficulties of an art, had been what +he had longed for most consistently through all the +agitations of his youth. And now he had found just +such an existence, and with it, as he thought, peace of +mind, health, and the spirit of unimpeded work.</p> + +<p>But peace of mind was not to be his for long. What +indeed awaited him in the forest was something different +and more momentous: it was his fate: the romance +which decided his life, and the companion whom he resolved +to make his own at all hazards. But of this hereafter. +To continue briefly the annals of the time: the +year 1877 was again spent between Edinburgh, London, +the Fontainebleau region, and several different temporary +abodes in the artists’ and other quarters of Paris; with +an excursion in the company of his parents to the Land’s +End in August. In 1878 a similar general mode of life +was varied by a visit with his parents in March to Burford +Bridge, where he made warm friends with a senior +to whom he had long looked up from a distance, Mr. +George Meredith; by a spell of secretarial work under +Professor Fleeming Jenkin, who was serving as a juror +on the Paris Exhibition; and lastly, by the autumn +tramp through the Cévennes, afterwards recounted with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page184"></a>184</span> +so much charm in <i>Travels with a Donkey</i>. The first half +of 1879 was again spent between London, Scotland, and +France.</p> + +<p>During these four years, it should be added, Stevenson’s +health was very passable. It often, indeed, threatened +to give way after any prolonged residence in Edinburgh, +but was generally soon restored by open-air excursions +(during which he was capable of fairly vigorous and +sustained daily exercise), or by a spell of life among the +woods of Fontainebleau. They were also the years in +which he settled for good into his chosen profession of +letters. He worked rather desultorily for the first twelve +months after his call to the Bar, but afterwards with ever-growing +industry and success, winning from the critical +a full measure of recognition, though relatively little, so +far, from the general public. In 1875 and 1876 he contributed +as a journalist, though not frequently, to the +Academy and Vanity Fair, and in 1877 more abundantly +to London, a weekly review founded by Mr. Glasgow +Brown, an acquaintance of Edinburgh Speculative days, +and carried on, after the failure of that gentleman’s health, +by Mr. Henley. But he had no great gift or liking for +journalism, or for any work not calling for the best literary +form and finish he could give. Where he found special +scope for such work was in the Cornhill Magazine under +the editorship of Mr. Leslie Stephen. Here he continued +his critical papers on men and books, already begun in +1874 with <i>Victor Hugo</i>, and began in 1876 the series of +papers afterwards collected in <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>. They +were continued in 1877, and in greater number throughout +1878. His first published stories appeared as follows:—<i>A +Lodging for the Night</i>, Temple Bar, October 1877; <i>The +Sire de Malétroit’s Door</i>, Temple Bar, January 1878; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page185"></a>185</span> +<i>Will o’ the Mill</i>, Cornhill Magazine, January 1878. In +May 1878 followed his first travel book, <i>The Inland Voyage</i>, +containing the account of his canoe trip from Antwerp +to Grez. This was to Stevenson a year of great and +various productiveness. Besides six or eight characteristic +essays of the <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> series, there +appeared in London the set of fantastic modern tales +called the <i>New Arabian Nights</i>, conceived and written +in an entirely different key from any of his previous work, +as well as the kindly, sentimental comedy of French +artist life, <i>Providence and the Guitar</i>; and in the Portfolio +the <i>Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh</i>, republished at +the end of the year in book form. During the autumn +and winter of this year he wrote <i>Travels with a Donkey +in the Cévennes</i>, and was much and eagerly engaged in the +planning of plays in collaboration with Mr. Henley; of +which one, <i>Deacon Brodie</i>, was finished in the spring of +1879. In the same spring he drafted in Edinburgh, but +afterwards laid by, four chapters on ethics, a study of +which he once spoke as being always his “veiled mistress,” +under the name of <i>Lay Morals</i>.</p> + +<p>But abounding in good work as this period was, and +momentous as it was in regard to Stevenson’s future +life, it is a period which figures but meagrely in his correspondence, +and in this book must fill disproportionately +little space. Without the least breach of friendship, or +even of intimate confidence on occasion, Stevenson had +begun, as was natural and necessary, to wean himself from +his entire dependence on his friend and counsellor of the +last two years; to take his life more into his own hands; +and to intermit the regularity of his correspondence with +her. A few new correspondents appear; but to none of +us in these days did he write more than scantily. Partly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page186"></a>186</span> +his growing absorption by the complications of his life +and the interests of his work left him little time or inclination +for letter-writing; partly his greater freedom of +movement made it unnecessary. On his way backwards +and forwards between Scotland and France, his friends +in London had the chance of seeing him much more frequently +than of yore. He avoided formal and dress-coated +society; but in the company of congenial friends, +whether men or women, and in places like the Savile +Club (his favourite haunt), he was as brilliant and stimulating +as ever, and however acute his inward preoccupations, +his visits were always a delight.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, end of July 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Herewith you receive the rest of +Henley’s hospital work. He was much pleased by what +you said of him, and asked me to forward these to you +for your opinion. One poem, the <i>Spring Sorrow</i>, seems to +me the most beautiful. I thank God for this <i>petit bout de +consolation</i>, that by Henley’s own account, this one more +lovely thing in the world is not altogether without some +trace of my influence: let me say that I have been something +sympathetic which the mother found and contemplated +while she yet carried it in her womb. This, in +my profound discouragement, is a great thing for me; if +I cannot do good with myself, at least, it seems, I can +help others better inspired; I am at least a skilful accoucheur. +My discouragement is from many causes: among +others the re-reading of my Italian story. Forgive me, +Colvin, but I cannot agree with you; it seems green fruit +to me, if not really unwholesome; it is profoundly feeble, +damn its weakness! Moreover I stick over my <i>Fontainebleau</i>, +it presents difficulties to me that I surmount slowly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page187"></a>187</span></p> + +<p>I am very busy with Béranger for the Britannica. +Shall be up in town on Friday or Saturday.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S., <i>Advocate</i>.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chez Siron, Barbizon, +Seine et Marne, August 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I have been three days at a place +called Grez, a pretty and very melancholy village on the +plain. A low bridge of many arches choked with sedge; +great fields of white and yellow water-lilies; poplars and +willows innumerable; and about it all such an atmosphere +of sadness and slackness, one could do nothing but get +into the boat and out of it again, and yawn for bedtime.</p> + +<p>Yesterday Bob and I walked home; it came on a very +creditable thunderstorm; we were soon wet through; +sometimes the rain was so heavy that one could only see +by holding the hand over the eyes; and to crown all, +we lost our way and wandered all over the place, and into +the artillery range, among broken trees, with big shot +lying about among the rocks. It was near dinner-time +when we got to Barbizon; and it is supposed that we +walked from twenty-three to twenty-five miles, which is +not bad for the Advocate, who is not tired this morning. +I was very glad to be back again in this dear place, and +smell the wet forest in the morning.</p> + +<p>Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and +got about as wet as we did.</p> + +<p>Why don’t you write? I have no more to say.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>At this time Stevenson was much occupied, as were several +young writers his contemporaries, with imitating the artificial +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188"></a>188</span> +forms of early French verse. Only one of his attempts, I believe, +has been preserved, besides the two contained in this letter. The +second is a variation on a theme of Banville’s.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Château Renard, Loiret, August 1875.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> been walking these last days from place to +place; and it does make it hot for walking with a sack in +this weather. I am burned in horrid patches of red; my +nose, I fear, is going to take the lead in colour; Simpson +is all flushed, as if he were seen by a sunset. I send you +here two rondeaux; I don’t suppose they will amuse +anybody but me; but this measure, short and yet intricate, +is just what I desire; and I have had some good +times walking along the glaring roads, or down the poplar +alley of the great canal, pitting my own humour to this +old verse.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>Far have you come, my lady, from the town,</p> +<p>And far from all your sorrows, if you please,</p> +<p>To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas,</p> +<p>And in green meadows lay your body down.</p> + +<p class="stanza">To find your pale face grow from pale to brown,</p> +<p>Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees;</p> +<p>Far have you come, my lady, from the town,</p> +<p>And far from all your sorrows, if you please.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Here in this seaboard land of old renown,</p> +<p>In meadow grass go wading to the knees;</p> +<p>Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease;</p> +<p>There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;</p> +<p>Far have you come, my lady, from the town.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="center"><i>Nous n’irons plus au bois</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>We’ll walk the woods no more,</p> +<p>But stay beside the fire,</p> +<p>To weep for old desire</p> +<p>And things that are no more.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page189"></a>189</span></p> + <p class="i2">The woods are spoiled and hoar,</p> +<p>The ways are full of mire;</p> +<p>We’ll walk the woods no more,</p> +<p>But stay beside the fire.</p> + <p class="i2">We loved, in days of yore,</p> +<p>Love, laughter, and the lyre.</p> +<p>Ah God, but death is dire,</p> +<p>And death is at the door—</p> +<p>We’ll walk the woods no more.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The special mood or occasion of unaccustomed bitterness which +prompted this rhapsody has passed from memory beyond recall. +The date must be after his return from his second excursion to +Fontainebleau.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, late Summer 1875</i>] <i>Thursday.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">I have</span> been staying in town, and could not write a +word. It is a fine strong night, full of wind; the trees +are all crying out in the darkness; funny to think of the +birds asleep outside, on the tossing branches, the little +bright eyes closed, the brave wings folded, the little hearts +that beat so hard and thick (so much harder and thicker +than ever human heart) all stilled and quieted in deep +slumber, in the midst of this noise and turmoil. Why, +it will be as much as I can do to sleep in here in my walled +room; so loud and jolly the wind sounds through the open +window. The unknown places of the night invite the +travelling fancy; I like to think of the sleeping towns +and sleeping farm-houses and cottages, all the world over, +here by the white road poplar-lined, there by the clamorous +surf. Isn’t that a good dormitive?</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—I cannot tell how I feel, who can ever? I +feel like a person in a novel of George Sand’s; I feel I +desire to go out of the house, and begin life anew in the +cool blue night; never to come back here; never, never. +Only to go on for ever by sunny day and grey day, by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190"></a>190</span> +bright night and foul, by high-way and by-way, town +and hamlet, until somewhere by a road-side or in some +clean inn clean death opened his arms to me and took +me to his quiet heart for ever. If soon, good; if late, well +then, late—there would be many a long bright mile behind +me, many a goodly, many a serious sight; I should die +ripe and perfect, and take my garnered experience with +me into the cool, sweet earth. For I have died already +and survived a death; I have seen the grass grow rankly +on my grave; I have heard the train of mourners come +weeping and go laughing away again. And when I was +alone there in the kirk-yard, and the birds began to grow +familiar with the grave-stone, I have begun to laugh +also, and laughed and laughed until night-flowers came +out above me. I have survived myself, and somehow +live on, a curious changeling, a merry ghost; and do not +mind living on, finding it not unpleasant; only had +rather, a thousandfold, died and been done with the +whole damned show for ever. It is a strange feeling at +first to survive yourself, but one gets used to that as to +most things. <i>Et puis</i>, is it not one’s own fault? Why +did not one lie still in the grave? Why rise again among +men’s troubles and toils, where the wicked wag their +shock beards and hound the weary out to labour? When +I was safe in prison, and stone walls and iron bars were +an hermitage about me, who told me to burst the mild +constraint and go forth where the sun dazzles, and the +wind pierces, and the loud world sounds and jangles all +through the weary day? I mind an old print of a hermit +coming out of a great wood towards evening and shading +his bleared eyes to see all the kingdoms of the earth +before his feet, where towered cities and castled hills, +and stately rivers, and good corn lands made one great +chorus of temptation for his weak spirit, and I think I am +the hermit, and would to God I had dwelt ever in the +wood of penitence<a name="FnAnchor_20" href="#Footnote_20"><span class="sp">20</span></a>——</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page191"></a>191</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The <i>Burns</i> herein mentioned is an article undertaken in the +early summer of the same year for the Encyclopædia Britannica. +In the end Stevenson’s work was thought to convey a view of the +poet too frankly critical, and too little in accordance with the +accepted Scotch tradition; and the publishers, duly paying him +for his labours, transferred the task to Professor Shairp. The +volume here announced on the three Scottish eighteenth-century +poets unfortunately never came into being. The <i>Charles of Orleans</i> +essay appeared in the Cornhill Magazine for December of the +following year; that on Villon (with the story on the same theme, +<i>A Lodging for the Night</i>) not until the autumn of 1877. The essay +on Béranger referred to at the end of the letter was one commissioned +and used by the editor of the Encyclopædia; <i>Spring</i> was a +prose poem, of which the manuscript, sent to me at Cambridge, +was unluckily lost in the confusion of a change of rooms.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, Autumn 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks for your letter and news. +No—my <i>Burns</i> is not done yet, it has led me so far afield +that I cannot finish it; every time I think I see my way +to an end, some new game (or perhaps wild goose) starts +up, and away I go. And then, again, to be plain, I shirk +the work of the critical part, shirk it as a man shirks a +long jump. It is awful to have to express and differentiate +<i>Burns</i> in a column or two. O golly, I say, you know, +it <i>can’t</i> be done at the money. All the more as I’m going +to write a book about it. <i>Ramsay, Fergusson, and Burns: +an Essay</i> (or <i>a critical essay?</i> but then I’m going to give +lives of the three gentlemen, only the gist of the book is +the criticism) by Robert Louis Stevenson, Advocate. +How’s that for cut and dry? And I <i>could</i> write this +book. Unless I deceive myself, I could even write it +pretty adequately. I feel as if I was really in it, and +knew the game thoroughly. You see what comes of trying +to write an essay on Burns in ten columns.</p> + +<p>Meantime, when I have done Burns, I shall finish +Charles of Orleans (who is in a good way, about the fifth +month, I should think, and promises to be a fine healthy +child, better than any of his elder brothers for a while); +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192"></a>192</span> +and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a very essential +part of my <i>Ramsay-Fergusson-Burns</i>; I mean, is a note +in it, and will recur again and again for comparison and +illustration; then, perhaps, I may try Fontainebleau, by +the way. But so soon as Charles of Orleans is polished +off, and immortalised for ever, he and his pipings, in a +solid imperishable shrine of R. L. S., my true aim and +end will be this little book. Suppose I could jerk you out +100 Cornhill pages; that would easy make 200 pages of +decent form; and then thickish paper—eh? would that +do? I dare say it could be made bigger; but I know +what 100 pages of copy, bright consummate copy, imply +behind the scenes of weary manuscribing; I think if I +put another nothing to it, I should not be outside the +mark; and 100 Cornhill pages of 500 words means, I +fancy (but I never was good at figures), means 50,000 +words. There’s a prospect for an idle young gentleman +who lives at home at ease! The future is thick with +inky fingers. And then perhaps nobody would publish. +<i>Ah nom de dieu!</i> What do you think of all this? will +it paddle, think you?</p> + +<p>I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried.</p> + +<p>About coming up, no, that’s impossible; for I am +worse than a bankrupt. I have at the present six shillings +and a penny; I have a sounding lot of bills for Christmas; +new dress suit, for instance, the old one having +gone for Parliament House; and new white shirts to +live up to my new profession; I’m as gay and swell and +gummy as can be; only all my boots leak; one pair +water, and the other two simple black mud; so that +my rig is more for the eye than a very solid comfort to +myself. That is my budget. Dismal enough, and no +prospect of any coin coming in; at least for months. So +that here I am, I almost fear, for the winter; certainly +till after Christmas, and then it depends on how my bills +“turn out” whether it shall not be till spring. So, meantime, +I must whistle in my cage. My cage is better by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193"></a>193</span> +one thing; I am an Advocate now. If you ask me why +that makes it better, I would remind you that in the most +distressing circumstances a little consequence goes a long +way, and even bereaved relatives stand on precedence +round the coffin. I idle finely. I read Boswell’s <i>Life of +Johnson</i>, Martin’s <i>History of France</i>, <i>Allan Ramsay</i>, +<i>Olivier Basselin</i>, all sorts of rubbish <i>àpropos</i> of <i>Burns</i>, +<i>Commines</i>, <i>Juvénal des Ursins</i>, etc. I walk about the +Parliament House five forenoons a week, in wig and +gown; I have either a five or six mile walk, or an hour +or two hard skating on the rink, every afternoon, without +fail.</p> + +<p>I have not written much; but, like the seaman’s +parrot in the tale, I have thought a deal. You have never, +by the way, returned me either <i>Spring</i> or <i>Béranger</i>, which +is certainly a d——d shame. I always comforted myself +with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter +to you. “Thus conscience“—O no, that’s not appropriate +in this connection.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p>I say, is there any chance of your coming north this +year? Mind you that promise is now more respectable +for age than is becoming.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following epistle in verse, with its mixed flavour of Burns +and Horace, gives a lively picture of winter forenoons spent in the +Parliament House:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, October 1875.</i>]</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green,</p> +<p>Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean,</p> +<p>An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’,</p> + <p class="i2">To pass the winter.</p> +<p>Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in,</p> + <p class="i2">An’ snaws ahint her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page194"></a>194</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">I’ve seen’s hae days to fricht us a’,</p> +<p>The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw,</p> +<p>The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw,</p> + <p class="i2">An’ half-congealin’,</p> +<p>The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw</p> + <p class="i2">Frae blae Brunteelan’.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I’ve seen’s been unco sweir to sally,</p> +<p>And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally,</p> +<p>Seen’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally</p> + <p class="i2">For near a minute—</p> +<p>Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley,</p> + <p class="i2">The deil was in it!—</p> + +<p class="stanza">Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate</p> +<p>In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t!</p> +<p>The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate,</p> + <p class="i2">Wi’ cauld an’ weet,</p> +<p>An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late,</p> + <p class="i2">Bicker oor feet.</p> + +<p class="stanza">And at the Court, tae, aft I saw</p> +<p>Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa</p> +<p>Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’</p> + <p class="i2">In weeg an’ goon,</p> +<p>To crack o’ what ye wull but Law</p> + <p class="i2">The hale forenoon.</p> + +<p class="stanza">That muckle ha’, maist like a kirk,</p> +<p>I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk</p> +<p>Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk</p> + <p class="i2">Like ghaists frae Hell,</p> +<p>But whether Christian ghaists or Turk</p> + <p class="i2">Deil ane could tell.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page195"></a>195</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">The three fires lunted in the gloom,</p> +<p>The wind blew like the blast o’ doom,</p> +<p>The rain upo’ the roof abune</p> + <p class="i2">Played Peter Dick——</p> +<p>Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room</p> + <p class="i2">Your teeth to pick!</p> + +<p class="stanza">But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you,</p> +<p>The ling-lang lanely winter through,</p> +<p>Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true</p> + <p class="i2">To lore Horatian,</p> +<p>We aye the ither bottle drew</p> + <p class="i2">To inclination.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Sae let us in the comin’ days</p> +<p>Stand sicker on our auncient ways—</p> +<p>The strauchtest road in a’ the maze</p> + <p class="i2">Since Eve ate apples;</p> +<p>An’ let the winter weet our cla’es—</p> + <p class="i2">We’ll weet our thrapples.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The two following letters refer to the essay on the Spirit of +Spring which I was careless enough to lose in the process of a change +of rooms at Cambridge. <i>The Petits Poèmes en Prose</i> were attempts, +not altogether successful, in the form though not in the spirit of +Baudelaire.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston</i> [<i>Autumn 1875</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks. Only why don’t you tell +me if I can get my <i>Spring</i> printed? I want to print it; +because it’s nice, and genuine to boot, and has got less +side on than my other game. Besides I want coin badly.</p> + +<p>I am writing <i>Petits Poèmes en Prose</i>. Their principal +resemblance to Baudelaire’s is that they are rather longer +and not quite so good. They are ve-ry cle-ver (words of +two syllables), O so aw-ful-ly cle-ver (words of three), O +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page196"></a>196</span> +so dam-na-bly cle-ver (words of a devil of a number of +syllables). I have written fifteen in a fortnight. I have +also written some beautiful poetry. I would like a cake +and a cricket-bat; and a pass-key to Heaven if you please, +and as much money as my friend the Baron Rothschild +can spare. I used to look across to Rothschild of a morning +when we were brushing our hair, and say—(this is +quite true, only we were on the opposite side of the street, +and though I used to look over I cannot say I ever detected +the beggar, he feared to meet my eagle eye)—well, I used +to say to him, “Rothschild, old man, lend us five hundred +francs,” and it is characteristic of Rothy’s dry humour +that he used never to reply when it was a question of +money. He was a very humorous dog indeed, was Rothy. +Heigh-ho! those happy old days. Funny, funny fellow, +the dear old Baron.</p> + +<p>How’s that for genuine American wit and humour? +Take notice of this in your answer; say, for instance, +“Even although the letter had been unsigned, I could +have had no difficulty in guessing who was my dear, +<i>lively</i>, <i>witty</i> correspondent. Yours, Letitia Languish.”</p> + +<p>O!—my mind has given way. I have gone into a +mild, babbling, sunny idiocy. I shall buy a Jew’s harp +and sit by the roadside with a woman’s bonnet on my +manly head begging my honest livelihood. Meantime, +adieu.</p> + +<p>I would send you some of these <i>PP. Poèmes</i> of mine, +only I know you would never acknowledge receipt or +return them.—Yours, and Rothschild’s,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, Autumn 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—<i>Fous ne me gombrennez pas.</i> Angry +with you? No. Is the thing lost? Well, so be it. There +is one masterpiece fewer in the world. The world can ill +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197"></a>197</span> +spare it, but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow bosom +so that it resounds) I am full of this sort of bauble; I +am made of it; it comes to me, sir, as the desire to sneeze +comes upon poor ordinary devils on cold days, when they +should be getting out of bed and into their horrid cold +tubs by the light of a seven o’clock candle, with the +dismal seven o’clock frost-flowers all over the window.</p> + +<p>Show Stephen what you please; if you could show +him how to give me money, you would oblige, sincerely +yours, R. L. S.</p> + +<p>I have a scroll of <i>Springtime</i> somewhere, but I know that +it is not in very good order, and do not feel myself up to +very much grind over it. I am damped about <i>Springtime</i>, +that’s the truth of it. It might have been four or five quid!</p> + +<p>Sir, I shall shave my head, if this goes on. All men +take a pleasure to gird at me. The laws of nature are in +open war with me. The wheel of a dog-cart took the toes +off my new boots. Gout has set in with extreme rigour, +and cut me out of the cheap refreshment of beer. I leant +my back against an oak, I thought it was a trusty tree, +but first it bent, and syne—it lost the Spirit of Springtime, +and so did Professor Sidney Colvin, Trinity College, +to me.—Ever yours,</p> + + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p>Along with this, I send you some <i>P.P.P.</i>’s; if you +lose them, you need not seek to look upon my face again. +Do, for God’s sake, answer me about them also; it is a +horrid thing for a fond architect to find his monuments +received in silence.—Yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, November 12, 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—Since I got your letter I have been +able to do a little more work, and I have been much +better contented with myself; but I can’t get away, that +is absolutely prevented by the state of my purse and my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198"></a>198</span> +debts, which, I may say, are red like crimson. I don’t +know how I am to clear my hands of them, nor when, not +before Christmas anyway. Yesterday I was twenty-five; +so please wish me many happy returns—directly. This +one was not unhappy anyway. I have got back a good +deal into my old random, little-thought way of life, and +do not care whether I read, write, speak, or walk, so long +as I do something. I have a great delight in this wheel-skating; +I have made great advance in it of late, can do +a good many amusing things (I mean amusing in <i>my</i> +sense—amusing to do). You know, I lose all my forenoons +at Court! So it is, but the time passes; it is a +great pleasure to sit and hear cases argued or advised. +This is quite autobiographical, but I feel as if it was some +time since we met, and I can tell you, I am glad to meet +you again. In every way, you see, but that of work the +world goes well with me. My health is better than ever it +was before; I get on without any jar, nay, as if there +never had been a jar, with my parents. If it weren’t +about that work, I’d be happy. But the fact is, I don’t +think—the fact is, I’m going to trust in Providence about +work. If I could get one or two pieces I hate out of my +way all would be well, I think; but these obstacles disgust +me, and as I know I ought to do them first, I don’t do +anything. I must finish this off, or I’ll just lose another +day. I’ll try to write again soon.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The review of Robert Browning’s <i>Inn Album</i> here mentioned +appears in Vanity Fair, Dec. 11, 1875. The matter of the poem is +praised; the “slating” is only for the form and metres.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, December 1875.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Well</span>, I am hardy! Here I am in the midst of this +great snowstorm, sleeping with my window open and +<i>smoking</i> in my cold tub in the morning so as it would do +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page199"></a>199</span> +your heart good to see. Moreover I am in pretty good +form otherwise. Fontainebleau lags; it has turned out +more difficult than I expected in some places, but there is +a deal of it ready, and (I think) straight.</p> + +<p>I was at a concert on Saturday and heard Hallé and +Norman Neruda play that Sonata of Beethoven’s you +remember, and I felt very funny. But I went and took +a long spanking walk in the dark and got quite an appetite +for dinner. I did; that’s not bragging.</p> + +<p>As you say, a concert wants to be gone to <i>with</i> someone, +and I know who. I have done rather an amusing +paragraph or two for Vanity Fair on the <i>Inn Album</i>. I +have slated R. B. pretty handsomely. I am in a desperate +hurry; so good-bye.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. de Mattos</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The state of health and spirits mentioned in the last soon gave +way to one of the fits of depression, frequent with him in Edinburgh +winters. In the following letter he unbosoms himself to a favourite +cousin (sister to R. A. M. Stevenson).</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Edinburgh, January 1876.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR KATHARINE</span>,—The prisoner reserved his +defence. He has been seedy, however; principally sick +of the family evil, despondency; the sun is gone out +utterly; and the breath of the people of this city lies +about as a sort of damp, unwholesome fog, in which we +go walking with bowed hearts. If I understand what is +a contrite spirit, I have one; it is to feel that you are a +small jar, or rather, as I feel myself, a very large jar, of +pottery work rather <i>mal réussi</i>, and to make every allowance +for the potter (I beg pardon; Potter with a capital +P.) on his ill-success, and rather wish he would reduce +you as soon as possible to potsherds. However, there +are many things to do yet before we go</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p><i>Grossir la pâte universelle</i></p> +<p><i>Faite des formes que Dieu fond.</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page200"></a>200</span></p> + +<p>For instance, I have never been in a revolution yet. +I pray God I may be in one at the end, if I am to make +a mucker. The best way to make a mucker is to have +your back set against a wall and a few lead pellets whiffed +into you in a moment, while yet you are all in a heat and +a fury of combat, with drums sounding on all sides, and +people crying, and a general smash like the infernal orchestration +at the end of the <i>Huguenots</i>....</p> + +<p>Please pardon me for having been so long of writing, +and show your pardon by writing soon to me; it will be +a kindness, for I am sometimes very dull. Edinburgh is +much changed for the worse by the absence of Bob; and +this damned weather weighs on me like a curse. Yesterday, +or the day before, there came so black a rain squall +that I was frightened—what a child would call frightened, +you know, for want of a better word—although in reality +it has nothing to do with fright. I lit the gas and sat +cowering in my chair until it went away again.—Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>O, I am trying my hand at a novel just now; it may +interest you to know, I am bound to say I do not think +it will be a success. However, it’s an amusement for the +moment, and work, work is your only ally against +the “bearded people” that squat upon their hams in the +dark places of life and embrace people horribly as +they go by. God save us from the bearded people! to +think that the sun is still shining in some happy places!</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, January 1876.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Our</span> weather continues as it was, bitterly cold, +and raining often. There is not much pleasure in life +certainly as it stands at present. <i>Nous n’irons plus au +bois, hélas!</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page201"></a>201</span></p> + +<p>I meant to write some more last night, but my father +was ill and it put it out of my way. He is better this +morning.</p> + +<p>If I had written last night, I should have written a +lot. But this morning I am so dreadfully tired and +stupid that I can say nothing. I was down at Leith in +the afternoon. God bless me, what horrid women I saw; +I never knew what a plain-looking race it was before. I +was sick at heart with the looks of them. And the +children, filthy and ragged! And the smells! And the +fat black mud!</p> + +<p>My soul was full of disgust ere I got back. And yet +the ships were beautiful to see, as they are always; and +on the pier there was a clean cold wind that smelt a little +of the sea, though it came down the Firth, and the sunset +had a certain <i>éclat</i> and warmth. Perhaps if I could get +more work done, I should be in a better trim to enjoy +filthy streets and people and cold grim weather; but I +don’t much feel as if it was what I would have chosen. +I am tempted every day of my life to go off on another +walking tour. I like that better than anything else that +I know.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p><i>Fontainebleau</i> is the paper called <i>Forest Notes</i> which appeared +in the Cornhill Magazine in May of this year (reprinted in <i>Essays +of Travel</i>). The <i>Winter’s Walk</i>, as far as it goes one of the most +charming of his essays of the Road, was for some reason never +finished; reprinted <i>ibidem</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, February 1876.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—<i>1st</i>. I have sent <i>Fontainebleau</i> long +ago, long ago. And Leslie Stephen is worse than tepid +about it—liked “some parts” of it “very well,” the +son of Belial. Moreover, he proposes to shorten it; and +I, who want <i>money</i>, and money soon, and not glory and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202"></a>202</span> +the illustration of the English language, I feel as if my +poverty were going to consent.</p> + +<p><i>2nd.</i> I’m as fit as a fiddle after my walk. I am four +inches bigger about the waist than last July! There, +that’s your prophecy did that. I am on <i>Charles of Orleans</i> +now, but I don’t know where to send him. Stephen +obviously spews me out of his mouth, and I spew him +out of mine, so help me! A man who doesn’t like my +<i>Fontainebleau</i>! His head must be turned.</p> + +<p><i>3rd.</i> If ever you do come across my <i>Spring</i> (I beg +your pardon for referring to it again, but I don’t want +you to forget) send it off at once.</p> + +<p><i>4th.</i> I went to Ayr, Maybole, Girvan, Ballantrae, +Stranraer, Glenluce, and Wigton. I shall make an article +of it some day soon, <i>A Winter’s Walk in Carrick and +Galloway</i>. I had a good time.—Yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“Baynes” in the following is Stevenson’s good friend and mine, +the late Professor Spencer Baynes, who was just relinquishing +the editorship of the Encyclopædia Britannica by reason of ill-health.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, July 1876.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Here</span> I am, here, and very well too. I am glad you +liked <i>Walking Tours</i>; I like it, too; I think it’s prose; +and I own with contrition that I have not always written +prose. However, I am “endeavouring after new obedience” +(Scot. Shorter Catechism). You don’t say aught +of <i>Forest Notes</i>, which is kind. There is one, if you will, +that was too sweet to be wholesome.</p> + +<p>I am at Charles d’Orléans. About fifteen Cornhill +pages have already coulé’d from under my facile plume—no, +I mean eleven, fifteen of MS.—and we are not +much more than half-way through, Charles and I; but +he’s a pleasant companion. My health is very well; I +am in a fine exercisy state. Baynes is gone to London; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203"></a>203</span> +if you see him, inquire about my <i>Burns</i>. They have sent +me £5, 5s. for it, which has mollified me horrid. £5, 5s. +is a good deal to pay for a read of it in MS.; I can’t +complain.—Yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This dates from just before the canoeing trip recounted in the +<i>Inland Voyage</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, July 1876.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Well</span>, here I am at last; it is a Sunday, blowing +hard, with a grey sky with the leaves flying; and I have +nothing to say. I ought to have no doubt; since it’s +so long since last I wrote; but there are times when +people’s lives stand still. If you were to ask a squirrel +in a mechanical cage for his autobiography, it would not +be very gay. Every spin may be amusing in itself, but +is mighty like the last; you see I compare myself to a +lighthearted animal; and indeed I have been in a very +good humour. For the weather has been passable; I +have taken a deal of exercise, and done some work. But +I have the strangest repugnance for writing; indeed, I +have nearly got myself persuaded into the notion that +letters don’t arrive, in order to salve my conscience for +never sending them off. I’m reading a great deal of +fifteenth century: <i>Trial of Joan of Arc</i>, <i>Paston Letters</i>, +<i>Basin</i>,<a name="FnAnchor_21" href="#Footnote_21"><span class="sp">21</span></a> etc., also Boswell daily by way of a Bible; I mean +to read Boswell now until the day I die. And now and +again a bit of <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. Is that all? Yes, I +think that’s all. I have a thing in proof for the Cornhill +called <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>. <i>Charles of Orleans</i> is +again laid aside, but in a good state of furtherance this +time. A paper called <i>A Defence of Idlers</i> (which is really +a defence of R. L. S.) is in a good way. So, you see, I +am busy in a tumultuous, knotless sort of fashion; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204"></a>204</span> +as I say, I take lots of exercise, and I’m as brown as +a berry.</p> + +<p>This is the first letter I’ve written for—O I don’t know +how long.</p> + +<p><i>July 30th.</i>—This is, I suppose, three weeks after I +began. Do, please, forgive me.</p> + +<p>To the Highlands, first, to the Jenkins’; then to +Antwerp; thence, by canoe with Simpson, to Paris and +Grez (on the Loing, and an old acquaintance of mine +on the skirts of Fontainebleau) to complete our cruise +next spring (if we’re all alive and jolly) by Loing and +Loire, Saone and Rhone to the Mediterranean. It should +make a jolly book of gossip, I imagine.</p> + +<p>God bless you.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> is in August Cornhill. +<i>Charles of Orleans</i> is finished, and sent to Stephen; <i>Idlers</i> +ditto, and sent to Grove; but I’ve no word of either. So +I’ve not been idle.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In a well-known passage of the <i>Inland Voyage</i> the following +incident is related to the same purport, but in another style:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Chauny, Aisne</i> [<i>September 1876</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Here I am, you see; and if you +will take to a map, you will observe I am already more +than two doors from Antwerp, whence I started. I have +fought it through under the worst weather I ever saw +in France; I have been wet through nearly every day +of travel since the second (inclusive); besides this, I have +had to fight against pretty mouldy health; so that, on +the whole, the essayist and reviewer has shown, I think, +some pluck. Four days ago I was not a hundred miles +from being miserably drowned, to the immense regret of +a large circle of friends and the permanent impoverishment +of British Essayism and Reviewery. My boat culbutted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205"></a>205</span> +me under a fallen tree in a very rapid current; +and I was a good while before I got on to the outside of +that fallen tree; rather a better while than I cared +about. When I got up, I lay some time on my belly, +panting, and exuded fluid. All my symptoms <i>jusqu’ ici</i> +are trifling. But I’ve a damned sore throat.—Yours +ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Part of <i>The Hair Trunk</i> still exists in MS. It contains some +tolerable fooling, but is chiefly interesting from the fact that the +seat of the proposed Bohemian colony from Cambridge is to be +in the Navigator Islands; showing the direction which had been +given to Stevenson’s thoughts by the conversation of the New +Zealand official, Mr. Seed, two years before.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, May 1877.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">... A perfect</span> chorus of repudiation is sounding in +my ears; and although you say nothing, I know you +must be repudiating me, all the same. Write I cannot—there’s +no good mincing matters, a letter frightens me +worse than the devil; and I am just as unfit for correspondence +as if I had never learned the three R.’s.</p> + +<p>Let me give my news quickly before I relapse into +my usual idleness. I have a terror lest I should relapse +before I get this finished. Courage, R. L. S.! On Leslie +Stephen’s advice, I gave up the idea of a book of essays. +He said he didn’t imagine I was rich enough for such +an amusement; and moreover, whatever was worth publication +was worth republication. So the best of those I +had already, <i>An Apology for Idlers</i>, is in proof for the Cornhill. +I have Villon to do for the same magazine, but God +knows when I’ll get it done, for drums, trumpets—I’m +engaged upon—trumpets, drums—a novel! “<span class="sc">The Hair +Trunk; or, the Ideal Commonwealth</span>.” It is a most +absurd story of a lot of young Cambridge fellows who are +going to found a new society, with no ideas on the subject, +and nothing but Bohemian tastes in the place of ideas; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206"></a>206</span> +who are—well, I can’t explain about the trunk—it would +take too long—but the trunk is the fun of it—everybody +steals it; burglary, marine fight, life on desert island on +west coast of Scotland, sloops, etc. The first scene where +they make their grand schemes and get drunk is supposed +to be very funny, by Henley. I really saw him laugh +over it until he cried.</p> + +<p>Please write to me, although I deserve it so little, and +show a Christian spirit.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh, August 1877.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I’m to be whipped away to-morrow +to Penzance, where at the post-office a letter will find me +glad and grateful. I am well, but somewhat tired out +with overwork. I have only been home a fortnight this +morning, and I have already written to the tune of forty-five +Cornhill pages and upwards. The most of it was +only very laborious re-casting and re-modelling, it is true; +but it took it out of me famously, all the same.</p> + +<p>Temple Bar appears to like my <i>Villon</i>, so I may count +on another market there in the future, I hope. At least, +I am going to put it to the proof at once, and send another +story, <i>The Sire de Malétroit’s Mousetrap</i>: a true novel, +in the old sense; all unities preserved moreover, if that’s +anything, and I believe with some little merits; not so +<i>clever</i> perhaps as the last, but sounder and more natural.</p> + +<p>My <i>Villon</i> is out this month; I should so much like +to know what you think of it. Stephen has written to +me à propos of <i>Idlers</i>, that something more in that vein +would be agreeable to his views. From Stephen I count +that a devil of a lot.</p> + +<p>I am honestly so tired this morning that I hope you +will take this for what it’s worth and give me an answer +in peace.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page207"></a>207</span></p> +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Neither <i>The Stepfather’s Story</i> nor the <i>St. Michael’s Mounts</i> essay +here mentioned ever, to my knowledge, came into being.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Penzance, August 1877.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">... You</span> will do well to stick to your burn, that is +a delightful life you sketch, and a very fountain of health. +I wish I could live like that, but, alas! it is just as well +I got my “Idlers” written and done with, for I have +quite lost all power of resting. I have a goad in my +flesh continually, pushing me to work, work, work. I have +an essay pretty well through for Stephen; a story, <i>The +Sire de Malétroit’s Mousetrap</i>, with which I shall try Temple +Bar; another story, in the clouds, <i>The Stepfather’s Story</i>, +most pathetic work of a high morality or immorality, +according to point of view; and lastly, also in the clouds, +or perhaps a little farther away, an essay on <i>The Two +St. Michael’s Mounts</i>, historical and picturesque; perhaps +if it didn’t come too long, I might throw in the <i>Bass +Rock</i>, and call it <i>Three Sea Fortalices</i>, or something of +that kind. You see how work keeps bubbling in my mind. +Then I shall do another fifteenth century paper this +autumn—La Sale and <i>Petit Jehan de Saintré</i>, which is a +kind of fifteenth century <i>Sandford and Merton</i>, ending in +horrid immoral cynicism, as if the author had got tired +of being didactic, and just had a good wallow in the mire +to wind up with and indemnify himself for so much +restraint.</p> + +<p>Cornwall is not much to my taste, being as bleak as +the bleakest parts of Scotland, and nothing like so pointed +and characteristic. It has a flavour of its own, though, +which I may try and catch, if I find the space, in the +proposed article. <i>Will o’ the Mill</i> I sent, red hot, to +Stephen in a fit of haste, and have not yet had an answer. +I am quite prepared for a refusal. But I begin to have +more hope in the story line, and that should improve my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208"></a>208</span> +income anyway. I am glad you liked <i>Villon</i>; some of it +was not as good as it ought to be, but on the whole it seems +pretty vivid, and the features strongly marked. Vividness +and not style is now my line; style is all very well, +but vividness is the real line of country; if a thing is +meant to be read, it seems just as well to try and make it +readable. I am such a dull person now, I cannot keep +off my own immortal works. Indeed, they are scarcely +ever out of my head. And yet I value them less and less +every day. But occupation is the great thing; so that +a man should have his life in his own pocket, and never +be thrown out of work by anything. I am glad to hear +you are better. I must stop—going to Land’s End.—Always +your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To A. Patchett Martin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This correspondent, living at the time in Australia, was, I believe, +the first to write and seek Stevenson’s acquaintance from admiration +of his work, meaning especially the Cornhill essays of the +<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> series so far as they had yet appeared. The +“present” herein referred to is Mr. Martin’s volume called <i>A +Sweet Girl Graduate and other Poems</i> (Melbourne, 1876).</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[1877]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR SIR</span>,—It would not be very easy for me to give +you any idea of the pleasure I found in your present. +People who write for the magazines (probably from a +guilty conscience) are apt to suppose their works practically +unpublished. It seems unlikely that any one would +take the trouble to read a little paper buried among so +many others; and reading it, read it with any attention +or pleasure. And so, I can assure you, your little book, +coming from so far, gave me all the pleasure and encouragement +in the world.</p> + +<p>I suppose you know and remember Charles Lamb’s +essay on distant correspondents? Well, I was somewhat +of his way of thinking about my mild productions. I did +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page209"></a>209</span> +not indeed imagine they were read, and (I suppose I may +say) enjoyed right round upon the other side of the big +Football we have the honour to inhabit. And as your +present was the first sign to the contrary, I feel I have +been very ungrateful in not writing earlier to acknowledge +the receipt. I dare say, however, you hate writing +letters as much as I can do myself (for if you like my +article, I may presume other points of sympathy between +us); and on this hypothesis you will be ready to forgive +me the delay.</p> + +<p>I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called +<i>Such is Life</i> that I am not the only one on this side of the +Football aforesaid to think it a good and bright piece of +work, and recognised a link of sympathy with the poets +who “play in hostelries at euchre.”—Believe me, dear +sir, yours truly,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To A. Patchett Martin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i> [<i>December 1877</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—I am afraid you must already have +condemned me for a very idle fellow truly. Here it is +more than two months since I received your letter; I +had no fewer than three journals to acknowledge; and +never a sign upon my part. If you have seen a Cornhill +paper of mine upon idling, you will be inclined to set it +all down to that. But you will not be doing me justice. +Indeed, I have had a summer so troubled that I have +had little leisure and still less inclination to write letters. +I was keeping the devil at bay with all my disposable +activities; and more than once I thought he had me by +the throat. The odd conditions of our acquaintance +enable me to say more to you than I would to a person +who lived at my elbow. And besides, I am too much +pleased and flattered at our correspondence not to go as +far as I can to set myself right in your eyes.</p> + +<p>In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210"></a>210</span> +all my possessions, or near about, and quite lost all my +wits. I wish I could lay my hands on the numbers of the +Review, for I know I wished to say something on that +head more particularly than I can from memory; but +where they have escaped to, only time or chance can +show. However, I can tell you so far, that I was very +much pleased with the article on Bret Harte; it seemed +to me just, clear, and to the point. I agreed pretty well +with all you said about George Eliot: a high, but, may +we not add?—a rather dry lady. Did you—I forget—did +you have a kick at the stern works of that melancholy +puppy and humbug Daniel Deronda himself?—the Prince +of Prigs; the literary abomination of desolation in the +way of manhood; a type which is enough to make a +man forswear the love of women, if that is how it must +be gained.... Hats off all the same, you understand: +a woman of genius.</p> + +<p>Of your poems I have myself a kindness for <i>Noll and +Nell</i>, although I don’t think you have made it as good +as you ought: verse five is surely not <i>quite melodious</i>. +I confess I like the Sonnet in the last number of the Review—the +<i>Sonnet to England</i>.</p> + +<p>Please, if you have not, and I don’t suppose you have, +already read it, institute a search in all Melbourne for +one of the rarest and certainly one of the best of books—<i>Clarissa +Harlowe</i>. For any man who takes an interest +in the problems of the two sexes, that book is a perfect +mine of documents. And it is written, sir, with the pen +of an angel. Miss Howe and Lovelace, words cannot +tell how good they are! And the scene where Clarissa +beards her family, with her fan going all the while; and +some of the quarrel scenes between her and Lovelace; +and the scene where Colonel Marden goes to Mr. Hall, with +Lord M. trying to compose matters, and the Colonel with +his eternal “finest woman in the world,” and the inimitable +affirmation of Mobray—nothing, nothing could be better! +You will bless me when you read it for this recommendation; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211"></a>211</span> +but, indeed, I can do nothing but recommend Clarissa. I +am like that Frenchman of the eighteenth century who +discovered Habakkuk, and would give no one peace about +that respectable Hebrew. For my part, I never was able +to get over his eminently respectable name; Isaiah is +the boy, if you must have a prophet, no less. About +Clarissa, I meditate a choice work: <i>A Dialogue on Man, +Woman, and “Clarissa Harlowe.”</i> It is to be so clever +that no array of terms can give you any idea; and very +likely that particular array in which I shall finally embody +it, less than any other.</p> + +<p>Do you know, my dear sir, what I like best in your letter? +The egotism for which you thought necessary to apologise. +I am a rogue at egotism myself; and to be plain, I have +rarely or never liked any man who was not. The first +step to discovering the beauties of God’s universe is usually +a (perhaps partial) apprehension of such of them as adorn +our own characters. When I see a man who does not +think pretty well of himself, I always suspect him of being +in the right. And besides, if he does not like himself, +whom he has seen, how is he ever to like one whom he +never can see but in dim and artificial presentments?</p> + +<p>I cordially reciprocate your offer of a welcome; it shall +be at least a warm one. Are you not my first, my only, +admirer—a dear tie? Besides, you are a man of sense, +and you treat me as one by writing to me as you do, and +that gives me pleasure also. Please continue to let me +see your work. I have one or two things coming out in +the Cornhill: a story called <i>The Sire de Malétroit’s Door</i> +in Temple Bar; and a series of articles on Edinburgh in +the Portfolio; but I don’t know if these last fly all the +way to Melbourne.—Yours very truly,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The <i>Inland Voyage</i>, it must be remembered, at this time just put +into the publisher’s hands, was the author’s first book. The “Crane +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page212"></a>212</span> +sketch” mentioned in the second of the following notes to me was +the well-known frontispiece to that book on which Mr. Walter +Crane was then at work. The essay <i>Pan’s Pipes</i>, reprinted in +<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>, was written about this time.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hôtel des Étrangers, Dieppe, January 1, 1878.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am at the <i>Inland Voyage</i> again: +have finished another section, and have only two more +to execute. But one at least of these will be very long—the +longest in the book—being a great digression on +French artistic tramps. I only hope Paul may take the +thing; I want coin so badly, and besides it would be +something done—something put outside of me and off +my conscience; and I should not feel such a muff as I +do, if once I saw the thing in boards with a ticket on +its back. I think I shall frequent circulating libraries a +good deal. The Preface shall stand over, as you suggest, +until the last, and then, sir, we shall see. This to be +read with a big voice.</p> + +<p>This is New Year’s Day: let me, my dear Colvin, wish +you a very good year, free of all misunderstanding and +bereavement, and full of good weather and good work. +You know best what you have done for me, and so you will +know best how heartily I mean this.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I had had business in Edinburgh, and had stayed with Stevenson’s +parents in his absence.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Paris, January or February 1878.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Many thanks for your letter. I +was much interested by all the Edinburgh gossip. Most +likely I shall arrive in London next week. I think you +know all about the Crane sketch; but it should be a +river, not a canal, you know, and the look should be “cruel, +lewd, and kindly,” all at once. There is more sense in +that Greek myth of Pan than in any other that I recollect +except the luminous Hebrew one of the Fall: one of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page213"></a>213</span> +biggest things done. If people would remember that all +religions are no more than representations of life, they +would find them, as they are, the best representations, +licking Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>What an inconceivable cheese is Alfred de Musset! +His comedies are, to my view, the best work of France +this century: a large order. Did you ever read them? +They are real, clear, living work.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Café de la Source, Bd. St. Michel, +Paris, 15th Feb. 1878.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—A thought has come into my head +which I think would interest you. Christianity is among +other things, a very wise, noble, and strange doctrine of +life. Nothing is so difficult to specify as the position it +occupies with regard to asceticism. It is not ascetic. +Christ was of all doctors (if you will let me use the word) +one of the least ascetic. And yet there is a theory of +living in the Gospels which is curiously indefinable, and +leans towards asceticism on one side, although it leans +away from it on the other. In fact, asceticism is used +therein as a means, not as an end. The wisdom of this +world consists in making oneself very little in order to +avoid many knocks; in preferring others, in order that, +even when we lose, we shall find some pleasure in the +event; in putting our desires outside of ourselves, in +another ship, so to speak, so that, when the worst happens, +there will be something left. You see, I speak of it as a +doctrine of life, and as a wisdom for this world. People +must be themselves, I suppose. I feel every day as if +religion had a greater interest for me; but that interest +is still centred on the little rough-and-tumble world in +which our fortunes are cast for the moment. I cannot +transfer my interests, not even my religious interest, to +any different sphere.... I have had some sharp lessons +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page214"></a>214</span> +and some very acute sufferings in these last seven-and-twenty +years—more even than you would guess. I begin +to grow an old man; a little sharp, I fear, and a little +close and unfriendly; but still I have a good heart, and +believe in myself and my fellow-men and the God who +made us all.... There are not many sadder people in +this world, perhaps, than I. I have my eye on a sickbed;<a name="FnAnchor_22" href="#Footnote_22"><span class="sp">22</span></a> +I have written letters to-day that it hurt me to +write, and I fear it will hurt others to receive; I am +lonely and sick and out of heart. Well, I still hope; I +still believe; I still see the good in the inch, and cling +to it. It is not much, perhaps, but it is always something.</p> + +<p>I find I have wandered a thousand miles from what +I meant. It was this: of all passages bearing on Christianity +in that form of a worldly wisdom, the most Christian, +and so to speak, the key of the whole position, is +the Christian doctrine of revenge. And it appears that +this came into the world through Paul! There is a fact +for you. It was to speak of this that I began this letter; +but I have got into deep seas and must go on.</p> + +<p>There is a fine text in the Bible, I don’t know where, +to the effect that all things work together for good to +those who love the Lord. Strange as it may seem to you, +everything has been, in one way or the other, bringing +me a little nearer to what I think you would like me to +be. ’Tis a strange world, indeed, but there is a manifest +God for those who care to look for him.</p> + +<p>This is a very solemn letter for my surroundings in +this busy café; but I had it on my heart to write it; and, +indeed, I was out of the humour for anything lighter.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—While I am writing gravely, let me say one +word more. I have taken a step towards more intimate +relations with you. But don’t expect too much of me. +Try to take me as I am. This is a rare moment, and I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215"></a>215</span> +have profited by it; but take it as a rare moment. Usually +I hate to speak of what I really feel, to that extent that +when I find myself <i>cornered</i>, I have a tendency to say +the reverse.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Paris, 44 Bd. Haussmann, +Friday, February 21, 1878.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—Do you know who is my favourite +author just now? How are the mighty fallen! Anthony +Trollope. I batten on him; he is so nearly wearying +you, and yet he never does; or rather, he never does, +until he gets near the end, when he begins to wean you +from him, so that you’re as pleased to be done with him +as you thought you would be sorry. I wonder if it’s old +age? It is a little, I am sure. A young person would +get sickened by the dead level of meanness and cowardliness; +you require to be a little spoiled and cynical before +you can enjoy it. I have just finished the <i>Way of the +World</i>; there is only one person in it—no, there are three—who +are nice: the wild American woman, and two of +the dissipated young men, Dolly and Lord Nidderdale. +All the heroes and heroines are just ghastly. But what +a triumph is Lady Carbury! That is real, sound, strong, +genuine work: the man who could do that, if he had +had courage, might have written a fine book; he has +preferred to write many readable ones. I meant to write +such a long, nice letter, but I cannot hold the pen.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following refers to the newspaper criticisms on the <i>Inland +Vogage</i>:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hôtel du Val de Grâce, Rue St. Jacques, +Paris, Sunday</i> [<i>June 1878</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—About criticisms, I was more surprised +at the tone of the critics than I suppose any one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216"></a>216</span> +else. And the effect it has produced in me is one of +shame. If they liked that so much, I ought to have +given them something better, that’s all. And I shall +try to do so. Still, it strikes me as odd; and I don’t +understand the vogue. It should sell the thing.—Ever +your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This letter tells of the progress of the Portfolio papers called +<i>Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh</i>, and of preparations for the walking +tour narrated in <i>Travels with a Donkey</i>. The late Philip Gilbert +Hamerton, editor of the Portfolio and author of <i>A Painter’s Camp +in the Highlands</i> and of many well-known works on art, landscape, +and French social life, was at this time and for many years +living at a small chateau near Autun; and the visit here proposed +was actually paid and gave great pleasure alike to host and guest +(see <i>P. G. Hamerton, an Autobiography</i>, etc., p. 451).</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monastier, September 1878.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—You must not expect to hear +much from me for the next two weeks; for I am near +starting. Donkey purchased—a love—price, 65 francs and +a glass of brandy. My route is all pretty well laid out; +I shall go near no town till I get to Alais. Remember, +Poste Restante, Alais, Gard. Greyfriars will be in October. +You did not say whether you liked September; +you might tell me that at Alais. The other No.’s of +Edinburgh are: Parliament Close, Villa Quarters (which +perhaps may not appear), Calton Hill, Winter and New +Year, and to the Pentland Hills. ’Tis a kind of book nobody +would ever care to read; but none of the young +men could have done it better than I have, which is +always a consolation. I read <i>Inland Voyage</i> the other +day: what rubbish these reviewers did talk! It is not +badly written, thin, mildly cheery, and strained. <i>Selon +moi.</i> I mean to visit Hamerton on my return journey; +otherwise, I should come by sea from Marseilles. I am +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217"></a>217</span> +very well known here now; indeed, quite a feature of the +place.—Your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>The Engineer is the Conductor of Roads and Bridges; +then I have the Receiver of Registrations, the First Clerk +of Excise, and the Perceiver of the Impost. That is our +dinner party. I am a sort of hovering government official, +as you see. But away—away from these great companions!</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Monastier, September</i> 1878.]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope to leave Monastier this day +(Saturday) week; thenceforward Poste Restante, Alais, +Gard, is my address. <i>Travels with a Donkey in the French +Highlands.</i> I am no good to-day. I cannot work, nor +even write letters. A colossal breakfast yesterday at +Puy has, I think, done for me for ever; I certainly ate +more than ever I ate before in my life—a big slice of +melon, some ham and jelly, a <i>filet</i>, a helping of gudgeons, +the breast and leg of a partridge, some green peas, eight +crayfish, some Mont d’Or cheese, a peach, and a handful +of biscuits, macaroons, and things. It sounds Gargantuan: +it cost three francs a head. So that it was inexpensive +to the pocket, although I fear it may prove +extravagant to the fleshly tabernacle. I can’t think +how I did it or why. It is a new form of excess for me; +but I think it pays less than any of them.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<p class="rt1"><i>Monastier, at Morel’s</i> [<i>September 1878</i>].</p> + +<p class="rt">Lud knows about date, <i>vide</i> postmark.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Yours (with enclosures) of the +16th to hand. All work done. I go to Le Puy to-morrow +to dispatch baggage, get cash, stand lunch to engineer, +who has been very jolly and useful to me, and hope by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218"></a>218</span> +five o’clock on Saturday morning to be driving Modestine +towards the Gévaudan. Modestine is my ânesse; a darling, +mouse-colour, about the size of a Newfoundland dog +(bigger, between you and me), the colour of a mouse, +costing 65 francs and a glass of brandy. Glad you sent +on all the coin; was half afraid I might come to a stick +in the mountains, donkey and all, which would have been +the devil. Have finished <i>Arabian Nights</i> and Edinburgh +book, and am a free man. Next address, Poste Restante, +Alais, Gard. Give my servilities to the family. Health +bad; spirits, I think, looking up.—Ever yours,</p> + + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Paris, October 1878.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I have seen Hamerton; he was +very kind, all his family seemed pleased to see an <i>Inland +Voyager</i>, and the book seemed to be quite a household +word with them. P. G. himself promised to help me in +my bargains with publishers, which, said he, and I doubt +not very truthfully, he could manage to much greater +advantage than I. He is also to read an <i>Inland Voyage</i> +over again, and send me his cuts and cuffs in private, after +having liberally administered his kisses <i>coram publico</i>. I +liked him very much. Of all the pleasant parts of my +profession, I think the spirit of other men of letters makes +the pleasantest.</p> + +<p>Do you know, your sunset was very good? The +“attack” (to speak learnedly) was so plucky and odd. +I have thought of it repeatedly since. I have just made +a delightful dinner by myself in the Café Félix, where I +am an old established beggar, and am just smoking a +cigar over my coffee. I came last night from Autun, +and I am muddled about my plans. The world is such a +dance!—Ever your affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page219"></a>219</span></p> +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Stevenson, hard at work upon <i>Providence and the Guitar</i>, <i>New +Arabian Nights</i>, and <i>Travels with a Donkey</i>, was at this time occupying +for a few days my rooms at Trinity in my absence. The college +buildings and gardens, the ideal setting and careful tutelage of +English academic life—in these respects so strongly contrasted with +the Scottish—affected him always with a sense of unreality. The +gyp mentioned is the present head porter of the college.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Trinity College, Cambridge, Autumn 1878.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Here I am living like a fighting-cock, +and have not spoken to a real person for about sixty +hours. Those who wait on me are not real. The man I +know to be a myth, because I have seen him acting so +often in the Palais Royal. He plays the Duke in <i>Tricoche +et Cacolet</i>; I knew his nose at once. The part he plays +here is very dull for him, but conscientious. As for the +bedmaker, she’s a dream, a kind of cheerful, innocent +nightmare; I never saw so poor an imitation of humanity. +I cannot work—<i>cannot</i>. Even the <i>Guitar</i> is still undone; +I can only write ditch-water. ’Tis ghastly; but I am +quite cheerful, and that is more important. Do you +think you could prepare the printers for a possible breakdown +this week? I shall try all I know on Monday; +but if I can get nothing better than I got this morning, +I prefer to drop a week. Telegraph to me if you think +it necessary. I shall not leave till Wednesday at soonest. +Shall write again.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The matter of the loan and its repayment, here touched on, +comes up again in Stevenson’s last letter of all, that which closes +the book. Stevenson and Mr. Gosse had planned a joint book of +old murder stories retold, and had been to visit the scene of one +famous murder together.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt1">[<i>Edinburgh, April 16, 1879</i>]</p> + <p class="rt"><i>Pool of Siloam, by El Dorado, + Delectable Mountains, Arcadia.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Herewith of the dibbs—a homely +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page220"></a>220</span> +fiver. How, and why, do you continue to exist? I do +so ill, but for a variety of reasons. First, I wait an angel +to come down and trouble the waters; second, more +angels; third—well, more angels. The waters are sluggish; +the angels—well, the angels won’t come, that’s +about all. But I sit waiting and waiting, and people +bring me meals, which help to pass time (I’m sure it’s +very kind of them), and sometimes I whistle to myself; +and as there’s a very pretty echo at my pool of Siloam, +the thing’s agreeable to hear. The sun continues to rise +every day, to my growing wonder. “The moon by night +thee shall not smite.” And the stars are all doing as well +as can be expected. The air of Arcady is very brisk and +pure, and we command many enchanting prospects in +space and time. I do not yet know much about my situation; +for, to tell the truth, I only came here by the run +since I began to write this letter; I had to go back to +date it; and I am grateful to you for having been the +occasion of this little outing. What good travellers we +are, if we had only faith; no man need stay in Edinburgh +but by unbelief; my religious organ has been ailing for a +while past, and I have lain a great deal in Edinburgh, a +sheer hulk in consequence. But I got out my wings, and +have taken a change of air.</p> + +<p>I read your book with great interest, and ought long +ago to have told you so. An ordinary man would say +that he had been waiting till he could pay his debts.... +The book is good reading. Your personal notes of +those you saw struck me as perhaps most sharp and +“best held.” See as many people as you can, and make +a book of them before you die. That will be a living +book, upon my word. You have the touch required. I +ask you to put hands to it in private already. Think of +what Carlyle’s caricature of old Coleridge is to us who +never saw S. T. C. With that and <i>Kubla Khan</i>, we have +the man in the fact. Carlyle’s picture, of course, is not of +the author of <i>Kubla</i>, but of the author of that surprising +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221"></a>221</span> +<i>Friend</i> which has knocked the breath out of two generations +of hopeful youth. Your portraits would be milder, +sweeter, more true perhaps, and perhaps not so truth-<i>telling</i>—if +you will take my meaning.</p> + +<p>I have to thank you for an introduction to that +beautiful—no, that’s not the word—that jolly, with an +Arcadian jollity—thing of Vogelweide’s. Also for your +preface. Some day I want to read a whole book in the +same picked dialect as that preface. I think it must be +one E. W. Gosse who must write it. He has got himself +into a fix with me by writing the preface; I look for a +great deal, and will not be easily pleased.</p> + +<p>I never thought of it, but my new book, which should +soon be out, contains a visit to a murder scene, but not +done as we should like to see them, for, of course, I was +running another hare.</p> + +<p>If you do not answer this in four pages, I shall stop +the enclosed fiver at the bank, a step which will lead to +your incarceration for life. As my visits to Arcady are +somewhat uncertain, you had better address 17 Heriot +Row, Edinburgh, as usual. I shall walk over for the +note if I am not yet home.—Believe me, very really +yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p>I charge extra for a flourish when it is successful; this +isn’t, so you have it gratis. Is there any news in Babylon +the Great? My fellow-creatures are electing school boards +here in the midst of the ages. It is very composed of +them. I can’t think why they do it. Nor why I have +written a real letter. If you write a real letter back, +damme, I’ll try to <i>correspond</i> with you. A thing unknown +in this age. It is a consequence of the decay of +faith; we cannot believe that the fellow will be at the +pains to read us.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This is in reply to some technical criticisms of his correspondent +on the poem <i>Our Lady of the Snows</i>, referring to the Trappist +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page222"></a>222</span> +monastery in the Cévennes so called, and afterwards published in +<i>Underwoods</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>April 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Heavens! have I done the like? +“Clarify and strain,” indeed? “Make it like Marvell,” +no less. I’ll tell you what—you may go to the devil; +that’s what I think. “Be eloquent” is another of your +pregnant suggestions. I cannot sufficiently thank you for +that one. Portrait of a person about to be eloquent at +the request of a literary friend. You seem to forget, sir, +that rhyme is rhyme, sir, and—go to the devil.</p> + +<p>I’ll try to improve it, but I shan’t be able to—O go to +the devil.</p> + +<p>Seriously, you’re a cool hand. And then you have the +brass to ask me <i>why</i> “my steps went one by one“? +Why? Powers of man! to rhyme with <i>sun</i>, to be sure. +Why else could it be? And you yourself have been a +poet! G-r-r-r-r-r! I’ll never be a poet any more. Men are +so d——d ungrateful and captious, I declare I could weep.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>O Henley, in my hours of ease</p> +<p>You may say anything you please,</p> +<p>But when I join the Muse’s revel,</p> +<p>Begad, I wish you at the devil!</p> +<p>In vain my verse I plane and bevel,</p> +<p>Like Banville’s rhyming devotees;</p> +<p>In vain by many an artful swivel</p> +<p>Lug in my meaning by degrees;</p> +<p>I’m sure to hear my Henley cavil;</p> +<p>And grovelling prostrate on my knees,</p> +<p>Devote his body to the seas,</p> +<p>His correspondence to the devil!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Impromptu poem.</p> + +<p>I’m going to Shandon Hydropathic <i>cum parentibus</i>. +Write here. I heard from Lang. Ferrier prayeth to be remembered; +he means to write, likes his Tourgenieff greatly. +Also likes my <i>What was on the Slate</i>, which, under a new +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223"></a>223</span> +title, yet unfound, and with a new and, on the whole, kindly +<i>dénouement</i>, is going to shoot up and become a star....</p> + +<p>I see I must write some more to you about my Monastery. +I am a weak brother in verse. You ask me to +re-write things that I have already managed just to write +with the skin of my teeth. If I don’t re-write them, it’s +because I don’t see how to write them better, not because +I don’t think they should be. But, curiously enough, +you condemn two of my favourite passages, one of which +is J. W. Ferrier’s favourite of the whole. Here I shall +think it’s you who are wrong. You see, I did not try to +make good verse, but to say what I wanted as well as +verse would let me. I don’t like the rhyme “ear” and +“hear.” But the couplet, “My undissuaded heart I hear +Whisper courage in my ear,” is exactly what I want for +the thought, and to me seems very energetic as speech, +if not as verse. Would “daring” be better than +“courage“? <i>Je me le demande.</i> No, it would be +ambiguous, as though I had used it licentiously for +“daringly,” and that would cloak the sense.</p> + +<p>In short, your suggestions have broken the heart of +the scald. He doesn’t agree with them all; and those +he does agree with, the spirit indeed is willing, but the +d——d flesh cannot, cannot, cannot, see its way to profit +by. I think I’ll lay it by for nine years, like Horace. I +think the well of Castaly’s run out. No more the Muses +round my pillow haunt. I am fallen once more to the +mere proser. God bless you.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Miss Jane Balfour</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This correspondent, the long-lived spinster among the Balfour +sisters (died 1907, aged 91) and the well-beloved “auntie” of a +numerous clan of nephews and nieces, is the subject of the set of +verses, <i>Auntie’s Skirts</i>, in the <i>Child’s Garden</i>. She had been reading +<i>Travels with a Donkey</i> on its publication.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Swanston, June 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR AUNTIE</span>,—If you could only think a little +less of me and others, and a great deal more of your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224"></a>224</span> +delightful self, you would be as nearly perfect as there is +any need to be. I think I have travelled with donkeys +all my life; and the experience of this book could be +nothing new to me. But if ever I knew a real donkey, +I believe it is yourself. You are so eager to think well +of everybody else (except when you are angry on account +of some third person) that I do not believe you have +ever left yourself time to think properly of yourself. You +never understand when other people are unworthy, nor +when you yourself are worthy in the highest degree. +Oblige us all by having a guid conceit o’ yoursel and +despising in the future the whole crowd, including your +affectionate nephew,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This letter is contemporary with the much-debated Cornhill +essay <i>On some Aspects of Burns</i>, afterwards published in <i>Familiar +Studies of Men and Books</i>. “Meredith’s story” is probably the +<i>Tragic Comedians</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Swanston, July 24, 1879.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have greatly enjoyed your article, +which seems to me handsome in tone, and written like +a fine old English gentleman. But is there not a hitch +in the sentence at foot of page 153? I get lost in it.</p> + +<p>Chapters <span class="sc">VIII</span>. and <span class="sc">IX</span>. of Meredith’s story are very +good, I think. But who wrote the review of my book? +Whoever he was, he cannot write; he is humane, but a +duffer; I could weep when I think of him; for surely to +be virtuous and incompetent is a hard lot. I should +prefer to be a bold pirate, the gay sailor-boy of immorality, +and a publisher at once. My mind is extinct; +my appetite is expiring; I have fallen altogether into a +hollow-eyed, yawning way of life, like the parties in Burne +Jones’s pictures.... Talking of Burns. (Is this not +sad, Weg? I use the term of reproach not because I am +angry with you this time, but because I am angry with +myself and desire to give pain.) Talking, I say, of Robert +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page225"></a>225</span> +Burns, the inspired poet is a very gay subject for study. +I made a kind of chronological table of his various loves +and lusts, and have been comparatively speechless ever +since. I am sorry to say it, but there was something in +him of the vulgar, bagmanlike, professional seducer.—Oblige +me by taking down and reading, for the hundredth +time, I hope, his <i>Twa Dogs</i> and his <i>Address to the Unco +Guid</i>. I am only a Scotchman, after all, you see; and +when I have beaten Burns, I am driven at once, by my +parental feelings, to console him with a sugar-plum. But +hang me if I know anything I like so well as the <i>Twa +Dogs</i>. Even a common Englishman may have a glimpse, +as it were from Pisgah, of its extraordinary merits.</p> + +<p>“<i>English, The</i>:—a dull people, incapable of comprehending +the Scottish tongue. Their history is so intimately +connected with that of Scotland, that we must +refer our readers to that heading. Their literature is +principally the work of venal Scots.”—Stevenson’s <i>Handy +Cyclopædia</i>. Glescow: Blaikie & Bannock.</p> + +<p>Remember me in suitable fashion to Mrs. Gosse, the +offspring, and the cat.—And believe me ever yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p><i>Rembrandt</i> refers to an article in the Edinburgh Review. +“Bummkopf” was Stevenson’s name for the typical pedant, +German or other, who cannot clear his edifice of its scaffolding, +nor set forth the results of research without intruding on the reader +all its processes, evidences, and supports. <i>Burns</i> is the aforesaid +Cornhill essay: not the rejected Encyclopædia article.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i> [<i>July 28, 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am just in the middle of your +<i>Rembrandt</i>. The taste for Bummkopf and his works is +agreeably dissembled so far as I have gone; and the +reins have never for an instant been thrown upon the +neck of that wooden Pegasus; he only perks up a learned +snout from a footnote in the cellarage of a paragraph; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226"></a>226</span> +just, in short, where he ought to be, to inspire confidence +in a wicked and adulterous generation. But, mind you, +Bummkopf is not human; he is Dagon the fish god, and +down he will come, sprawling on his belly or his behind, +with his hands broken from his helpless carcase, and his +head rolling oft into a corner. Up will rise on the other +side, sane, pleasurable, human knowledge: a thing of +beauty and a joy, etc.</p> + +<p>I’m three parts through <i>Burns</i>; long, dry, unsympathetic, +but sound and, I think, in its dry way, interesting. +Next I shall finish the story, and then perhaps +Thoreau. Meredith has been staying with Morley, has +been cracking me up, he writes, to that literary Robespierre; +and he (the L. R.) is about, it is believed, to +write to me on a literary scheme. Is it Keats, hope you? +My heart leaps at the thought.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>With reference to the “term of reproach,” it must be explained +that Mr. Gosse, who now signs with only one initial, used in these +days to sign with two, E. W. G. The nickname Weg was fastened +on him by Stevenson, partly under a false impression as to the order +of these initials, partly in friendly derision of a passing fit of lameness, +which called up the memory of Silas Wegg, the immortal +literary gentleman “<i>with</i> a wooden leg” of <i>Our Mutual Friend</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i> [<i>July 29, 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Yours was delicious; you are a +young person of wit; one of the last of them; wit being +quite out of date, and humour confined to the Scotch +Church and the <i>Spectator</i> in unconscious survival. You +will probably be glad to hear that I am up again in +the world; I have breathed again, and had a frolic +on the strength of it. The frolic was yesterday, Sawbath; +the scene, the Royal Hotel, Bathgate; I went there with a +humorous friend to lunch. The maid soon showed herself +a lass of character. She was looking out of window. +On being asked what she was after, “I’m lookin’ for my +lad,” says she. “Is that him?” “Weel, I’ve been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227"></a>227</span> +lookin’ for him a’ my life, and I’ve never seen him yet,” +was the response. I wrote her some verses in the vernacular; +she read them. “They’re no bad for a beginner,” +said she. The landlord’s daughter, Miss Stewart, +was present in oil colour; so I wrote her a declaration in +verse, and sent it by the handmaid. She (Miss S.) was +present on the stair to witness our departure, in a warm, +suffused condition. Damn it, Gosse, you needn’t suppose +that you’re the only poet in the world.</p> + +<p>Your statement about your initials, it will be seen, I +pass over in contempt and silence. When once I have made +up my mind, let me tell you, sir, there lives no pock-pudding +who can change it. Your anger I defy. Your unmanly +reference to a well-known statesman I puff from me, sir, +like so much vapour. Weg is your name; Weg. W E G.</p> + +<p>My enthusiasm has kind of dropped from me. I envy +you your wife, your home, your child—I was going to +say your cat. There would be cats in my home too if I +could but get it. I may seem to you “the impersonation +of life,” but my life is the impersonation of waiting, +and that’s a poor creature. God help us all, and the deil +be kind to the hindmost! Upon my word, we are a +brave, cheery crew, we human beings, and my admiration +increases daily—primarily for myself, but by a roundabout +process for the whole crowd; for I dare say they +have all their poor little secrets and anxieties. And +here am I, for instance, writing to you as if you were +in the seventh heaven, and yet I know you are in a sad +anxiety yourself. I hope earnestly it will soon be over, +and a fine pink Gosse sprawling in a tub, and a mother +in the best of health and spirits, glad and tired, and with +another interest in life. Man, you are out of the trouble +when this is through. A first child is a rival, but a second +is only a rival to the first; and the husband stands his +ground and may keep married all his life—a consummation +heartily to be desired. Good-bye, Gosse. Write me +a witty letter with good news of the mistress.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_20" href="#FnAnchor_20"><span class="fn">20</span></a> The letter breaks off here.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_21" href="#FnAnchor_21"><span class="fn">21</span></a> Thomas Basin or Bazin, the historian of Charles VIII. and +Louis XI.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_22" href="#FnAnchor_22"><span class="fn">22</span></a> R. Glasgow Brown lay dying in the Riviera.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page228"></a>228</span></p> +<h3>V</h3> + +<h3>THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT</h3> + +<h5>S.S. DEVONIA—MONTEREY AND SAN +FRANCISCO—MARRIAGE</h5> + +<h6>July 1879-July 1880</h6> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">In</span> France, as has been already indicated, Stevenson had +met the American lady, Mrs. Osbourne, who was afterwards +to become his wife. Her domestic relations had not +been fortunate; to his chivalrous nature her circumstances +appealed no less than her person; and almost +from their first meeting, which befell at Grez, immediately +after the canoe voyage of 1876, he conceived for her an +attachment which was to transform and determine his +life. On her return to America with her children in the +autumn of 1878, she determined to seek a divorce from her +husband. Hearing of her intention, together with very +disquieting news of her health, and hoping that after she +had obtained the divorce he might make her his wife, +Stevenson suddenly started for California at the beginning +of August 1879.</p> + +<p>For what he knew must seem to his friends, and +especially to his father, so wild an errand, he would ask +for no supplies from home; but resolved, risking his +whole future on the issue, to test during this adventure +his power of supporting himself, and eventually others, +by his own labours in literature. In order from the outset +to save as much as possible, he made the journey in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page229"></a>229</span> +the steerage and the emigrant train. With this prime +motive of economy was combined a second—that of learning +for himself the pinch of life as it is felt by the unprivileged +and the poor (he had long ago disclaimed for +himself the character of a “consistent first-class passenger +in life“)—and also, it should be added, a third, +that of turning his experiences to literary account. On +board ship he took daily notes with this intent, and wrote +moreover <i>The Story of a Lie</i> for an English magazine. +Arrived at his destination, he found his health, as was +natural, badly shaken by the hardships of the journey; +tried his favourite open-air cure for three weeks at an +Angora goat-ranche some twenty miles from Monterey; +and then lived from September to December in that old +Californian coast-town itself, under the conditions set +forth in the earlier of the following letters, and under a +heavy combined strain of personal anxiety and literary +effort. From the notes taken on board ship and in the +emigrant train he drafted an account of his journey, intending +to make a volume matching in form, though in +contents much unlike, the earlier <i>Inland Voyage</i> and +<i>Travels with a Donkey</i>. He wrote also the essays on +Thoreau and the Japanese reformer, Yoshida Torajiro, +afterwards published in <i>Familiar Studies of Men and +Books</i>; one of the most vivid of his shorter tales, <i>The +Pavilion on the Links</i>, hereinafter referred to as a “blood +and thunder,” as well as a great part of another and +longer story drawn from his new experiences and called +<i>A Vendetta in the West</i>; but this did not satisfy him, +and was never finished. He planned at the same time, in +the spirit of romantic comedy, that tale which took final +shape four years later as <i>Prince Otto</i>. Towards the end of +December 1879 Stevenson moved to San Francisco, where +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230"></a>230</span> +he lived for three months in a workman’s lodging, leading +a life of frugality amounting, it will be seen, to self-imposed +penury, and working always with the same intensity +of application, until his health utterly broke down. +One of the causes which contributed to his illness was +the fatigue he underwent in helping to watch beside the +sickbed of a child, the son of his landlady. During a +part of March and April he lay at death’s door—his first +really dangerous sickness since childhood—and was slowly +tended back to life by the joint ministrations of his future +wife and the physician to whom his letter of thanks will +be found below. His marriage ensued in May 1880; +immediately afterwards, to try and consolidate his recovery, +he moved to a deserted mining-camp in the +Californian coast range; and has recorded the aspects +and humours of his life there with a master’s touch in +the <i>Silverado Squatters</i>.</p> + +<p>The news of his dangerous illness and approaching +marriage had in the meantime unlocked the parental +heart and purse; supplies were sent ensuring his present +comfort, with the promise of their continuance for the +future, and of a cordial welcome for the new daughter-in-law +in his father’s house. The following letters, chosen +from among those written during the period in question, +depict his way of life, and reflect at once the anxiety of +his friends and the strain of the time upon himself.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The story mentioned at the beginning of this letter is <i>The Story +of a Lie</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>On board s.s. “Devonia,” an hour or two out of New York</i> [<i>August</i> 1879].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have finished my story. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page231"></a>231</span> +handwriting is not good because of the ship’s misconduct: +thirty-one pages in ten days at sea is not bad.</p> + +<p>I shall write a general procuration about this story on +another bit of paper. I am not very well; bad food, bad +air, and hard work have brought me down. But the +spirits keep good. The voyage has been most interesting, +and will make, if not a series of <i>Pall Mall</i> articles, at +least the first part of a new book. The last weight on +me has been trying to keep notes for this purpose. +Indeed, I have worked like a horse, and am now +as tired as a donkey. If I should have to push on +far by rail, I shall bring nothing but my fine bones +to port.</p> + +<p>Good-bye to you all. I suppose it is now late afternoon +with you and all across the seas. What shall I find +over there? I dare not wonder.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p><i>P.S</i>.—I go on my way to-night, if I can; if not, to-morrow; +emigrant train ten to fourteen days’ journey; +warranted extreme discomfort. The only American institution +which has yet won my respect is the rain. One +sees it is a new country, they are so free with their water. +I have been steadily drenched for twenty-four hours; +water-proof wet through; immortal spirit fitfully blinking +up in spite. Bought a copy of my own work, and the man +said “by Stevenson.”—“Indeed,” says I.—“Yes, sir,” +says he.—Scene closes.</p> + +<p>I am not beaten yet, though disappointed. If I am, +it’s for good this time; you know what “for good” +means in my vocabulary—something inside of 12 months +perhaps; but who knows? At least, if I fail in my great +purpose, I shall see some wild life in the West and visit +both Florida and Labrador ere I return. But I don’t yet +know if I have the courage to stick to life without it. +Man, I was sick, sick, sick of this last year.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page232"></a>232</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>In the Emigrant Train from New York to San +Francisco, August 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am in the cars between Pittsburgh +and Chicago, just now bowling through Ohio. I am +taking charge of a kid, whose mother is asleep, with one +eye, while I write you this with the other. I reached +N. Y. Sunday night; and by five o’clock Monday was +under way for the West. It is now about ten on Wednesday +morning, so I have already been about forty hours +in the cars. It is impossible to lie down in them, which +must end by being very wearying.</p> + +<p>I had no idea how easy it was to commit suicide. +There seems nothing left of me; I died a while ago; I +do not know who it is that is travelling.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Of where or how, I nothing know;</p> + <p class="i2">And why, I do not care;</p> + <p class="i2">Enough if, even so,</p> +<p>My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go</p> +<p>By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair,</p> +<p>Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I think, I hope, I dream no more</p> + <p class="i2">The dreams of otherwhere,</p> + <p class="i2">The cherished thoughts of yore;</p> +<p>I have been changed from what I was before;</p> +<p>And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air</p> +<p>Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Unweary God me yet shall bring</p> + <p class="i2">To lands of brighter air,</p> + <p class="i2">Where I, now half a king,</p> +<p>Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing,</p> +<p>And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear</p> +<p>Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page233"></a>233</span></p> + +<p>Exit Muse, hurried by child’s games....</p> + +<p>Have at you again, being now well through Indiana. +In America you eat better than anywhere else: fact, +The food is heavenly.</p> + +<p>No man is any use until he has dared everything; I +feel just now as if I had, and so might become a man. +“If ye have faith like a grain of mustard seed.” That is +so true! Just now I have faith as big as a cigar-case; I +will not say die, and do not fear man nor fortune.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Crossing Nebraska</i> [<i>Saturday, August 23, 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I am sitting on the top of the +cars with a mill party from Missouri going west for his +health. Desolate flat prairie upon all hands. Here and +there a herd of cattle, a yellow butterfly or two; a patch +of wild sunflowers; a wooden house or two; then a +wooden church alone in miles of waste; then a windmill +to pump water. When we stop, which we do often, for +emigrants and freight travel together, the kine first, the +men after, the whole plain is heard singing with cicadae. +This is a pause, as you may see from the writing. What +happened to the old pedestrian emigrants, what was the +tedium suffered by the Indians and trappers of our youth, +the imagination trembles to conceive. This is now +Saturday, 23rd, and I have been steadily travelling since +I parted from you at St. Pancras. It is a strange vicissitude +from the Savile Club to this; I sleep with a man +from Pennsylvania who has been in the States Navy, and +mess with him and the Missouri bird already alluded to. +We have a tin wash-bowl among four. I wear nothing +but a shirt and a pair of trousers, and never button my +shirt. When I land for a meal, I pass my coat and feel +dressed. This life is to last till Friday, Saturday, or +Sunday next. It is a strange affair to be an emigrant, as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page234"></a>234</span> +I hope you shall see in a future work. I wonder if this +will be legible; my present station on the waggon roof, +though airy compared to the cars, is both dirty and insecure. +I can see the track straight before and straight +behind me to either horizon. Peace of mind I enjoy with +extreme serenity; I am doing right; I know no one will +think so; and don’t care. My body, however, is all to +whistles; I don’t eat; but, man, I can sleep. The car +in front of mine is chock full of Chinese.</p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—What it is to be ill in an emigrant train let +those declare who know. I slept none till late in the +morning, overcome with laudanum, of which I had luckily +a little bottle. All to-day I have eaten nothing, and +only drunk two cups of tea, for each of which, on the +pretext that the one was breakfast, and the other dinner, +I was charged fifty cents. Our journey is through ghostly +deserts, sage brush and alkali, and rocks, without form or +colour, a sad corner of the world. I confess I am not +jolly, but mighty calm, in my distresses. My illness is a +subject of great mirth to some of my fellow-travellers, +and I smile rather sickly at their jests.</p> + +<p>We are going along Bitter Creek just now, a place +infamous in the history of emigration, a place I shall +remember myself among the blackest. I hope I may get +this posted at Ogden, Utah.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Coast Line Mountains, California, September, 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Here</span> is another curious start in my life. I am living +at an Angora goat-ranche, in the Coast Line Mountains, +eighteen miles from Monterey. I was camping out, but +got so sick that the two rancheros took me in and tended +me. One is an old bear-hunter, seventy-two years old, +and a captain from the Mexican war; the other a pilgrim, +and one who was out with the bear flag and under Fremont +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page235"></a>235</span> +when California was taken by the States. They are both +true frontiersmen, and most kind and pleasant. Captain +Smith, the bear-hunter, is my physician, and I obey him +like an oracle.</p> + +<p>The business of my life stands pretty nigh still. I +work at my notes of the voyage. It will not be very like +a book of mine; but perhaps none the less successful for +that. I will not deny that I feel lonely to-day; but I do +not fear to go on, for I am doing right. I have not yet +had a word from England, partly, I suppose, because I +have not yet written for my letters to New York; do not +blame me for this neglect; if you knew all I have been +through, you would wonder I had done so much as I +have. I teach the ranche children reading in the +morning, for the mother is from home sick.—Ever your +affectionate friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Monterey, California, October 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received your letter with delight; +it was the first word that reached me from the old country. +I am in good health now; I have been pretty seedy, for +I was exhausted by the journey and anxiety below even +my point of keeping up; I am still a little weak, but +that is all; I begin to ingrease,<a name="FnAnchor_23" href="#Footnote_23"><span class="sp">23</span></a> it seems, already. My +book is about half drafted: the <i>Amateur Emigrant</i>, that +is. Can you find a better name? I believe it will be +more popular than any of my others; the canvas is so +much more popular and larger too. Fancy, it is my +fourth. That voluminous writer. I was vexed to hear +about the last chapter of <i>The Lie</i>, and pleased to hear +about the rest; it would have been odd if it had no +birthmark, born where and how it was. It should by +rights have been called the <i>Devonia</i>, for that is the habit +with all children born in a steerage.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page236"></a>236</span></p> + +<p>I write to you, hoping for more. Give me news of all +who concern me, near or far, or big or little. Here, sir, +in California you have a willing hearer.</p> + +<p>Monterey is a place where there is no summer or +winter, and pines and sand and distant hills and a bay +all filled with real water from the Pacific. You will perceive +that no expense has been spared. I now live with +a little French doctor; I take one of my meals in a little +French restaurant; for the other two, I sponge. The +population of Monterey is about that of a dissenting chapel +on a wet Sunday in a strong church neighbourhood. They +are mostly Mexican and Indian—mixed.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey, 8th October 1879.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I know I am a rogue and the son of +a dog. Yet let me tell you, when I came here I had a +week’s misery and a fortnight’s illness, and since then +I have been more or less busy in being content. This is +a kind of excuse for my laziness. I hope you will not +excuse yourself. My plans are still very uncertain, and +it is not likely that anything will happen before Christmas. +In the meanwhile, I believe I shall live on here +“between the sandhills and the sea,” as I think Mr. +Swinburne hath it. I was pretty nearly slain; my spirit +lay down and kicked for three days; I was up at an +Angora goat-ranche in the Santa Lucia Mountains, nursed +by an old frontiersman, a mighty hunter of bears, and I +scarcely slept, or ate, or thought for four days. Two +nights I lay out under a tree in a sort of stupor, doing +nothing but fetch water for myself and horse, light a fire +and make coffee, and all night awake hearing the goat-bells +ringing and the tree-frogs singing when each new +noise was enough to set me mad. Then the bear-hunter +came round, pronounced me “real sick,” and ordered me +up to the ranche.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page237"></a>237</span></p> + +<p>It was an odd, miserable piece of my life; and according +to all rule, it should have been my death; but after +a while my spirit got up again in a divine frenzy, and has +since kicked and spurred my vile body forward with great +emphasis and success.</p> + +<p>My new book, <i>The Amateur Emigrant</i>, is about half +drafted. I don’t know if it will be good, but I think it +ought to sell in spite of the deil and the publishers; for +it tells an odd enough experience, and one, I think, never +yet told before. Look for my <i>Burns</i> in the Cornhill, and +for my <i>Story of a Lie</i> in Paul’s withered babe, the New +Quarterly. You may have seen the latter ere this reaches +you; tell me if it has any interest, like a good boy, and +remember that it was written at sea in great anxiety of +mind. What is your news? Send me your works, like +an angel, <i>au fur et à mesure</i> of their apparation, for +I am naturally short of literature, and I do not wish +to rust.</p> + +<p>I fear this can hardly be called a letter. To say truth, +I feel already a difficulty of approach; I do not know if +I am the same man I was in Europe, perhaps I can hardly +claim acquaintance with you. My head went round and +looks another way now; for when I found myself over +here in a new land, and all the past uprooted in the one +tug, and I neither feeling glad nor sorry, I got my last +lesson about mankind; I mean my latest lesson, for of +course I do not know what surprises there are yet in store +for me. But that I could have so felt astonished me +beyond description. There is a wonderful callousness in +human nature which enables us to live. I had no feeling +one way or another from New York to California, until, +at Dutch Flat, a mining camp in the Sierra, I heard a +cock crowing with a home voice; and then I fell to hope +and regret both in the same moment.</p> + +<p>Is there a boy or a girl? and how is your wife? I +thought of you more than once, to put it mildly.</p> + +<p>I live here comfortably enough; but I shall soon be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238"></a>238</span> +left all alone, perhaps till Christmas. Then you may +hope for correspondence—and may not I?—Your friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Monterey, October 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Herewith the <i>Pavilion on the +Links</i>, grand carpentry story in nine chapters, and I +should hesitate to say how many tableaux. Where is it +to go? God knows. It is the dibbs that are wanted. +It is not bad, though I say it; carpentry, of course, but +not bad at that; and who else can carpenter in England, +now that Wilkie Collins is played out? It might be +broken for magazine purposes at the end of Chapter IV. +I send it to you, as I dare say Payn may help, if all else +fails. Dibbs and speed are my mottoes.</p> + +<p>Do acknowledge the <i>Pavilion</i> by return. I shall be +so nervous till I hear, as of course I have no copy except +of one or two places where the vein would not run. God +prosper it, poor <i>Pavilion</i>! May it bring me money for +myself and my sick one, who may read it, I do not know +how soon.</p> + +<p>Love to your wife, Anthony, and all. I shall write +to Colvin to-day or to-morrow.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The story spoken of in these letters as A <i>Vendetta in the West</i> +was three parts written and then given up and destroyed.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Monterey, October 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Many thanks for your good letter, +which is the best way to forgive you for your previous +silence. I hope Colvin or somebody has sent me the +Cornhill and the New Quarterly, though I am trying to +get them in San Francisco. I think you might have +sent me (1) some of your articles in the P. M. G.<a name="FnAnchor_24" href="#Footnote_24"><span class="sp">24</span></a>; (2) a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page239"></a>239</span> +paper with the announcement of second edition; and +(3) the announcement of the essays in Athenæum. This +to prick you in the future. Again, choose, in your head, +the best volume of Labiche there is, and post it to Jules +Simoneau, Monterey, Monterey Co., California: do this +at once, as he is my restaurant man, a most pleasant old +boy with whom I discuss the universe and play chess +daily. He has been out of France for thirty-five years, +and never heard of Labiche. I have eighty-three pages +written of a story called <i>A Vendetta in the West</i>, and +about sixty pages of the first draft of the <i>Amateur +Emigrant</i>. They should each cover from 130 to 150 +pages when done. That is all my literary news. Do +keep me posted, won’t you? Your letter and Bob’s +made the fifth and sixth I have had from Europe +in three months.</p> + +<p>At times I get terribly frightened about my work, +which seems to advance too slowly. I hope soon to have +a greater burden to support, and must make money a +great deal quicker than I used. I may get nothing for +the <i>Vendetta</i>; I may only get some forty quid for the +<i>Emigrant</i>; I cannot hope to have them both done much +before the end of November.</p> + +<p>O, and look here, why did you not send me the Spectator +which slanged me? Rogues and rascals, is that +all you are worth?</p> + +<p>Yesterday I set fire to the forest, for which, had I +been caught, I should have been hung out of hand to the +nearest tree, Judge Lynch being an active person hereaway. +You should have seen my retreat (which was +entirely for strategical purposes). I ran like hell. It was +a fine sight. At night I went out again to see it; it was +a good fire, though I say it that should not. I had a +near escape for my life with a revolver: I fired six +charges, and the six bullets all remained in the barrel, +which was choked from end to end, from muzzle to +breach, with solid lead; it took a man three hours to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page240"></a>240</span> +drill them out. Another shot, and I’d have gone to +kingdom come.</p> + +<p>This is a lovely place, which I am growing to love. +The Pacific licks all other oceans out of hand; there is +no place but the Pacific Coast to hear eternal roaring +surf. When I get to the top of the woods behind +Monterey, I can hear the seas breaking all round over +ten or twelve miles of coast from near Carmel on my left, +out to Point Pinas in front, and away to the right along +the sands of Monterey to Castroville and the mouth of +the Salinas. I was wishing yesterday that the world +could get—no, what I mean was that you should be kept +in suspense like Mahomet’s coffin until the world had +made half a revolution, then dropped here at the station +as though you had stepped from the cars; you would then +comfortably enter Walter’s waggon (the sun has just gone +down, the moon beginning to throw shadows, you hear +the surf rolling, and smell the sea and the pines). That +shall deposit you at Sanchez’s saloon, where we take a +drink; you are introduced to Bronson, the local editor +(“I have no brain music,” he says; “I’m a mechanic, you +see,” but he’s a nice fellow); to Adolpho Sanchez, who +is delightful. Meantime I go to the P. O. for my mail; +thence we walk up Alvarado Street together, you now +floundering in the sand, now merrily stumping on the +wooden side-walks; I call at Hadsell’s for my paper; at +length behold us installed in Simoneau’s little white-washed +back-room, round a dirty tablecloth, with François +the baker, perhaps an Italian fisherman, perhaps Augustin +Dutra, and Simoneau himself. Simoneau, François, and I +are the three sure cards; the others mere waifs. Then +home to my great airy rooms with five windows opening +on a balcony; I sleep on the floor in my camp blankets; +you instal yourself abed; in the morning coffee with the +little doctor and his little wife; we hire a waggon and +make a day of it; and by night, I should let you up +again into the air, to be returned to Mrs. Henley in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page241"></a>241</span> +forenoon following. By God, you would enjoy yourself. +So should I. I have tales enough to keep you going till +five in the morning, and then they would not be at an +end. I forget if you asked me any questions, and I sent +your letter up to the city to one who will like to read it. +I expect other letters now steadily. If I have to wait +another two months, I shall begin to be happy. Will you +remember me most affectionately to your wife? Shake +hands with Anthony from me; and God bless your +mother.</p> + +<p>God bless Stephen! Does he not know that I am a +man, and cannot live by bread alone, but must have +guineas into the bargain. <i>Burns</i>, I believe, in my own +mind, is one of my high-water marks; Meiklejohn flames +me a letter about it, which is so complimentary that I +must keep it or get it published in the Monterey Californian. +Some of these days I shall send an exemplaire of +that paper; it is huge.—Ever your affectionate friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey, 21st October</i> [<i>1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Although you have absolutely disregarded +my plaintive appeals for correspondence, and +written only once as against God knows how many notes +and notikins of mine—here goes again. I am now all +alone in Monterey, a real inhabitant, with a box of my +own at the P. O. I have splendid rooms at the doctor’s, +where I get coffee in the morning (the doctor is French), +and I mess with another jolly old Frenchman, the stranded +fifty-eight-year-old wreck of a good-hearted, dissipated, +and once wealthy Nantais tradesman. My health goes on +better; as for work, the draft of my book was laid aside +at p. 68 or so; and I have now, by way of change, more +than seventy pages of a novel, a one-volume novel, alas! +to be called either <i>A Chapter in the Experience of Arizona</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242"></a>242</span> +<i>Breckonridge</i> or <i>A Vendetta in the West</i>, or a combination of +the two. The scene from Chapter IV. to the end lies in +Monterey and the adjacent country; of course, with my +usual luck, the plot of the story is somewhat scandalous, +containing an illegitimate father for piece of resistance.... Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To P.G. Hamerton</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following refers to Mr. Hamerton’s candidature, which was +not successful, for the Professorship of Fine Art at Edinburgh:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey</i> [<i>November 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON</span>,—Your letter to my father +was forwarded to me by mistake, and by mistake I opened +it. The letter to myself has not yet reached me. This +must explain my own and my father’s silence. I shall +write by this or next post to the only friends I have who, +I think, would have an influence, as they are both professors. +I regret exceedingly that I am not in Edinburgh, +as I could perhaps have done more, and I need not tell +you that what I might do for you in the matter of the +election is neither from friendship nor gratitude, but +because you are the only man (I beg your pardon) +worth a damn. I shall write to a third friend, now I +think of it, whose father will have great influence.</p> + +<p>I find here (of all places in the world) your <i>Essays on +Art</i>, which I have read with signal interest. I believe I +shall dig an essay of my own out of one of them, for it +set me thinking; if mine could only produce yet another +in reply, we could have the marrow out between us.</p> + +<p>I hope, my dear sir, you will not think badly of me for +my long silence. My head has scarce been on my shoulders. +I had scarce recovered from a long fit of useless ill-health +than I was whirled over here double-quick time and +by cheapest conveyance.</p> + +<p>I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still +somewhat of a mossy ruin. If you would view my countenance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page243"></a>243</span> +aright, come—view it by the pale moonlight. +But that is on the mend. I believe I have now a distant +claim to tan.</p> + +<p>A letter will be more than welcome in this distant +clime, where I have a box at the post-office—generally, I +regret to say, empty. Could your recommendation introduce +me to an American publisher? My next book I +should really try to get hold of here, as its interest is international, +and the more I am in this country the more I +understand the weight of your influence. It is pleasant +to be thus most at home abroad, above all, when the +prophet is still not without honour in his own land....</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The copy of the Monterey paper here mentioned never came to +hand, nor have the contributions of R. L. S. to that journal ever +been traced.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey, 15th November 1879.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Your letter was to me such a bright +spot that I answer it right away to the prejudice of other +correspondents or -dants (don’t know how to spell it) +who have prior claims.... It is the history of our kindnesses +that alone makes this world tolerable. If it were +not for that, for the effect of kind words, kind looks, kind +letters, multiplying, spreading, making one happy through +another and bringing forth benefits, some thirty, some +fifty, some a thousandfold, I should be tempted to think +our life a practical jest in the worst possible spirit. So +your four pages have confirmed my philosophy as well +as consoled my heart in these ill hours.</p> + +<p>Yes, you are right; Monterey is a pleasant place; but +I see I can write no more to-night. I am tired and sad, +and being already in bed, have no more to do but turn +out the light.—Your affectionate friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>I try it again by daylight. Once more in bed however; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page244"></a>244</span> +for to-day it is <i>mucho frio, as</i> we Spaniards say; +and I had no other means of keeping warm for my work. +I have done a good spell, 9½ foolscap pages; at least 8 of +Cornhill; ah, if I thought that I could get eight guineas +for it. My trouble is that I am all too ambitious just +now. A book whereof 70 out of 120 are scrolled. A novel +whereof 85 out of, say 140, are pretty well nigh done. A +short story of 50 pp., which shall be finished to-morrow, +or I’ll know the reason why. This may bring in a lot of +money: but I dread to think that it is all on three chances. +If the three were to fail, I am in a bog. The novel is +called <i>A Vendetta in the West</i>. I see I am in a grasping, +dismal humour, and should, as we Americans put it, +quit writing. In truth, I am so haunted by anxieties +that one or other is sure to come up in all that I write.</p> + +<p>I will send you herewith a Monterey paper where the +works of R. L. S. appear, nor only that, but all my life +on studying the advertisements will become clear. I +lodge with Dr. Heintz; take my meals with Simoneau; +have been only two days ago shaved by the tonsorial +artist Michaels; drink daily at the Bohemia saloon; get +my daily paper from Hadsell’s; was stood a drink to-day +by Albano Rodriguez; in short, there is scarce a person +advertised in that paper but I know him, and I may add +scarce a person in Monterey but is there advertised. The +paper is the marrow of the place. Its bones—pooh, I am +tired of writing so sillily.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Monterey, December 1879.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="sc">To-day</span>, my dear Colvin, I send you the first part of +the <i>Amateur Emigrant</i>, 71 pp., by far the longest and +the best of the whole. It is not a monument of eloquence; +indeed, I have sought to be prosaic in view of the nature +of the subject; but I almost think it is interesting.</p> + +<p>Whatever is done about any book publication, two +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245"></a>245</span> +things remember: I must keep a royalty; and, second, I +must have all my books advertised, in the French manner, +on the leaf opposite the title. I know from my own +experience how much good this does an author with book +<i>buyers</i>.</p> + +<p>The entire <i>A. E.</i> will be a little longer than the two +others, but not very much. Here and there, I fancy, you +will laugh as you read it; but it seems to me rather a +<i>clever</i> book than anything else: the book of a man, that +is, who has paid a great deal of attention to contemporary +life, and not through the newspapers.</p> + +<p>I have never seen my <i>Burns!</i> the darling of my heart! +I await your promised letter. Papers, magazines, articles +by friends; reviews of myself, all would be very welcome. +I am reporter for the Monterey Californian, at a salary +of two dollars a week! <i>Comment trouvez-vous ça?</i> I am +also in a conspiracy with the American editor, a French +restaurant-man, and an Italian fisherman against the +Padre. The enclosed poster is my last literary appearance. +It was put up to the number of 200 exemplaires +at the witching hour; and they were almost all destroyed +by eight in the morning. But I think the nickname will +stick. <i>Dos Reales; deux réaux</i>; two bits; twenty-five +cents; about a shilling; but in practice it is worth from +ninepence to threepence: thus two glasses of beer would +cost two bits. The Italian fisherman, an old Garibaldian, +is a splendid fellow.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following is in acknowledgment of Mr. Gosse’s volume +called <i>New Poems</i>:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey, Dec. 8, 1879.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I received your book last night as +I lay abed with a pleurisy, the result, I fear, of overwork, +gradual decline of appetite, etc. You know what a +wooden-hearted curmudgeon I am about contemporary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246"></a>246</span> +verse. I like none of it, except some of my own. (I +look back on that sentence with pleasure; it comes from +an honest heart.) Hence you will be kind enough to +take this from me in a kindly spirit; the piece “To my +daughter” is delicious. And yet even here I am going +to pick holes. I am a <i>beastly</i> curmudgeon. It is the last +verse. “Newly budded” is off the venue; and haven’t +you gone ahead to make a poetry daybreak instead of +sticking to your muttons, and comparing with the mysterious +light of stars the plain, friendly, perspicuous, +human day? But this is to be a beast. The little poem +is eminently pleasant, human, and original.</p> + +<p>I have read nearly the whole volume, and shall read +it nearly all over again; you have no rivals!</p> + +<p>Bancroft’s <i>History of the United States</i>, even in a +centenary edition, is essentially heavy fare; a little goes +a long way; I respect Bancroft, but I do not love him; +he has moments when he feels himself inspired to open +up his improvisations upon universal history and the +designs of God; but I flatter myself I am more nearly +acquainted with the latter than Mr. Bancroft. A man, +in the words of my Plymouth Brother, “who knows the +Lord,” must needs, from time to time, write less emphatically. +It is a fetter dance to the music of minute guns—not +at sea, but in a region not a thousand miles from the +Sahara. Still, I am half-way through volume three, and +shall count myself unworthy of the name of an Englishman +if I do not see the back of volume six. The countryman +of Livingstone, Burton, Speke, Drake, Cook, etc.!</p> + +<p>I have been sweated not only out of my pleuritic fever, +but out of all my eating cares, and the better part of my +brains (strange coincidence!), by aconite. I have that +peculiar and delicious sense of being born again in an +expurgated edition which belongs to convalescence. It +will not be for long; I hear the breakers roar; I shall +be steering head first for another rapid before many days; +<i>nitor aquis</i>, said a certain Eton boy, translating for his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247"></a>247</span> +sins a part of the <i>Inland Voyage</i> into Latin elegiacs; and +from the hour I saw it, or rather a friend of mine, the +admirable Jenkin, saw and recognised its absurd appropriateness, +I took it for my device in life. I am going +for thirty now; and unless I can snatch a little rest before +long, I have, I may tell you in confidence, no hope of +seeing thirty-one. My health began to break last winter, +and has given me but fitful times since then. This pleurisy, +though but a slight affair in itself, was a huge disappointment +to me, and marked an epoch. To start a pleurisy +about nothing, while leading a dull, regular life in a mild +climate, was not my habit in past days; and it is six +years, all but a few months, since I was obliged to spend +twenty-four hours in bed. I may be wrong, but if the +niting is to continue, I believe I must go. It is a pity +in one sense, for I believe the class of work I <i>might</i> yet +give out is better and more real and solid than people +fancy. But death is no bad friend; a few aches and +gasps, and we are done; like the truant child, I am beginning +to grow weary and timid in this big jostling city, +and could run to my nurse, even although she should +have to whip me before putting me to bed.</p> + +<p>Will you kiss your little daughter from me, and tell +her that her father has written a delightful poem about +her? Remember me, please, to Mrs. Gosse, to Middlemore, +to whom some of these days I will write, to ——, +to ——, yes, to ——, and to ——. I know you will gnash +your teeth at some of these; wicked, grim, catlike old +poet. If I were God, I would sort you—as we say in Scotland.—Your +sincere friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>“Too young to be our child”: blooming good.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey</i> [<i>December 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have been down with pleurisy +but now convalesce; it was a slight attack, but I had a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248"></a>248</span> +hot fever; pulse 150; and the thing reminds me of my +weakness. These miseries tell on me cruelly. But things +are not so hopeless as they might be so I am far from +despair. Besides I think I may say I have some courage +for life.</p> + +<p>But now look here:</p> + +<p class="center">Fables and Tales</p> + +<table class="nobctr" width="90%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Story of a Lie</td> + <td class="tc2">100</td> + <td class="tc3">pp. like the Donkey.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Providence and the Guitar</td> + <td class="tc2">52</td> + <td class="tc3"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Will o’ the Mill</td> + <td class="tc2">45</td> + <td class="tc3"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">A Lodging for the Night</td> + <td class="tc2">40</td> + <td class="tc3">(about)</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Sieur de Malétroit’s Door</td> + <td class="tc2">42</td> + <td class="tc3"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3"> </td> + <td class="tc2">——</td> + <td class="tc3"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2">say</td> + <td class="tc2">280</td> + <td class="tc3">pp. in all.</td></tr> +</table> + +<p>Here is my scheme. Henley already proposed that +Caldecott should illustrate <i>Will o’ the Mill</i>. The <i>Guitar</i> +is still more suited to him; he should make delicious +things for that. And though the <i>Lie</i> is not much in the +way for pictures, I should like to see my dear Admiral +in the flesh. I love the Admiral; I give my head, that +man’s alive. As for the other two they need not be illustrated +at all unless he likes.</p> + +<p>Is this a dream altogether? I would if necessary ask +nothing down for the stories, and only a small royalty +but to begin <i>from the first copy sold</i>.</p> + +<p>I hate myself for being always on business. But I +cannot help my fears and anxieties about money; even +if all came well, it would be many a long day before we +could afford to leave this coast. Is it true that the <i>Donkey</i> +is in a second edition? That should bring some money, +too, ere long, though not much I dare say. You will see +the <i>Guitar</i> is made for Caldecott; moreover it’s a little +thing I like. I am no lover of either of the things in +Temple Bar; but they will make up the volume, and +perhaps others may like them better than I do. They +say republished stories do not sell. Well, that is why I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249"></a>249</span> +am in a hurry to get this out. The public must be educated +to buy mine or I shall never make a cent. I have heaps +of short stories in view. The next volume will probably +be called <i>Stories</i> or A <i>Story-Book</i>, and contain quite a +different lot: <i>The Pavilion on the Links</i>: <i>Professor Rensselaer</i>: +<i>The Dead Man’s Letter</i>: <i>The Wild Man of the +Woods</i>: <i>The Devil on Cramond Sands</i>. They would all +be carpentry stories; pretty grim for the most part; +but of course that’s all in the air as yet.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Monterey, December 11th, 1879.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Many, many thanks for your long +letter. And now to rectifications:—</p> + +<p>1. You are wrong about the <i>Lie</i>, from choosing a wrong +standard. Compare it with my former stories, not with +Scott, or Fielding, or Balzac, or Charles Reade, or even +Wilkie Collins; and where will you find anything half +or a tenth part as good as the Admiral, or even Dick, or +even the Squire, or even Esther. If you had thought of +that, you would have complimented me for advance. But +you were not quite sincere with yourself: you were seeking +arguments to make me devote myself to plays, unbeknown, +of course, to yourself.</p> + +<p>2. Plays, dear boy, are madness for me just now. +The best play is hopeless before six months, and more +likely eighteen for outsiders like you and me. And understand +me, I have to get money <i>soon</i>, or it has no further +interest for me; I am nearly through my capital; with +what pluck I can muster against great anxieties and in +a very shattered state of health, I am trying to do things +that will bring in money soon; and I could not, if I were +not mad, step out of my way to work at what might perhaps +bring me in more but months ahead. Journalism, +you know well, is not my forte; yet if I could only get +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250"></a>250</span> +a roving commission from a paper, I should leap at it +and send them goodish (no more than that) goodish stuff.</p> + +<p>As for my poor literature, dear Henley, you must +expect for a time to find it worse and worse. Perhaps, +if God favours me a little at last, it will pick up again. +Now I am fighting with both hands, a hard battle, and +my work, while it will be as good as I can make it, will +probably be worth twopence. If you despised the <i>Donkey</i>, +dear boy, you should have told me so at the time, not +reserved it for a sudden revelation just now when I am +down in health, wealth, and fortune. But I am glad you +have said so at last. Never, please, delay such confidences +any more. If they come quickly, they are a help; if they +come after long silence, they feel almost like a taunt.</p> + +<p>Now, to read all this, any one would think you had +written unkindly, which is not so, as God who made us +knows. But I wished to put myself right ere I went on +to state myself. Nothing has come but the volume of +Labiche; the <i>Burns</i> I have now given up; the P.O. +authorities plainly regard it as contraband; make no +further efforts in that direction. But, please, if anything +else of mine appears, <i>see that my people have a copy</i>. I +hoped and supposed my own copy would go as usual to +the old address, and, let me use Scotch, I was fair affrontit +when I found this had not been done.</p> + +<p>You have not told me how you are and I heard you +had not been well. Please remedy this.</p> + +<p>The end of life? Yes, Henley, I can tell you what +that is. How old are all truths, and yet how far from +commonplace; old, strange, and inexplicable, like the +Sphinx. So I learn day by day the value and high doctrinality +of suffering. Let me suffer always; not more than +I am able to bear, for that makes a man mad, as hunger +drives the wolf to sally from the forest; but still to suffer +some, and never to sink up to my eyes in comfort and +grow dead in virtues and respectability. I am a bad +man by nature, I suppose; but I cannot be good without +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page251"></a>251</span> +suffering a little. And the end of life, you will ask? The +pleasurable death of self: a thing not to be attained, +because it is a thing belonging to Heaven. All this apropos +of that good, weak, feverish, fine spirit, —— ——. We +have traits in common; we have almost the same strength +and weakness intermingled; and if I had not come through +a very hot crucible, I should be just as feverish. My +sufferings have been healthier than his; mine have been +always a choice, where a man could be manly; his have +been so too, if he knew it, but were not so upon the face; +hence a morbid strain, which his wounded vanity has +helped to embitter.</p> + +<p>I wonder why I scratch every one to-day. And I +believe it is because I am conscious of so much truth in +your strictures on my damned stuff. I don’t care; there +is something in me worth saying, though I can’t find what +it is just yet; and ere I die, if I do not die too fast, I +shall write something worth the boards, which with scarce +an exception I have not yet done. At the same time, +dear boy, in a matter of vastly more importance than +Opera Omnia Ludovici Stevenson, I mean my life, I +have not been a perfect cad; God help me to be less and +less so as the days go on.</p> + +<p>The <i>Emigrant</i> is not good, and will never do for P.M.G., +though it must have a kind of rude interest.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>I am now quite an American—yellow envelopes.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco</i> [<i>December 26, 1879</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am now writing to you in a café +waiting for some music to begin. For four days I have +spoken to no one but to my landlady or landlord or to +restaurant waiters. This is not a gay way to pass Christmas, +is it? and I must own the guts are a little knocked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252"></a>252</span> +out of me. If I could work, I could worry through better. +But I have no style at command for the moment, with +the second part of the <i>Emigrant</i>, the last of the novel, +the essay on Thoreau, and God knows all, waiting for +me. But I trust something can be done with the first +part, or, by God, I’ll starve here....<a name="FnAnchor_25" href="#Footnote_25"><span class="sp">25</span></a></p> + +<p>O Colvin, you don’t know how much good I have +done myself. I feared to think this out by myself. I +have made a base use of you, and it comes out so much +better than I had dreamed. But I have to stick to work +now; and here’s December gone pretty near useless. +But, Lord love you, October and November saw a great +harvest. It might have affected the price of paper on +the Pacific coast. As for ink, they haven’t any, not what +I call ink; only stuff to write cookery-books with, or +the works of Hayley, or the pallid perambulations of the—I +can find nobody to beat Hayley. I like good, knock-me-down +black-strap to write with; that makes a mark +and done with it.—By the way, I have tried to read the +<i>Spectator</i>,<a name="FnAnchor_26" href="#Footnote_26"><span class="sp">26</span></a> which they all say I imitate, and—it’s very +wrong of me, I know—but I can’t. It’s all very fine, +you know, and all that, but it’s vapid. They have just +played the overture to <i>Norma</i>, and I know it’s a good one, +for I bitterly wanted the opera to go on; I had just got +thoroughly interested—and then no curtain to rise.</p> + +<p>I have written myself into a kind of spirits, bless your +dear heart, by your leave. But this is wild work for me, +nearly nine and me not back! What will Mrs. Carson +think of me! Quite a night-hawk, I do declare. You +are the worst correspondent in the world—no, not that, +Henley is that—well, I don’t know, I leave the pair of +you to him that made you—surely with small attention. +But here’s my service, and I’ll away home to my den O! +much the better for this crack, Professor Colvin.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page253"></a>253</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco</i> +[<i>January 10, 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This is a circular letter to tell my +estate fully. You have no right to it, being the worst +of correspondents; but I wish to efface the impression +of my last, so to you it goes.</p> + +<p>Any time between eight and half-past nine in the +morning, a slender gentleman in an ulster, with a volume +buttoned into the breast of it, may be observed leaving +No. 608 Bush and descending Powell with an active step. +The gentleman is R. L. S.; the volume relates to Benjamin +Franklin, on whom he meditates one of his charming +essays. He descends Powell, crosses Market, and +descends in Sixth on a branch of the original Pine Street +Coffee House, no less; I believe he would be capable of +going to the original itself, if he could only find it. In +the branch he seats himself at a table covered with wax-cloth, +and a pampered menial, of High-Dutch extraction +and, indeed, as yet only partially extracted, lays before +him a cup of coffee, a roll and a pat of butter, all, to quote +the deity, very good. A while ago and R. L. S. used +to find the supply of butter insufficient; but he has now +learned the art to exactitude, and butter and roll expire +at the same moment. For this refection he pays ten cents, +or five pence sterling (£0, 0s. 5d.).</p> + +<p>Half an hour later, the inhabitants of Bush Street +observe the same slender gentleman armed, like George +Washington, with his little hatchet, splitting, kindling, +and breaking coal for his fire. He does this quasi-publicly +upon the window-sill; but this is not to be attributed to +any love of notoriety, though he is indeed vain of his +prowess with the hatchet (which he persists in calling an +axe), and daily surprised at the perpetuation of his fingers. +The reason is this: that the sill is a strong, supporting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254"></a>254</span> +beam, and that blows of the same emphasis in other parts +of his room might knock the entire shanty into hell. +Thenceforth, for from three to four hours, he is engaged +darkly with an ink bottle. Yet he is not blacking his boots, +for the only pair that he possesses are innocent of lustre +and wear the natural hue of the material turned up with +caked and venerable slush. The youngest child of his +landlady remarks several times a day, as this strange +occupant enters or quits the house, “Dere’s de author.” +Can it be that this bright-haired innocent has found the +true clue to the mystery? The being in question is, at +least, poor enough to belong to that honourable craft.</p> + +<p>His next appearance is at the restaurant of one Donadieu, +in Bush Street, between Dupont and Kearney, where +a copious meal, half a bottle of wine, coffee and brandy +may be procured for the sum of four bits, <i>alias</i> fifty cents, +£0, 2s. 2d. sterling. The wine is put down in a whole +bottleful, and it is strange and painful to observe the +greed with which the gentleman in question seeks to +secure the last drop of his allotted half, and the scrupulousness +with which he seeks to avoid taking the first drop +of the other. This is partly explained by the fact that +if he were to go over the mark—bang would go a tenpence. +He is again armed with a book, but his best +friends will learn with pain that he seems at this hour to +have deserted the more serious studies of the morning. +When last observed, he was studying with apparent zest +the exploits of one Rocambole by the late Viscomte +Ponson du Terrail. This work, originally of prodigious +dimensions, he had cut into liths or thicknesses apparently +for convenience of carriage.</p> + +<p>Then the being walks, where is not certain. But by +about half-past four, a light beams from the windows of +608 Bush, and he may be observed sometimes engaged +in correspondence, sometimes once again plunged in the +mysterious rites of the forenoon. About six he returns to +the Branch Original, where he once more imbrues himself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255"></a>255</span> +to the worth of fivepence in coffee and roll. The evening +is devoted to writing and reading, and by eleven or half-past +darkness closes over this weird and truculent existence.</p> + +<p>As for coin, you see I don’t spend much, only you and +Henley both seem to think my work rather bosh nowadays, +and I do want to make as much as I was making, +that is £200; if I can do that, I can swim: last year with +my ill health I touched only £109; that would not do, +I could not fight it through on that; but on £200, as +I say, I am good for the world, and can even in this quiet +way save a little, and that I must do. The worst is my +health; it is suspected I had an ague chill yesterday; I +shall know by to-morrow, and you know if I am to be +laid down with ague the game is pretty well lost. But +I don’t know; I managed to write a good deal down in +Monterey, when I was pretty sickly most of the time, +and, by God, I’ll try, ague and all. I have to ask you +frankly, when you write, to give me any good news you +can, and chat a little, but <i>just in the meantime</i>, give me +no bad. If I could get <i>Thoreau</i>, <i>Emigrant</i> and <i>Vendetta</i> +all finished and out of my hand, I should feel like a man +who had made half a year’s income in a half year; but until +the two last are <i>finished</i>, you see, they don’t fairly count.</p> + +<p>I am afraid I bore you sadly with this perpetual talk +about my affairs; I will try and stow it; but you see, it +touches me nearly. I’m the miser in earnest now: last +night, when I felt so ill, the supposed ague chill, it seemed +strange not to be able to afford a drink. I would have +walked half a mile, tired as I felt, for a brandy and soda.—Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, +San Francisco, January 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—You have got a letter ahead of +me, owing to the Alpine accumulation of ill news I had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256"></a>256</span> +to stagger under. I will stand no complaints of my correspondence +from England, I having written near half as +many letters again as I have received.</p> + +<p>Do not damp me about my work; <i>qu’elle soit bonne ou +mauvaise</i>, it has to be done. You know the wolf is at +the door, and I have been seriously ill. I am now at +Thoreau. I almost blame myself for persevering in anything +so difficult under the circumstances: but it may +set me up again in style, which is the great point. I +have now £80 in the world and two houses to keep up +for an indefinite period. It is odd to be on so strict a +regimen; it is a week for instance since I have bought +myself a drink, and unless times change, I do not suppose +I shall ever buy myself another. The health improves. +The Pied Piper is an idea; it shall have my thoughts, +and so shall you. The character of the P. P. would be +highly comic, I seem to see. Had you looked at the +<i>Pavilion</i>, I do not think you would have sent it to Stephen; +’tis a mere story, and has no higher pretension: Dibbs +is its name, I wish it was its nature also. The <i>Vendetta,</i> +at which you ignorantly puff out your lips, is a real novel, +though not a good one. As soon as I have found strength +to finish the <i>Emigrant</i>, I shall also finish the <i>Vend.</i> and +draw a breath—I wish I could say, “and draw a cheque.” +My spirits have risen <i>contra fortunam</i>; I will fight this +out, and conquer. You are all anxious to have me home +in a hurry. There are two or three objections to that; +but I shall instruct you more at large when I have time, +for to-day I am hunted, having a pile of letters before +me. Yet it is already drawing into dusk.—Yours affectionately,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The Dook de Karneel (= Cornhill) and Marky de Stephen is +of course Mr. Leslie Stephen. The “blood and thunder” is <i>The +Pavilion on the Links. Hester Noble</i> and <i>Don Juan</i> were the titles +of two plays planned and begun with W. E. Henley the previous +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257"></a>257</span> +winter. They were never finished. The French novels mentioned +are by Joseph Méry. The <i>Dialogue on Character and Destiny</i> still +exists in a fragmentary condition. George the Pieman is a character +in <i>Deacon Brodie</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco, +January 23rd, 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—That was good news. The Dook +de Karneel, K.C.B., taken a blood and thunder! Well, +I <i>thought</i> it had points; now, I know it. And I’m to see +a proof once more! O Glory Hallelujah, how beautiful +is proof, And how distressed that author man who dwells +too far aloof. His favourite words he always finds his +friends misunderstand, With oaths, he reads his articles, +moist brow and clenchéd hand. Impromtoo. The last +line first-rate. When may I hope to see the <i>Deacon</i>? I +pine for the <i>Deacon</i>, for proofs of the <i>Pavilion</i>—O and +for a categorical confession from you that the second +edition of the <i>Donkey</i> was a false alarm, which I conclude +from hearing no more.</p> + +<p>I have twice written to the Marky de Stephen; each +time with one of my bright papers, so I should hear from +him soon. How are Baron Payn, Sir Robert de Bob, +and other members of the Aristocracy?</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%"> + +<p>Here’s breid an’ wine an’ kebbuck an’ canty cracks at e’en</p> + <p class="i2">To the folks that mind o’ me when I’m awa’,</p> +<p>But them that hae forgot me, O ne’er to be forgi’en—</p> + <p class="i2">They may a’ gae tapsalteerie in a raw!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>I have mighty little to say, dear boy, to seem worth +2½d. I have thought of the Piper, but he does not seem +to come as yet; I get him too metaphysical. I shall +make a shot for <i>Hester</i>, as soon as I have finished the +<i>Emigrant</i> and the <i>Vendetta</i> and perhaps my <i>Dialogue on +Character and Destiny</i>. Hester and Don Juan are the +two that smile on me; but I will touch nothing in the +shape of a play until I have made my year’s income sure. +You understand, and you see that I am right?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page258"></a>258</span></p> + +<p>I have read <i>M. Auguste</i> and the <i>Crime inconnu</i>, being +now abonné to a library, and found them very readable, +highly ingenious, and so French that I could not keep +my gravity. The <i>Damned Ones of the Indies</i> now occupy +my attention; I have myself already damned them repeatedly. +I am, as you know, the original person the +wheels of whose chariot tarried; but though I am so +slow, I am rootedly tenacious. Do not despair. <i>Hester</i> +and the <i>Don</i> are sworn in my soul; and they shall be.</p> + +<p>Is there no <i>news</i>? Real news, newsy news. Heavenly +blue, this is strange. Remember me to the lady of the +Cawstle, my toolip, and ever was,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">George the Pieman.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>With reference to the following, it must be explained that the first +draft of the first part of the <i>Amateur Emigrant</i>, when it reached +me about Christmas, had seemed to me, compared to his previous +travel papers, a somewhat wordy and spiritless record of squalid +experiences, little likely to advance his still only half-established +reputation; and I had written to him to that effect, inopportunely +enough, with a fuller measure even than usual of the frankness +which always marked our intercourse.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco, +California</i> [<i>January 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received this morning your long +letter from Paris. Well, God’s will be done; if it’s dull, +it’s dull; it was a fair fight, and it’s lost, and there’s an +end. But, fortunately, dulness is not a fault the public +hates; perhaps they may like this vein of dulness. If +they don’t, damn them, we’ll try them with another. I +sat down on the back of your letter, and wrote twelve +Cornhill pages this day as ever was of that same despised +<i>Emigrant</i>; so you see my moral courage has not gone +down with my intellect. Only, frankly, Colvin, do you +think it a good plan to be so eminently descriptive, and +even eloquent in dispraise? You rolled such a lot of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page259"></a>259</span> +polysyllables over me that a better man than I might +have been disheartened.—However, I was not, as you +see, and am not. The <i>Emigrant</i> shall be finished and +leave in the course of next week. And then, I’ll stick +to stories. I am not frightened. I know my mind is +changing; I have been telling you so for long; and I +suppose I am fumbling for the new vein. Well, I’ll find it.</p> + +<p>The <i>Vendetta</i> you will not much like, I dare say: and +that must be finished next; but I’ll knock you with <i>The +Forest State: A Romance</i>.</p> + +<p>I’m vexed about my letters; I know it is painful to get +these unsatisfactory things; but at least I have written +often enough. And not one soul ever gives me any <i>news,</i> +about people or things; everybody writes me sermons; +it’s good for me, but hardly the food necessary for a man +who lives all alone on forty-five cents a day, and sometimes +less, with quantities of hard work and many heavy +thoughts. If one of you could write me a letter with a +jest in it, a letter like what is written to real people in +this world—I am still flesh and blood—I should enjoy +it. Simpson did, the other day, and it did me as much +good as a bottle of wine. A lonely man gets to feel like +a pariah after awhile—or no, not that, but like a saint +and martyr, or a kind of macerated clergyman with +pebbles in his boots, a pillared Simeon, I’m damned if I +know what, but, man alive, I want gossip.</p> + +<p>My health is better, my spirits steadier, I am not the +least cast down. If the <i>Emigrant</i> was a failure, the +<i>Pavilion</i>, by your leave, was not: it was a story quite +adequately and rightly done, I contend; and when I +find Stephen, for whom certainly I did not mean it, taking +it in, I am better pleased with it than before. I know +I shall do better work than ever I have done before; but, +mind you, it will not be like it. My sympathies and +interests are changed. There shall be no more books of +travel for me. I care for nothing but the moral and the +dramatic, not a jot for the picturesque or the beautiful, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page260"></a>260</span> +other than about people. It bored me hellishly to write +the <i>Emigrant</i>; well, it’s going to bore others to read it; +that’s only fair.</p> + +<p>I should also write to others; but indeed I am jack-tired, +and must go to bed to a French novel to compose +myself for slumber.—Ever your affectionate friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco, +California, Jan. 23, 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR AND KIND WEG</span>,—It was a lesson in philosophy +that would have moved a bear, to receive your +letter in my present temper. For I am now well and +well at my ease, both by comparison. First, my health +has turned a corner; it was not consumption this time, +though consumption it has to be some time, as all my +kind friends sing to me, day in, day out. Consumption! +how I hate that word; yet it can sound innocent, as, <i>e.g.</i>, +consumption of military stores. What was wrong with +me, apart from colds and little pleuritic flea-bites, was a +lingering malaria; and that is now greatly overcome, I +eat once more, which is a great amusement and, they +say, good for the health. Second, many of the thunderclouds +that were overhanging me when last I wrote, have +silently stolen away like Longfellow’s Arabs: and I am +now engaged to be married to the woman whom I have +loved for three years and a half. I do not yet know +when the marriage can come off; for there are many +reasons for delay. But as few people before marriage +have known each other so long or made more trials of +each other’s tenderness and constancy, I permit myself +to hope some quiet at the end of all. At least I will boast +myself so far; I do not think many wives are better +loved than mine will be. Third and last, in the order +of what has changed my feelings, my people have cast +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261"></a>261</span> +me off, and so that thundercloud, as you may almost say, +has overblown. You know more than most people whether +or not I loved my father.<a name="FnAnchor_27" href="#Footnote_27"><span class="sp">27</span></a> These things are sad; nor +can any man forgive himself for bringing them about; +yet they are easier to meet in fact than by anticipation. +I almost trembled whether I was doing right, until I +was fairly summoned; then, when I found that I was +not shaken one jot, that I could grieve, that I could sharply +blame myself, for the past, and yet never hesitate one +second as to my conduct in the future, I believed my +cause was just and I leave it with the Lord. I certainly +look for no reward, nor any abiding city either here or +hereafter, but I please myself with hoping that my father +will not always think so badly of my conduct nor so very +slightingly of my affection as he does at present.</p> + +<p>You may now understand that the quiet economical +citizen of San Francisco who now addresses you, a bonhomme +given to cheap living, early to bed though scarce +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262"></a>262</span> +early to rise in proportion (que diable! let us have style, +anyway), busied with his little bits of books and essays +and with a fair hope for the future, is no longer the same +desponding, invalid son of a doubt and an apprehension +who last wrote to you from Monterey. I am none the +less warmly obliged to you and Mrs. Gosse for your good +words. I suppose that I am the devil (hearing it so +often), but I am not ungrateful. Only please, Weg, do +not talk of genius about me; I do not think I want for +a certain talent, but I am heartily persuaded I have none +of the other commodity; so let that stick to the wall: +you only shame me by such friendly exaggerations.</p> + +<p>When shall I be married? When shall I be able to +return to England? When shall I join the good and +blessed in a forced march upon the New Jerusalem? That +is what I know not in any degree; some of them, let us +hope, will come early, some after a judicious interval. I +have three little strangers knocking at the door of Leslie +Stephen: <i>The Pavilion on the Links</i>, a blood and thunder +story, <i>accepted</i>; <i>Yoshida Torajiro</i>, a paper on a Japanese +hero who will warm your blood, <i>postulant</i>; and <i>Henry +David Thoreau</i>: <i>his character and opinions</i>—postulant +also. I give you these hints knowing you to love the best +literature, that you may keep an eye at the mast-head for +these little tit-bits. Write again, and soon, and at greater +length to your friend.—Your friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">(signed) R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco, Jan. 26, ’80.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I have to drop from a 50 cent to +a 25 cent dinner; to-day begins my fall. That brings +down my outlay in food and drink to 45 cents or 1s. 10½d. +per day. How are the mighty fallen! Luckily, this is +such a cheap place for food; I used to pay as much as +that for my first breakfast in the Savile in the grand old +palmy days of yore. I regret nothing, and do not even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page263"></a>263</span> +dislike these straits, though the flesh will rebel on occasion. +It is to-day bitter cold, after weeks of lovely warm +weather, and I am all in a chitter. I am about to issue +for my little shilling and halfpenny meal, taken in the +middle of the day, the poor man’s hour; and I shall eat +and drink to your prosperity.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Professor Meiklejohn</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>One day at the Savile Club, Stevenson, hearing a certain laugh, +cried out that he must know the laugher, who turned out to be a +fellow-countryman, the late John Meiklejohn, the well-known +educational authority and professor at St. Andrews University. +Stevenson introduced himself, and the two became firm friends. +Allusion was made a few pages back to a letter from Professor +Meiklejohn about the <i>Burns</i> essay.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco, +California, Feb. 1st, 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MEIKLEJOHN</span>,—You must think me a thankless +fellow by this time; but if you knew how harassed +and how sick I had been, and how I have twice begun to +write to you already, you might condescend to forgive +the puir gangrel body. To tell you what I have been +doing, thinking, and coming through these six or seven +months would exhilarate nobody: least of all me. <i>Infandum +jubes</i>, so I hope you won’t. I have done a great +deal of work, but perhaps my health of mind and body +should not let me expect much from what I have done. +At least I have turned the corner; my feet are on the +rock again, I believe, and I shall continue to pour forth +pure and wholesome literature for the masses as per +invoice.</p> + +<p>I am glad you liked <i>Burns</i>; I think it is the best thing +I ever did. Did not the national vanity exclaim? Do +you know what Shairp thought? I think I let him down +gently, did I not?</p> + +<p>I have done a <i>Thoreau</i>, which I hope you may like, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264"></a>264</span> +though I have a feeling that perhaps it might be better. +Please look out for a little paper called <i>Yoshida Torajiro</i>, +which, I hope, will appear in Cornhill ere very long; +the subject, at least, will interest you. I am to appear +in the same magazine with a real “blood and bones in +the name of God” story. Why Stephen took it, is to +me a mystery; anyhow, it was fun to write, and if you +can interest a person for an hour and a half, you have +not been idle. When I suffer in mind, stories are my +refuge; I take them like opium; and I consider one who +writes them as a sort of doctor of the mind. And frankly, +Meiklejohn, it is not Shakespeare we take to, when we are +in a hot corner; nor, certainly, George Eliot—no, nor +even Balzac. It is Charles Reade, or old Dumas, or the +Arabian Nights, or the best of Walter Scott; it is stories +we want, not the high poetic function which represents +the world; we are then like the Asiatic with his improvisatore +or the middle-agee with his trouvère. We want +incident, interest, action: to the devil with your philosophy. +When we are well again, and have an easy mind, +we shall peruse your important work; but what we want +now is a drug. So I, when I am ready to go beside myself, +stick my head into a story-book, as the ostrich with +her bush; let fate and fortune meantime belabour my +posteriors at their will.</p> + +<p>I have not seen the Spectator article; nobody sent it +to me. If you had an old copy lying by you, you would +be very good to despatch it to me. A little abuse from +my grandmamma would do me good in health, if not in +morals.</p> + +<p>This is merely to shake hands with you and give you +the top of the morning in 1880. But I look to be answered; +and then I shall promise to answer in return. For I am +now, so far as that can be in this world, my own man +again, and when I have heard from you, I shall be able to +write more naturally and at length.</p> + +<p>At least, my dear Meiklejohn, I hope you will believe +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265"></a>265</span> +in the sincerely warm and friendly regard in which I hold +you, and the pleasure with which I look forward, not only +to hearing from you shortly, but to seeing you again in +the flesh with another good luncheon and good talk. Tell +me when you don’t like my work.—Your friend,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The essays here mentioned on Benjamin Franklin and William +Penn were projects long cherished but in the end abandoned: <i>The +Forest State</i> came to maturity three years later as <i>Prince Otto</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco, +Cal., February 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Before my work or anything I sit +down to answer your long and kind letter.</p> + +<p>I am well, cheerful, busy, hopeful; I cannot be knocked +down; I do not mind about the <i>Emigrant</i>. I never thought +it a masterpiece. It was written to sell, and I believe it +will sell; and if it does not, the next will. You need not +be uneasy about my work; I am only beginning to see +my true method.</p> + +<p>(1) As to <i>Studies</i>. There are two more already gone +to Stephen. <i>Yoshida Torajiro</i>, which I think temperate +and adequate; and <i>Thoreau</i>, which will want a really +Balzacian effort over the proofs. But I want <i>Benjamin +Franklin and the Art of Virtue</i> to follow; and perhaps +also <i>William Penn</i>, but this last may be perhaps delayed +for another volume—I think not, though. The <i>Studies</i> +will be an intelligent volume, and in their latter numbers +more like what I mean to be my style, or I mean what +my style means to be, for I am passive. (2) The Essays. +Good news indeed. I think <i>Ordered South</i> must be thrown +in. It always swells the volume, and it will never find +a more appropriate place. It was May 1874, Macmillan, +I believe. (3) Plays. I did not understand you meant +to try the draft. I shall make you a full scenario as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266"></a>266</span> +soon as the <i>Emigrant</i> is done. (4) <i>Emigrant.</i> He shall +be sent off next week. (5) Stories. You need not be +alarmed that I am going to imitate Meredith. You know +I was a story-teller ingrain; did not that reassure you? +The <i>Vendetta</i>, which falls next to be finished, is not entirely +pleasant. But it has points. <i>The Forest State</i> or <i>The +Greenwood State: A Romance</i>, is another pair of shoes. +It is my old Semiramis, our half-seen Duke and Duchess, +which suddenly sprang into sunshine clearness as a story +the other day. The kind, happy <i>dénouement</i> is unfortunately +absolutely undramatic, which will be our only +trouble in quarrying out the play. I mean we shall quarry +from it. <i>Characters</i>—Otto Frederick John, hereditary +Prince of Grünwald; Amelia Seraphina, Princess; Conrad, +Baron Gondremarck, Prime Minister; Cancellarius +Greisengesang; Killian Gottesacker, Steward of the +River Farm; Ottilie, his daughter; the Countess von +Rosen. Seven in all. A brave story, I swear; and a +brave play too, if we can find the trick to make the end. +The play, I fear, will have to end darkly, and that spoils +the quality as I now see it of a kind of crockery, eighteenth +century, high-life-below-stairs life, breaking up like ice +in spring before the nature and the certain modicum of +manhood of my poor, clever, feather-headed Prince, +whom I love already. I see Seraphina too. Gondremarck +is not quite so clear. The Countess von Rosen, I +have; I’ll never tell you who she is; it’s a secret; but +I have known the countess; well, I will tell you; it’s my +old Russian friend, Madame Zassetsky. Certain scenes +are, in conception, the best I have ever made, except for +<i>Hester Noble</i>. Those at the end, Von Rosen and the +Princess, the Prince and Princess, and the Princess and +Gondremarck, as I now see them from here, should be +nuts, Henley, nuts. It irks me not to go to them straight. +But the <i>Emigrant</i> stops the way; then a reassured +scenario for <i>Hester</i>; then the <i>Vendetta</i>; then two (or +three) essays—<i>Benjamin Franklin</i>, <i>Thoughts on Literature</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page267"></a>267</span> +<i>as an Art</i>, <i>Dialogue on Character and Destiny between two +Puppets</i>, <i>The Human Compromise</i>; and then, at length—come +to me, my Prince. O Lord, it’s going to be courtly! +And there is not an ugly person nor an ugly scene in it. +The <i>Slate</i> both Fanny and I have damned utterly; it is +too morbid, ugly, and unkind; better starvation.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I had written proposing that a collected volume of his short +stories should be published with illustrations by Caldecott. At +the end of this letter occurs his first allusion to his now famous +<i>Requiem</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>608 Bush Street, +San Francisco, February 1880.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received a very nice letter from +you with two enclosures. I am still unable to finish the +<i>Emigrant</i>, although there are only some fifteen pages to +do. The <i>Vendetta</i> is, I am afraid, scarce Fortnightly +form, though after the <i>Pavilion</i> being taken by Stephen, +I am truly at sea about all such matters. I dare say my +<i>Prince of Grünewald</i>—the name still uncertain—would be +good enough for anything if I could but get it done: I +believe that to be a really good story. The <i>Vendetta</i> is +somewhat cheap in motive; very rum and unlike the +present kind of novels both for good and evil in writing; +and on the whole, only remarkable for the heroine’s +character, and that I believe to be in it.</p> + +<p>I am not well at all. But hope to be better. You +know I have been hawked to death these last months. +And then I lived too low, I fear; and any way I have +got pretty low and out at elbows in health. I wish I +could say better,—but I cannot. With a constitution +like mine, you never know—to-morrow I may be carrying +topgallant sails again: but just at present I am scraping +along with a jurymast and a kind of amateur rudder. +Truly I have some misery, as things go; but these things +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page268"></a>268</span> +are mere detail. However, I do not want to <i>crever</i>, <i>claquer</i>, +and cave in just when I have a chance of some happiness; +nor do I mean to. All the same, I am more and +more in a difficulty how to move every day. What a +day or an hour might bring forth, God forbid that I +should prophesy. Certainly, do what you like about the +stories; <i>Will o’ the Mill</i>, or not. It will be Caldecott’s +book or nobody’s. I am glad you liked the <i>Guitar</i>: I +always did: and I think C. could make lovely pikters +to it: it almost seems as if I must have written it for +him express.</p> + +<p>I have already been a visitor at the Club for a fortnight; +but that’s over, and I don’t much care to renew +the period. I want to be married, not to belong to all +the Clubs in Christendie.... I half think of writing +up the Sand-lot agitation for Morley; it is a curious +business; were I stronger, I should try to sugar in with +some of the leaders: a chield amang ’em takin’ notes; +one, who kept a brothel, I reckon, before she started +socialist, particularly interests me. If I am right as to +her early industry, you know she would be sure to adore +me. I have been all my days a dead hand at a harridan, +I never saw the one yet that could resist me. When I +die of consumption, you can put that upon my tomb.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>Sketch of my tomb follows:—</p> + +<p class="center sc">Robert Louis Stevenson</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>born 1850, of a family of engineers,</p> +<p>died<span style="letter-spacing: 3em;"> ...</span></p> + + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">“Nitor aquis.”</p> +<p>Home is the sailor, home from sea,</p> +<p>And the hunter home from the hill.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>You, who pass this grave, put aside hatred; love kindness; +be all services remembered in your heart and all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page269"></a>269</span> +offences pardoned; and as you go down again among +the living, let this be your question: can I make some +one happier this day before I lie down to sleep? Thus +the dead man speaks to you from the dust: you will +hear no more from him.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p>Who knows, Colvin, but I may thus be of more use +when I am buried than ever when I was alive? The +more I think of it, the more earnestly do I desire this. +I may perhaps try to write it better some day; but that +is what I want in sense. The verses are from a beayootiful +poem by me.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>608 Bush Street, San Francisco</i> [<i>March 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—My landlord and landlady’s little +four-year-old child is dying in the house; and O, what +he has suffered! It has really affected my health. +O never, never any family for me! I am cured of +that.</p> + +<p>I have taken a long holiday—have not worked for +three days, and will not for a week; for I was really +weary. Excuse this scratch; for the child weighs on +me, dear Colvin. I did all I could to help; but all seems +little, to the point of crime, when one of these poor +innocents lies in such misery.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To J. W. Ferrier</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the interval between this letter and the last, the writer had +been down with an acute and dangerous illness. <i>Forester</i>, here mentioned, +was an autobiographical paper by J. W. F. on his own +boyhood.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>P.O. San Francisco, April 8th, 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FERRIER</span>,—Many thanks for your letter, and +the instalment of <i>Forester</i> which accompanied it, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page270"></a>270</span> +which I read with amusement and pleasure. I fear +Somerset’s letter must wait; for my dear boy, I have +been very nearly on a longer voyage than usual; I am +fresh from giving Charon a quid instead of an obolus: +but he, having accepted the payment, scorned me, and I +had to make the best of my way backward through the +mallow-wood, with nothing to show for this displacement +but the fatigue of the journey. As soon as I feel +fit, you shall have the letter, trust me. But just now +even a note such as I am now writing takes it out of me. +I have, truly, been very sick; I fear I am a vain man, +for I thought it a pity I should die. I could not help +thinking that a good many would be disappointed; but +for myself, although I still think life a business full of +agreeable features I was not entirely unwilling to give it +up. It is so difficult to behave well; and in that matter, +I get more dissatisfied with myself, because more exigent, +every day. I shall be pleased to hear again from you +soon. I shall be married early in May and then go to +the mountains, a very withered bridegroom. I think +your MS. Bible, if that were a specimen, would be a credit +to humanity. Between whiles, collect such thoughts +both from yourself and others: I somehow believe every +man should leave a Bible behind him,—if he is unable +to leave a jest book. I feel fit to leave nothing but my +benediction. It is a strange thing how, do what you +will, nothing seems accomplished. I feel as far from +having paid humanity my board and lodging as I did six +years ago when I was sick at Mentone. But I dare say +the devil would keep telling me so, if I had moved mountains, +and at least I have been very happy on many +different occasions, and that is always something. I can +read nothing, write nothing; but a little while ago and +I could eat nothing either; but now that is changed. +This is a long letter for me; rub your hands, boy, for +’tis an honour.—Yours, from Charon’s strand,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page271"></a>271</span></p> +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>A poetical counterpart to this letter will be found in the piece +beginning ‘Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert,’ which +was composed at the same time and is printed in <i>Underwoods</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>San Francisco, April 16</i> [<i>1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—You have not answered my last; +and I know you will repent when you hear how near I +have been to another world. For about six weeks I have +been in utter doubt; it was a toss-up for life or death all +that time; but I won the toss, sir, and Hades went off +once more discomfited. This is not the first time, nor +will it be the last, that I have a friendly game with that +gentleman. I know he will end by cleaning me out; +but the rogue is insidious, and the habit of that sort of +gambling seems to be a part of my nature; it was, I +suspect, too much indulged in youth; break your children +of this tendency, my dear Gosse, from the first. It is, +when once formed, a habit more fatal than opium—I +speak, as St. Paul says, like a fool. I have been very +very sick; on the verge of a galloping consumption, cold +sweats, prostrating attacks of cough, sinking fits in which +I lost the power of speech, fever, and all the ugliest circumstances +of the disease; and I have cause to bless +God, my wife that is to be, and one Dr. Bamford (a name +the Muse repels), that I have come out of all this, and +got my feet once more upon a little hilltop, with a fair +prospect of life and some new desire of living. Yet I did +not wish to die, neither; only I felt unable to go on +farther with that rough horseplay of human life: a man +must be pretty well to take the business in good part. +Yet I felt all the time that I had done nothing to entitle +me to an honourable discharge; that I had taken up +many obligations and begun many friendships which I +had no right to put away from me; and that for me to +die was to play the cur and slinking sybarite, and desert +the colours on the eve of the decisive fight. Of course I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page272"></a>272</span> +have done no work for I do not know how long; and +here you can triumph. I have been reduced to writing +verses for amusement. A fact. The whirligig of time +brings in its revenges, after all. But I’ll have them buried +with me, I think, for I have not the heart to burn them +while I live. Do write. I shall go to the mountains as +soon as the weather clears; on the way thither, I marry +myself; then I set up my family altar among the pine-woods, +3,000 feet, sir, from the disputatious sea.—I am, +dear Weg, most truly yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Dr. W. Bamford</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>With a copy of <i>Travels with a Donkey</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>San Francisco, April 1880.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—Will you let me offer you this little +book? If I had anything better, it should be yours. +May you not dislike it, for it will be your own handiwork +if there are other fruits from the same tree! But for +your kindness and skill, this would have been my last +book, and now I am in hopes that it will be neither my +last nor my best.</p> + +<p>You doctors have a serious responsibility. You recall +a man from the gates of death, you give him health and +strength once more to use or to abuse. I hope I shall +feel your responsibility added to my own, and seek in +the future to make a better profit of the life you have +renewed to me.—I am, my dear sir, gratefully yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>San Francisco, April 1880.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—You must be sick indeed of my +demand for books, for you have seemingly not yet sent +me one. Still, I live on promises: waiting for Penn, for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page273"></a>273</span> +H. James’s <i>Hawthorne</i>, for my <i>Burns</i>, etc.; and now, to +make matters worse, pending your Centuries, etc., I do +earnestly desire the best book about mythology (if it be +German, so much the worse; send a bunctionary along +with it, and pray for me). This is why. If I recover, I +feel called on to write a volume of gods and demi-gods +in exile: Pan, Jove, Cybele, Venus, Charon, etc.; and +though I should like to take them very free, I should like +to know a little about ’em to begin with. For two days, +till last night, I had no night sweats, and my cough is +almost gone, and I digest well; so all looks hopeful. +However, I was near the other side of Jordan. I send +the proof of <i>Thoreau</i> to you, so that you may correct and +fill up the quotation from Goethe. It is a pity I was ill, +as, for matter, I think I prefer that to any of my essays +except <i>Burns</i>; but the style, though quite manly, never +attains any melody or lenity. So much for consumption: +I begin to appreciate what the <i>Emigrant</i> must be. As +soon as I have done the last few pages of the <i>Emigrant</i> +they shall go to you. But when will that be? I know +not quite yet—I have to be so careful.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>San Francisco, April 1880.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—My dear people telegraphed me +in these words: “Count on 250 pounds annually.” You +may imagine what a blessed business this was. And so +now recover the sheets of the <i>Emigrant</i>, and post them +registered to me. And now please give me all your venom +against it; say your worst, and most incisively, for now +it will be a help, and I’ll make it right or perish in the +attempt. Now, do you understand why I protested +against your depressing eloquence on the subject? When +I <i>had</i> to go on any way, for dear life, I thought it a kind +of pity and not much good to discourage me. Now all’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page274"></a>274</span> +changed. God only knows how much courage and suffering +is buried in that MS. The second part was written in +a circle of hell unknown to Dante—that of the penniless +and dying author. For dying I was, although now saved. +Another week, the doctor said, and I should have been +past salvation. I think I shall always think of it as my +best work. There is one page in Part II., about having +got to shore, and sich, which must have cost me altogether +six hours of work as miserable as ever I went through. +I feel sick even to think of it.—Ever your friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>San Francisco, May 1880.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received your letter and proof +to-day, and was greatly delighted with the last.</p> + +<p>I am now out of danger; in but a short while (<i>i.e.</i> as +soon as the weather is settled), F. and I marry and go +up to the hills to look for a place; “I to the hills will lift +mine eyes, from whence doth come mine aid“: once the +place found, the furniture will follow. There, sir, in, I +hope, a ranche among the pine-trees and hard by a running +brook, we are to fish, hunt, sketch, study Spanish, +French, Latin, Euclid, and History; and, if possible, not +quarrel. Far from man, sir, in the virgin forest. Thence, +as my strength returns, you may expect works of genius. +I always feel as if I must write a work of genius some time +or other; and when is it more likely to come off, than +just after I have paid a visit to Styx and go thence to +the eternal mountains? Such a revolution in a man’s +affairs, as I have somewhere written, would set anybody +singing. When we get installed, Lloyd and I are going +to print my poetical works; so all those who have been +poetically addressed shall receive copies of their addresses. +They are, I believe, pretty correct literary exercises, or +will be, with a few filings; but they are not remarkable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page275"></a>275</span> +for white-hot vehemence of inspiration; tepid works! +respectable versifications of very proper and even original +sentiments: kind of Hayleyistic, I fear—but no, this is +morbid self-depreciation. The family is all very shaky +in health, but our motto is now <i>Al Monte</i>! in the words +of Don Lope, in the play the sister and I are just beating +through with two bad dictionaries and an insane grammar. +I to the hills.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To C. W. Stoddard</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This correspondent is the late Mr. Charles Warren Stoddard, +author of <i>Summer Cruising in the South Seas</i>, etc., with whom +Stevenson had made friends in the manner and amid the scenes faithfully +described in <i>The Wrecker</i>, in the chapter called “Faces on the +City Front.”</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>East Oakland, Cal., May 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR STODDARD</span>,—I am guilty in thy sight and the +sight of God. However, I swore a great oath that you +should see some of my manuscript at last; and though I +have long delayed to keep it, yet it was to be. You re-read +your story and were disgusted; that is the cold fit +following the hot. I don’t say you did wrong to be disgusted, +yet I am sure you did wrong to be disgusted +altogether. There was, you may depend upon it, some +reason for your previous vanity, as well as your present +mortification. I shall hear you, years from now, timidly +begin to retrim your feathers for a little self-laudation, +and trot out this misdespised novelette as not the worst +of your performances. I read the album extracts with +sincere interest; but I regret that you spared to give the +paper more development; and I conceive that you might +do a great deal worse than expand each of its paragraphs +into an essay or sketch, the excuse being in each case +your personal intercourse; the bulk, when that would +not be sufficient, to be made up from their own works +and stories. Three at least—Menken, Yelverton, and +Keeler—could not fail of a vivid human interest. Let me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page276"></a>276</span> +press upon you this plan; should any document be +wanted from Europe, let me offer my services to procure +it. I am persuaded that there is stuff in the idea.</p> + +<p>Are you coming over again to see me some day soon? +I keep returning, and now hand over fist, from the realms +of Hades; I saw that gentleman between the eyes, and +fear him less after each visit. Only Charon, and his +rough boatmanship, I somewhat fear.</p> + +<p>I have a desire to write some verses for your album; +so, if you will give me the entry among your gods, goddesses, +and godlets, there will be nothing wanting but +the Muse. I think of the verses like Mark Twain; sometimes +I wish fulsomely to belaud you; sometimes to +insult your city and fellow-citizens; sometimes to sit +down quietly, with the slender reed, and troll a few staves +of Panic ecstasy—but fy! fy! as my ancestors observed, +the last is too easy for a man of my feet and inches.</p> + +<p>At least, Stoddard, you now see that, although so +costive, when I once begin I am a copious letter-writer. +I thank you, and <i>au revoir</i>.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>San Francisco, May 1880.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—It is a long while since I have heard +from you; nearly a month, I believe; and I begin to +grow very uneasy. At first I was tempted to suppose +that I had been myself to blame in some way; but now +I have grown to fear lest some sickness or trouble among +those whom you love may not be the impediment. I +believe I shall soon hear; so I wait as best I can. I +am, beyond a doubt, greatly stronger, and yet still useless +for any work, and, I may say, for any pleasure. My +affairs and the bad weather still keep me here unmarried; +but not, I earnestly hope, for long. Whenever I get into +the mountain, I trust I shall rapidly pick up. Until I get +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277"></a>277</span> +away from these sea fogs and my imprisonment in the +house, I do not hope to do much more than keep from +active harm. My doctor took a desponding fit about me, +and scared Fanny into blue fits; but I have talked her +over again. It is the change I want, and the blessed +sun, and a gentle air in which I can sit out and see the +trees and running water: these mere defensive hygienics +cannot advance one, though they may prevent evil. I do +nothing now, but try to possess my soul in peace, and +continue to possess my body on any terms.</p> + +<p><i>Calistoga, Napa County, California.</i>—All which is a +fortnight old and not much to the point nowadays. Here +we are, Fanny and I, and a certain hound, in a lovely +valley under Mount Saint Helena, looking around, or +rather wondering when we shall begin to look around, +for a house of our own. I have received the first sheets +of the <i>Amateur Emigrant</i>; not yet the second bunch, as +announced. It is a pretty heavy, emphatic piece of +pedantry; but I don’t care; the public, I verily believe, +will like it. I have excised all you proposed and more +on my own movement. But I have not yet been able to +rewrite the two special pieces which, as you said, so badly +wanted it; it is hard work to rewrite passages in proof; +and the easiest work is still hard to me. But I am certainly +recovering fast; a married and convalescent being.</p> + +<p>Received James’s <i>Hawthorne</i>, on which I meditate a +blast, Miss Bird, Dixon’s <i>Penn</i>, a <i>wrong</i> Cornhill (like my +luck) and <i>Coquelin</i>: for all which, and especially the +last, I tender my best thanks. I have opened only James; +it is very clever, very well written, and out of sight the +most inside-out thing in the world; I have dug up the +hatchet; a scalp shall flutter at my belt ere long. I +think my new book should be good; it will contain our +adventures for the summer, so far as these are worth +narrating; and I have already a few pages of diary +which should make up bright. I am going to repeat +my old experiment, after buckling-to a while to write more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278"></a>278</span> +correctly, lie down and have a wallow. Whether I shall +get any of my novels done this summer I do not know; I +wish to finish the <i>Vendetta</i> first, for it really could not +come after <i>Prince Otto</i>. Lewis Campbell has made some +noble work in that Agamemnon; it surprised me. We +hope to get a house at Silverado, a deserted mining-camp +eight miles up the mountain, now solely inhabited by a +mighty hunter answering to the name of Rufe Hansome, +who slew last year a hundred and fifty deer. This is +the motto I propose for the new volume: “<i>Vixerunt +nonnulli in agris, delectati re sua familiari. His idem +propositum fuit quod regibus, ut ne qua re egerent, ne cui +parerent, libertate uterentur; cujus proprium est sic vivere +ut velis.</i>” I always have a terror lest the wish should +have been father to the translation, when I come to +quote; but that seems too plain sailing. I should put +<i>regibus</i> in capitals for the pleasantry’s sake. We are in +the Coast range, that being so much cheaper to reach; +the family, I hope, will soon follow. Love to all.—Ever +yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_23" href="#FnAnchor_23"><span class="fn">23</span></a> <i>Engraisser</i>, grow fat.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_24" href="#FnAnchor_24"><span class="fn">24</span></a> Pall Mall Gazette.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_25" href="#FnAnchor_25"><span class="fn">25</span></a> Here follows a long calculation of ways and means.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_26" href="#FnAnchor_26"><span class="fn">26</span></a> Addison’s.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_27" href="#FnAnchor_27"><span class="fn">27</span></a> In reference to the father’s estrangement at this time, Sir James +Dewar, an old friend of the elder Stevenson, tells a story which +would have touched R. L. S. infinitely had he heard it. Sir James +(then Professor) Dewar and Mr. Thomas Stevenson were engaged +together on some official scientific work near Duns in Berwickshire. +“Spending the evening together,” writes Sir James, “at an hotel in +Berwick-on-Tweed, the two, after a long day’s work, fell into close +fireside talk over their toddy, and Mr. Stevenson opened his heart +upon what was to him a very sore grievance. He spoke with anger +and dismay of his son’s journey and intentions, his desertion of the +old firm, and taking to the devious and barren paths of literature. +The Professor took up the cudgels in the son’s defence, and at last, +by way of ending the argument, half jocularly offered to wager that +in ten years from that moment R. L. S. would be earning a bigger +income than the old firm had ever commanded. To his surprise, +the father became furious, and repulsed all attempts at reconciliation. +But six and a half years later, Mr. Stevenson, broken in +health, came to London to seek medical advice, and although so +feeble that he had to be lifted out and into his cab, called at the +Royal Institute to see the Professor. He said: “I am here to +consult a doctor, but I couldna be in London without coming to +shake your hand and confess that you were richt after a’ about +Louis, and I was wrang.” The frail old frame shook with emotion, +and he muttered, “I ken this is my last visit to the south.” A few +weeks later he was dead.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page279"></a>279</span></p> +<h3>VI</h3> + +<h3>ALPINE WINTERS +AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS</h3> + +<h6><span class="sc">August 1880-October 1882</span></h6> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">After</span> spending the months of June and July 1880 in +the rough Californian mountain quarters described in the +<i>Silverado Squatters</i>, Stevenson took passage with his wife +and young stepson from New York on the 7th of August, +and arrived on the 17th at Liverpool, where his parents +and I were waiting to meet him. Of her new family, the +Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson brought thus strangely and +from far into their midst made an immediate conquest. +To her husband’s especial happiness, there sprang up +between her and his father the closest possible affection +and confidence. Parents and friends—if it is permissible +to one of the latter to say as much—rejoiced to recognise +in Stevenson’s wife a character as strong, interesting, and +romantic almost as his own; an inseparable sharer of all +his thoughts and staunch companion of all his adventures; +the most open-hearted of friends to all who loved him; +the most shrewd and stimulating critic of his work; and +in sickness, despite her own precarious health, the most +devoted and most efficient of nurses.</p> + +<p>From Liverpool the Stevenson party went on to make +a stay in Scotland, first at Edinburgh, and afterwards for +a few weeks at Strathpeffer, resting at Blair Athol on the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280"></a>280</span> +way. It was now, in his thirtieth year, among the woods +of Tummelside and under the shoulder of Ben Wyvis, +that Stevenson acknowledged for the first time the full +power and beauty of the Highland scenery, which in +youth, with his longings fixed ever upon the South, he +had been accustomed to think too bleak and desolate. In +the history of the country and its clans, on the other +hand, and especially of their political and social transformation +during the eighteenth century, he had been +always keenly interested. In conversations with Principal +Tulloch at Strathpeffer this interest was now revived, +and he resolved to attempt a book on the subject, his father +undertaking to keep him supplied with books and authorities; +for it had quickly become apparent that he could +not winter in Scotland. The state of his health continued +to be very threatening. He suffered from acute +chronic catarrh, accompanied by disquieting lung symptoms +and great weakness; and was told accordingly +that he must go for the winter, and probably for several +succeeding winters, to the mountain valley of Davos in +Switzerland, which within the last few years had been +coming into repute as a place of recovery, or at least of +arrested mischief, for lung patients. Thither he and his +wife and stepson travelled accordingly at the end of +October. Nor must another member of the party be forgotten, +a black thoroughbred Skye terrier, the gift of +Sir Walter Simpson. This creature was named, after his +giver, Walter—a name subsequently corrupted into Wattie, +Woggie, Wogg, Woggin, Bogie, Bogue, and a number of +other affectionate diminutives which will be found occurring +often enough in the following pages. He was a +remarkably pretty, engaging, excitable, ill-behaved little +specimen of his race, the occasion of infinite anxiety and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page281"></a>281</span> +laughing care to his devoted master and mistress until +his death six years later.</p> + +<p>The Davos of 1880, approached by an eight-hours’ +laborious drive up the valley of the Prättigau, was a very +different place from the extended and embellished Davos +of to-day, with its railway, its modern shops, its electric +lighting, and its crowd of winter visitors bent on outdoor +and indoor entertainment. The Stevensons’ quarters for +the first winter were at the Hotel Belvedere, then a mere +nucleus of the huge establishment it has since become. +Besides the usual society of an invalid hotel, with its +mingled tragedies and comedies, they had there the great +advantage of the presence, in a neighbouring house, of an +accomplished man of letters and one of the most charming +of companions, John Addington Symonds, with his +family. Mr. Symonds, whose health had been desperate +before he tried the place, was a living testimony to its +virtues, and was at this time engaged in building the chalet +which became his home until he died fourteen years later. +During Stevenson’s first season at Davos, though his +mind was full of literary enterprises, he was too ill to do +much actual work. For the Highland history he read +much, but composed little or nothing, and eventually this +history went to swell the long list of his unwritten books. +He saw through the press his first volume of collected +essays, <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>, which came out early in +1881; wrote the essays <i>Samuel Pepys</i> and <i>The Morality +of the Profession of Letters</i>, for the Cornhill and the Fortnightly +Review respectively, and sent to the Pall Mall +Gazette the papers on the life and climate of Davos, +posthumously reprinted in <i>Essays of Travel</i>. Beyond this, +he only amused himself with verses, some of them afterwards +published in <i>Underwoods</i>. Leaving the Alps at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page282"></a>282</span> +end of April 1881, he returned, after a short stay in France +(at Fontainebleau, Paris, and St. Germain), to his family +in Edinburgh. Thence the whole party again went to the +Highlands, this time to Pitlochry and Braemar.</p> + +<p>During the summer Stevenson heard of the intended +retirement of Professor Æneas Mackay from the chair +of History and Constitutional Law at Edinburgh University. +He determined, with the encouragement of the +outgoing professor and of several of his literary friends, +to become a candidate for the post, which had to be filled +by the Faculty of Advocates from among their own +number. The duties were limited to the delivery of a +short course of lectures in the summer term, and Stevenson +thought that he might be equal to them, and might +prove, though certainly a new, yet perhaps a stimulating, +type of professor. But knowing the nature of his public +reputation, especially in Edinburgh, where the recollection +of his daft student days was as yet stronger than the +impression made by his recent performances in literature, +he was well aware that his candidature must seem paradoxical, +and stood little chance of success. The election +took place in the late autumn of the same year, and he +was defeated, receiving only three votes.</p> + +<p>At Pitlochry Stevenson was for a while able to enjoy +his life and to work well, writing two of the strongest of +his short stories of Scottish life and superstition, <i>Thrawn +Janet</i> and <i>The Merry Men</i>, originally designed to form +part of a volume to be written by himself and his wife +in collaboration. At Braemar he made a beginning of +the nursery verses which afterwards grew into the volume +called <i>The Child’s Garden</i>, and conceived and half executed +the fortunate project of <i>Treasure Island</i>, the book which +was destined first to make him famous. But one of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page283"></a>283</span> +most inclement of Scottish summers had before long +undone all the good gained in the previous winter at +Davos, and in the autumn of the year 1881 he repaired +thither again.</p> + +<p>This time his quarters were in a small chalet belonging +to the proprietors of the Buol Hotel, the Chalet am Stein, +or Chalet Buol, in the near neighbourhood of the Symonds’s +house. The beginning of his second stay was darkened +by the serious illness of his wife; nevertheless the winter +was one of much greater literary activity than the last. +A Life of Hazlitt was projected, and studies were made +for it, but for various reasons the project was never carried +out. <i>Treasure Island</i> was finished; the greater part +of the <i>Silverado Squatters</i> written; so were the essays +<i>Talk and Talkers</i>, <i>A Gossip on Romance</i>, and several other +of his best papers for magazines. By way of whim and +pastime he occupied himself, to his own and his stepson’s +delight, with a little set of woodcuts and verses printed +by the latter at his toy press—“The Davos Press,” as +they called it—as well as with mimic campaigns carried +on between the man and boy with armies of lead soldiers +in the spacious loft which filled the upper floor of the +chalet. For the first and almost the only time in his life +there awoke in him during these winters in Davos the +spirit of lampoon; and he poured forth sets of verses, +not without touches of a Swiftean fire, against commercial +frauds in general, and those of certain local tradesmen in +particular, as well as others in memory of a defunct +publican of Edinburgh who had been one of his butts in +youth (<i>Casparidea</i> and <i>Brashiana</i>, both unpublished: see +pp. 14, 15, 38 in vol. 24 of the present edition). Finally, +much revived in health by the beneficent air of the Alpine +valley, he left it again in mid-spring of 1882, to return +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284"></a>284</span> +once more to Scotland, and to be once more thrown back +to, or below, the point whence he had started. After a +short excursion from Edinburgh into the Appin country, +where he made inquiries on the spot into the traditions +concerning the murder of Campbell of Glenure, his three +resting-places in Scotland during this summer were Stobo +Manse near Peebles, Lochearnhead, and Kingussie. At +Stobo the dampness of the season and the place quickly +threw him again into a very low state of health, from +which three subsequent weeks of brilliant sunshine in +Speyside did but little to restore him. In spite of this +renewed breakdown, when autumn came he would not face +the idea of returning for a third season to Davos. He +had himself felt deeply the austerity and monotony of +the white Alpine world in winter; and though he had unquestionably +gained in health there, his wife on her part +had suffered much. So he made up his mind once again +to try the Mediterranean coast of France, and Davos +knew him no more.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I forget what were the two sets of verses (apparently satirical) +here mentioned. The volume of essays must be <i>Virginibus +Puerisque</i>, published the following spring; but it is dedicated +in prose to W. E. Henley.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Ben Wyvis Hotel, Strathpeffer</i> [<i>July 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—One or two words. We are here: +all goes exceeding well with the wife and with the parents. +Near here is a valley; birch woods, heather, and a +stream; I have lain down and died; no country, no +place, was ever for a moment so delightful to my soul. +And I have been a Scotchman all my life, and denied my +native land! Away with your gardens of roses, indeed! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285"></a>285</span> +Give me the cool breath of Rogie waterfall, henceforth +and for ever, world without end.</p> + +<p>I enclose two poems of, I think, a high order. One is +my dedication for my essays; it was occasioned by that +delicious article in the Spectator. The other requires no +explanation; c’est tout bonnement un petit chef d’œuvre +de grâce, de délicatesse, et de bon sens humanitaire. +Celui qui ne s’en sent pas touché jusqu’aux larmes—celui-là +n’a pas vécu. I wish both poems back, as I am +copyless: but they might return <i>via</i> Henley.</p> + +<p>My father desires me still to withdraw the <i>Emigrant</i>. +Whatever may be the pecuniary loss, he is willing to bear +it; and the gain to my reputation will be considerable.</p> + +<p>I am writing against time and the post runner. But +you know what kind messages we both send to you. May +you have as good a time as possible so far from Rogie!</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>A further stay at Strathpeffer led to disenchantment, not with +outdoor nature but with human nature as there represented, and +he relieves his feelings as follows:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Ben Wyvis Hotel, Strathpeffer, July 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CHERLS</span>,—I am well but have a little over-tired +myself which is disgusting. This is a heathenish +place near delightful places, but inhabited, alas! by a +wholly bestial crowd.</p> + +<p class="center scs">ON SOME GHOSTLY COMPANIONS AT A SPA</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>I had an evil day when I</p> +<p>To Strathpeffer drew anigh,</p> +<p>For there I found no human soul,</p> +<p>But Ogres occupied the whole.</p> +<p>They had at first a human air</p> +<p>In coats and flannel underwear.</p> +<p>They rose and walked upon their feet</p> +<p>And filled their bellies full of meat,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page286"></a>286</span></p> +<p>Then wiped their lips when they had done—</p> +<p>But they were ogres every one.</p> +<p>Each issuing from his secret bower</p> +<p>I marked them in the morning hour.</p> +<p>By limp and totter, list and droop,</p> +<p>I singled each one from the group.</p> +<p>Detected ogres, from my sight</p> +<p>Depart to your congenial night</p> +<p>From these fair vales: from this fair day</p> +<p>Fleet, spectres, on your downward way,</p> +<p>Like changing figures in a dream</p> +<p>To Muttonhole and Pittenweem!</p> +<p>Or, as by harmony divine</p> +<p>The devils quartered in the swine,</p> +<p>If any baser place exist</p> +<p>In God’s great registration list—</p> +<p>Some den with wallow and a trough—</p> +<p>Find it, ye ogres, and be off!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="rt">Yours, R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Isobel Strong</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Further letters from Scotland during these months are lacking. +The next was written, in answer to an inquiry from his stepdaughter +at San Francisco, on the second day after his arrival at Davos.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos, November 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">No</span> my che-ild—not Kamschatka this trip, only the +top of the Alps, or thereby; up in a little valley in a +wilderness of snowy mountains; the Rhine not far from +us, quite a little highland river; eternal snow-peaks on +every hand. Yes; just this once I should like to go to +the Vienna gardens<a name="FnAnchor_28" href="#Footnote_28"><span class="sp">28</span></a> with the family and hear Tweedledee +and drink something and see Germans—though God +knows we have seen Germans enough this while back. +Naturally some in the Customs House on the Alsatian +frontier, who would have made one die from laughing in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page287"></a>287</span> +a theatre, and provoked a smile from us even in that +dismal juncture. To see them, big, blond, sham-Englishmen, +but with an unqualifiable air of not quite fighting +the sham through, diving into old women’s bags and +going into paroxysms of arithmetic in white chalk, three +or four of them (in full uniform) in full cry upon a single +sum, with their brows bent and a kind of arithmetical +agony upon their mugs. Madam, the diversion of cock-fighting +has been much commended, but it was not a +circumstance to that Custom House. They only opened +one of our things: a basket. But when they met from +within the intelligent gaze of <i>Woggs</i>, they all lay down +and died. Woggs is a fine dog....</p> + +<p>God bless you! May coins fall into your coffee and +the finest wines and wittles lie smilingly about your +path, with a kind of dissolving view of fine scenery by +way of background; and may all speak well of you—and +me too for that matter—and generally all things be ordered +unto you totally regardless of expense and with a view +to nothing in the world but enjoyment, edification, and +a portly and honoured age.—Your dear papa,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To A. G. Dew-Smith</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This, from the same place and about the same date, is addressed +by way of thanks to a friend at Cambridge, the late Mr. A. G. Dew-Smith, +who had sent him a present of a box of cigarettes. +Mr. Dew-Smith, a man of fine artistic tastes and mechanical genius, +with a silken, somewhat foreign, urbanity of bearing, was the +original, so far as concerns manner and way of speech, of Attwater +in the <i>Ebb-Tide</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos, November 1880</i>].</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p><span class="sc">Figure</span> me to yourself, I pray—</p> + <p class="i1">A man of my peculiar cut—</p> +<p>Apart from dancing and deray,<a name="FnAnchor_29" href="#Footnote_29"><span class="sp">29</span></a></p> + <p class="i1">Into an Alpine valley shut;</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page288"></a>288</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">Shut in a kind of damned Hotel,</p> + <p class="i1">Discountenanced by God and man;</p> +<p>The food?—Sir, you would do as well</p> + <p class="i1">To cram your belly full of bran.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The company? Alas, the day</p> + <p class="i1">That I should dwell with such a crew,</p> +<p>With devil anything to say,</p> + <p class="i1">Nor any one to say it to!</p> + +<p class="stanza">The place? Although they call it Platz,</p> + <p class="i1">I will be bold and state my view;</p> +<p>It’s not a place at all—and that’s</p> + <p class="i1">The bottom verity, my Dew.</p> + +<p class="stanza">There are, as I will not deny,</p> + <p class="i1">Innumerable inns; a road;</p> +<p>Several Alps indifferent high;</p> + <p class="i1">The snow’s inviolable abode;</p> + +<p class="stanza">Eleven English parsons, all</p> + <p class="i1">Entirely inoffensive; four</p> +<p>True human beings—what I call</p> + <p class="i1">Human—the deuce a cipher more;</p> + +<p class="stanza">A climate of surprising worth;</p> + <p class="i1">Innumerable dogs that bark;</p> +<p>Some air, some weather, and some earth;</p> + <p class="i1">A native race—God save the mark!—</p> + +<p class="stanza">A race that works, yet cannot work,</p> + <p class="i1">Yodels, but cannot yodel right,</p> +<p>Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk,</p> + <p class="i1">I vow that I could wholly smite.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page289"></a>289</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">A river<a name="FnAnchor_30" href="#Footnote_30"><span class="sp">30</span></a> that from morn to night</p> + <p class="i1">Down all the valley plays the fool;</p> +<p>Not once she pauses in her flight,</p> + <p class="i1">Nor knows the comfort of a pool;</p> + +<p class="stanza">But still keeps up, by straight or bend,</p> + <p class="i1">The selfsame pace she hath begun—</p> +<p>Still hurry, hurry, to the end—</p> + <p class="i1">Good God, is that the way to run?</p> + +<p class="stanza">If I a river were, I hope</p> + <p class="i1">That I should better realise</p> +<p>The opportunities and scope</p> + <p class="i1">Of that romantic enterprise.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I should not ape the merely strange,</p> + <p class="i1">But aim besides at the divine;</p> +<p>And continuity and change</p> + <p class="i1">I still should labour to combine.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Here should I gallop down the race,</p> + <p class="i1">Here charge the sterling<a name="FnAnchor_31" href="#Footnote_31"><span class="sp">31</span></a> like a bull;</p> +<p>There, as a man might wipe his face,</p> + <p class="i1">Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool.</p> + +<p class="stanza">But what, my Dew, in idle mood,</p> + <p class="i1">What prate I, minding not my debt?</p> +<p>What do I talk of bad or good?</p> + <p class="i1">The best is still a cigarette.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Me whether evil fate assault,</p> + <p class="i1">Or smiling providences crown—</p> +<p>Whether on high the eternal vault</p> + <p class="i1">Be blue, or crash with thunder down—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page290"></a>290</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">I judge the best, whate’er befall,</p> + <p class="i1">Is still to sit on one’s behind,</p> +<p>And, having duly moistened all,</p> + <p class="i1">Smoke with an unperturbed mind.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>R. L. S. here sketches for his father the plan of the work on +Highland history which they had discussed together in the preceding +summer, and which Principal Tulloch had urged him to +attempt.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i> [<i>December 12, 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Here is the scheme as well as I +can foresee. I begin the book immediately after the ’15, +as then began the attempt to suppress the Highlands.</p> + +<div class="list"> +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="center">I. <span class="sc">Thirty Years’ Interval</span></p> + +<p>(1) Rob Roy.</p> +<p>(2) The Independent Companies: the Watches.</p> +<p>(3) Story of Lady Grange.</p> +<p>(4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: Wadeand</p> +<p>(5) Burt.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="center">II. <span class="sc">The Heroic Age</span></p> + +<p>(1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden.</p> +<p>(2) Flora Macdonald.</p> +<p>(3) The Forfeited Estates; including Hereditary +Jurisdictions; and the admirable conduct of +the tenants.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="center">III. <span class="sc">Literature here intervenes</span></p> + +<p>(1) The Ossianic Controversy.</p> +<p>(2) Boswell and Johnson.</p> +<p>(3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page291"></a>291</span></p> +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="center">IV. <span class="sc">Economy</span></p> + +<p>(1) Highland Economics.</p> +<p>(2) The Reinstatement of the Proprietors.</p> +<p>(3) The Evictions.</p> +<p>(4) Emigration.</p> +<p>(5) Present State.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="center">V. <span class="sc">Religion</span></p> + +<p>(1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and Soc. +Prop. Christ. Knowledge.</p> +<p>(2) The Men.</p> +<p>(3) The Disruption.</p> +</div> + +<p>All this, of course, will greatly change in form, scope, +and order; this is just a bird’s-eye glance. Thank you +for <i>Burt</i>, which came, and for your Union notes. I have +read one-half (about 900 pages) of Wodrow’s <i>Correspondence</i>, +with some improvement, but great fatigue. The +doctor thinks well of my recovery, which puts me in good +hope for the future. I should certainly be able to make +a fine history of this.</p> + +<p>My Essays are going through the press, and should be +out in January or February.—Ever affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos, December 1880</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I feel better, but variable. I see +from the doctor’s report that I have more actual disease +than I supposed; but there seems little doubt of my +recovery. I like the place and shall like it much better +when you come at Christmas. That is written on my +heart: S. C. comes at Christmas: so if you play me false, +I shall have a lie upon my conscience. I like Symonds +very well, though he is much, I think, of an invalid in +mind and character. But his mind is interesting, with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292"></a>292</span> +many beautiful corners, and his consumptive smile very +winning to see. We have had some good talks; one went +over Zola, Balzac, Flaubert, Whitman, Christ, Handel, +Milton, Sir Thomas Browne; do you see the <i>liaison</i>?—in +another, I, the Bohnist, the un-Grecian, was the means +of his conversion in the matter of the Ajax. It is truly +not for nothing that I have read my Buckley.<a name="FnAnchor_32" href="#Footnote_32"><span class="sp">32</span></a></p> + +<p>To-day the south wind blows; and I am seedy in +consequence.</p> + +<p><i>Later.</i>—I want to know when you are coming, so as +to get you a room. You will toboggan and skate your +head off, and I will talk it off, and briefly if you don’t +come pretty soon, I will cut you off with a shilling.</p> + +<p>It would be handsome of you to write. The doctor +says I may be as well as ever; but in the meantime I go +slow and am fit for little.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The suggestions contained in the following two letters to Mr. +Gosse refer to the collection of English Odes which that gentleman +was then engaged in editing (Kegan Paul, 1881).</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>Dec. 6, 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I have many letters that I ought to +write in preference to this; but a duty to letters and +to you prevails over any private consideration. You are +going to collect odes; I could not wish a better man to +do so; but I tremble lest you should commit two sins of +omission. You will not, I am sure, be so far left to yourself +as to give us no more of Dryden than the hackneyed +St. Cecilia; I know you will give us some others of those +surprising masterpieces where there is more sustained +eloquence and harmony of English numbers than in all +that has been written since; there is a machine about a +poetical young lady,<a name="FnAnchor_33" href="#Footnote_33"><span class="sp">33</span></a> and another about either Charles or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page293"></a>293</span> +James, I know not which; and they are both indescribably +fine. (Is Marvell’s Horatian Ode good enough? I +half think so.) But my great point is a fear that you are +one of those who are unjust to our old Tennyson’s Duke of +Wellington. I have just been talking it over with Symonds; +and we agreed that whether for its metrical effects, for its +brief, plain, stirring words of portraiture, as—he “that +never lost an English gun,” or—the soldier salute; or for +the heroic apostrophe to Nelson; that ode has never +been surpassed in any tongue or time. Grant me the +Duke, O Weg! I suppose you must not put in yours +about the warship; you will have to admit worse ones, +however.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos, Dec. 19, 1880.</i></p> + +<div class="list"> +<p>This letter is a report of a long sederunt, also steterunt, +in small committee at Davos Platz, Dec. 15, 1880. +Its results are unhesitatingly shot at your head.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—We both insist on the Duke of Wellington. +Really it cannot be left out. Symonds said you +would cover yourself with shame, and I add, your friends +with confusion, if you leave it out. Really, you know it +is the only thing you have, since Dryden, where that +irregular odic, odal, odous (?) verse is used with mastery +and sense. And it’s one of our few English blood-boilers.</p> + +<p>(2) Byron: if anything: <i>Prometheus</i>.</p> + +<p>(3) Shelley (1) <i>The World’s Great Age</i> from Hellas; +we are both dead on. After that you have, of course, +<i>The West Wind</i> thing. But we think (1) would maybe +be enough; no more than two any way.</p> + +<p>(4) Herrick. <i>Meddowes</i> and <i>Come, my Corinna</i>. After +that <i>Mr. Wickes</i>: two any way.</p> + +<p>(5) Leave out stanza 3rd of Congreve’s thing, like +a dear; we can’t stand the “sigh” nor the “peruke.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page294"></a>294</span></p> + +<p>(6) Milton. <i>Time</i> and the <i>Solemn Music</i>. We both +agree we would rather go without L’Allegro and Il Penseroso +than these; for the reason that these are not so +well known to the brutish herd.</p> + +<p>(7) Is the <i>Royal George</i> an ode, or only an elegy? +It’s so good.</p> + +<p>(8) We leave Campbell to you.</p> + +<p>(9) If you take anything from Clough, but we don’t +either of us fancy you will, let it be <i>Come back</i>.</p> + +<p>(10) Quite right about Dryden. I had a hankering +after <i>Threnodia Augustalis</i>; but I find it long and with +very prosaic holes: though, O! what fine stuff between +whiles.</p> + +<p>(11) Right with Collins.</p> + +<p>(12) Right about Pope’s Ode. But what can you +give? <i>The Dying Christian?</i> or one of his inimitable +courtesies? These last are fairly odes, by the Horatian +model, just as my dear <i>Meddowes</i> is an ode in the name +and for the sake of Bandusia.</p> + +<p>(13) Whatever you do, you’ll give us the Greek +Vase.</p> + +<p>(14) Do you like Jonson’s “loathed stage“? Verses +2, 3, and 4 are so bad, also the last line. But there is a +fine movement and feeling in the rest.</p> + +<p>We will have the Duke of Wellington by God. Pro +Symonds and Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Warren Stoddard</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The prospect here alluded to of a cheap edition of the little +travel-books did not get realised. The volume of essays in the +printer’s hands was <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>. I do not know what +were the pages in broad Scots copied by way of enclosure.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>December 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR CHARLES WARREN STODDARD</span>,—Many thanks to +you for the letter and the photograph. Will you think +it mean if I ask you to wait till there appears a promised +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page295"></a>295</span> +cheap edition? Possibly the canny Scot does feel pleasure +in the superior cheapness; but the true reason is this, +that I think to put a few words, by way of notes, to each +book in its new form, because that will be the Standard +Edition, without which no g.’s l.<a name="FnAnchor_34" href="#Footnote_34"><span class="sp">34</span></a> will be complete. The +edition, briefly, <i>sine qua non</i>. Before that, I shall hope +to send you my essays, which are in the printer’s hands. +I look to get yours soon. I am sorry to hear that the +Custom House has proved fallible, like all other human +houses and customs. Life consists of that sort of business, +and I fear that there is a class of man, of which you +offer no inapt type, doomed to a kind of mild, general disappointment +through life. I do not believe that a man is +the more unhappy for that. Disappointment, except +with one’s self, is not a very capital affair; and the sham +beatitude, “Blessed is he that expecteth little,” one of +the truest, and in a sense, the most Christlike things in +literature.</p> + +<p>Alongside of you, I have been all my days a red cannon +ball of dissipated effort; here I am by the heels in this +Alpine valley, with just so much of a prospect of future +restoration as shall make my present caged estate easily +tolerable to me—shall or should, I would not swear to +the word before the trial’s done. I miss all my objects +in the meantime; and, thank God, I have enough +of my old, and maybe somewhat base philosophy, to +keep me on a good understanding with myself and +Providence.</p> + +<p>The mere extent of a man’s travels has in it something +consolatory. That he should have left friends and +enemies in many different and distant quarters gives a +sort of earthly dignity to his existence. And I think the +better of myself for the belief that I have left some in +California interested in me and my successes. Let me +assure you, you who have made friends already among +such various and distant races, that there is a certain +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page296"></a>296</span> +phthisical Scot who will always be pleased to hear good +news of you, and would be better pleased by nothing than +to learn that you had thrown off your present incubus, +largely consisting of letters I believe, and had sailed into +some square work by way of change.</p> + +<p>And by way of change in itself, let me copy on the +other pages some broad Scotch I wrote for you when I +was ill last spring in Oakland. It is no muckle worth: +but ye should na look a gien horse in the moo’.—Yours +ever,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mr. And Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The verses here mentioned to Dr. John Brown (the admired +author of <i>Rab and his Friends</i>) were meant as a reply to a letter +of congratulation on the <i>Inland Voyage</i> received from him the year +before. They are printed in <i>Underwoods</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos, December 21, 1880.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—I do not understand these reproaches. +The letters come between seven and nine in +the evening; and every one about the books was answered +that same night, and the answer left Davos by seven +o’clock next morning. Perhaps the snow delayed them; +if so, ’tis a good hint to you not to be uneasy at apparent +silences. There is no hurry about my father’s notes; I +shall not be writing anything till I get home again, I +believe. Only I want to be able to keep reading <i>ad hoc</i> +all winter, as it seems about all I shall be fit for. About +John Brown, I have been breaking my heart to finish a +Scotch poem to him. Some of it is not really bad, but +the rest will not come, and I mean to get it right before +I do anything else.</p> + +<p>The bazaar is over, £160 gained, and everybody’s +health lost: altogether, I never had a more uncomfortable +time; apply to Fanny for further details of the +discomfort.</p> + +<p>We have our Wogg in somewhat better trim now, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page297"></a>297</span> +vastly better spirits. The weather has been bad—for +Davos, but indeed it is a wonderful climate. It never +feels cold; yesterday, with a little, chill, small, northerly +draught, for the first time, it was pinching. Usually, it +may freeze, or snow, or do what it pleases, you feel +it not, or hardly any.</p> + +<p>Thanks for your notes; that fishery question will come +in, as you notice, in the Highland Book, as well as under +the Union; it is very important. I hear no word of +Hugh Miller’s <i>Evictions</i>; I count on that. What you +say about the old and new Statistical is odd. It seems to +me very much as if I were gingerly embarking on a <i>History +of Modern Scotland</i>. Probably Tulloch will never carry it +out. And, you see, once I have studied and written these +two vols., <i>The Transformation of the Scottish Highlands</i> +and <i>Scotland and the Union</i>, I shall have a good ground to +go upon. The effect on my mind of what I have read has +been to awaken a livelier sympathy for the Irish; although +they never had the remarkable virtues, I fear they have +suffered many of the injustices, of the Scottish Highlanders. +Ruedi has seen me this morning; he says the +disease is at a standstill, and I am to profit by it to take +more exercise. Altogether, he seemed quite hopeful and +pleased.—I am your ever affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>Christmas 1880</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks for yours; I waited, as I +said I would. I now expect no answer from you, regarding +you as a mere dumb cock-shy, or a target, at which +we fire our arrows diligently all day long, with no anticipation +it will bring them back to us. We are both sadly +mortified you are not coming, but health comes first; +alas, that man should be so crazy. What fun we could +have, if we were all well, what work we could do, what a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page298"></a>298</span> +happy place we could make it for each other! If I were +able to do what I want; but then I am not, and may +leave that vein.</p> + +<p>No. I do not think I shall require to know the Gaelic; +few things are written in that language, or ever were; +if you come to that, the number of those who could write, +or even read it, through almost all my period, must, by +all accounts, have been incredibly small. Of course, +until the book is done, I must live as much as possible in +the Highlands, and that suits my book as to health. It is +a most interesting and sad story, and from the ’45 it is +all to be written for the first time. This, of course, will +cause me a far greater difficulty about authorities; but +I have already learned much, and where to look for more. +One pleasant feature is the vast number of delightful +writers I shall have to deal with: Burt, Johnson, Boswell, +Mrs. Grant of Laggan, Scott. There will be interesting +sections on the Ossianic controversy and the growth of +the taste for Highland scenery. I have to touch upon +Rob Roy, Flora Macdonald, the strange story of Lady +Grange, the beautiful story of the tenants on the Forfeited +Estates, and the odd, inhuman problem of the great +evictions. The religious conditions are wild, unknown, +very surprising. And three out of my five parts remain +hitherto entirely unwritten. Smack!—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>December 26, 1880</i>]. +<i>Christmas Sermon</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I was very tired yesterday and +could not write; tobogganed so furiously all morning; +we had a delightful day, crowned by an incredible dinner—more +courses than I have fingers on my hands. Your +letter arrived duly at night, and I thank you for it as I +should. You need not suppose I am at all insensible to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page299"></a>299</span> +my father’s extraordinary kindness about this book; he +is a brick; I vote for him freely.</p> + +<p>... The assurance you speak of is what we all ought +to have, and might have, and should not consent to live +without. That people do not have it more than they do is, +I believe, because persons speak so much in large-drawn, +theological similitudes, and won’t say out what they mean +about life, and man, and God, in fair and square human +language. I wonder if you or my father ever thought of +the obscurities that lie upon human duty from the negative +form in which the Ten Commandments are stated, or +of how Christ was so continually substituting affirmations. +“Thou shalt not” is but an example; “Thou +shalt” is the law of God. It was this that seems meant +in the phrase that “not one jot nor tittle of the law should +pass.” But what led me to the remark is this: A kind of +black, angry look goes with that statement of the law +of negatives. “To love one’s neighbour as oneself” is +certainly much harder, but states life so much more +actively, gladly, and kindly, that you can begin to see +some pleasure in it; and till you can see pleasure in these +hard choices and bitter necessities, where is there any +Good News to men? It is much more important to do +right than not to do wrong; further, the one is possible, +the other has always been and will ever be impossible; +and the faithful <i>design to do right</i> is accepted by God; +that seems to me to be the Gospel, and that was how +Christ delivered us from the Law. After people are told +that, surely they might hear more encouraging sermons. +To blow the trumpet for good would seem the Parson’s +business; and since it is not in our own strength, but +by faith and perseverance (no account made of slips), +that we are to run the race, I do not see where they get +the material for their gloomy discourses. Faith is not to +believe the Bible, but to believe in God; if you believe +in God (or, for it’s the same thing, have that assurance +you speak about), where is there any more room for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page300"></a>300</span> +terror? There are only three possible attitudes—Optimism, +which has gone to smash; Pessimism, which is on +the rising hand, and very popular with many clergymen +who seem to think they are Christians. And this Faith, +which is the Gospel. Once you hold the last, it is your +business (1) to find out what is right in any given case, +and (2) to try to do it; if you fail in the last, that is by +commission, Christ tells you to hope; if you fail in the +first, that is by omission, his picture of the last day gives +you but a black lookout. The whole necessary morality +is kindness; and it should spring, of itself, from the one +fundamental doctrine, Faith. If you are sure that God, +in the long run, means kindness by you, you should +be happy; and if happy, surely you should be +kind.</p> + +<p>I beg your pardon for this long discourse; it is not all +right, of course, but I am sure there is something in it. +One thing I have not got clearly; that about the omission +and the commission; but there is truth somewhere +about it, and I have no time to clear it just now. Do +you know, you have had about a Cornhill page of sermon? +It is, however, true.</p> + +<p>Lloyd heard with dismay Fanny was not going to give +me a present; so F. and I had to go and buy things for +ourselves, and go through a representation of surprise +when they were presented next morning. It gave us both +quite a Santa Claus feeling on Xmas Eve to see him so +excited and hopeful; I enjoyed it hugely.—Your affectionate +son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I did go out to Davos after all in January, and found Stevenson +apparently little improved in health, and depressed by a sad turn +of destiny which had brought out his old friend Mrs. Sitwell to +the same place, at the same time, to watch beside the deathbed of +her son—the youth commemorated in the verses headed <i>F. A. S., +In Memoriam</i>, afterwards published in <i>Underwoods</i>. The following +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page301"></a>301</span> +letter refers to a copy of Carlyle’s <i>Reminiscences</i> which I had +sent him some time after I came back to England.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>Spring 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—My health is not just what it should +be; I have lost weight, pulse, respiration, etc., and gained +nothing in the way of my old bellows. But these last few +days, with tonic, cod-liver oil, better wine (there is some +better now), and perpetual beef-tea, I think I have progressed. +To say truth, I have been here a little over long. +I was reckoning up, and since I have known you, already +quite a while, I have not, I believe, remained so long in any +one place as here in Davos. That tells on my old gipsy +nature; like a violin hung up, I begin to lose what music +there was in me; and with the music, I do not know what +besides, or do not know what to call it, but something +radically part of life, a rhythm, perhaps, in one’s old +and so brutally over-ridden nerves, or perhaps a kind of +variety of blood that the heart has come to look for.</p> + +<p>I purposely knocked myself off first. As to F. A. S., I +believe I am no sound authority; I alternate between a +stiff disregard and a kind of horror. In neither mood +can a man judge at all. I know the thing to be terribly +perilous, I fear it to be now altogether hopeless. Luck +has failed; the weather has not been favourable; and in +her true heart, the mother hopes no more. But—well, I +feel a great deal, that I either cannot or will not say, as +you well know. It has helped to make me more conscious +of the wolverine on my own shoulders, and that also +makes me a poor judge and poor adviser. Perhaps, if we +were all marched out in a row, and a piece of platoon +firing to the drums performed, it would be well for us; +although, I suppose—and yet I wonder!—so ill for the +poor mother and for the dear wife. But you can see this +makes me morbid. <i>Sufficit; explicit</i>.</p> + +<p>You are right about the Carlyle book; F. and I are in +a world not ours; but pardon me, as far as sending on +goes, we take another view: the first volume, <i>à la bonne</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page302"></a>302</span> +<i>heure!</i> but not—never—the second. Two hours of +hysterics can be no good matter for a sick nurse, and the +strange, hard, old being in so lamentable and yet human +a desolation—crying out like a burnt child, and yet always +wisely and beautifully—how can that end, as a piece of +reading, even to the strong—but on the brink of the most +cruel kind of weeping? I observe the old man’s style is +stronger on me than ever it was, and by rights, too, since +I have just laid down his most attaching book. God rest +the baith o’ them I But even if they do not meet again, +how we should all be strengthened to be kind, and not +only in act, in speech also, that so much more important +part. See what this apostle of silence most regrets, not +speaking out his heart.</p> + +<p>I was struck as you were by the admirable, sudden, +clear sunshine upon Southey—even on his works. +Symonds, to whom I repeated it, remarked at once, a +man who was thus respected by both Carlyle and Landor +must have had more in him than we can trace. So I feel +with true humility.</p> + +<p>It was to save my brain that Symonds proposed reviewing. +He and, it appears, Leslie Stephen fear a little +some eclipse: I am not quite without sharing the fear. +I know my own languor as no one else does; it is a dead +down-draught, a heavy fardel. Yet if I could shake off +the wolverine aforesaid, and his fangs are lighter, though +perhaps I feel them more, I believe I could be myself +again a while. I have not written any letter for a great +time; none saying what I feel, since you were here, I +fancy. Be duly obliged for it, and take my most earnest +thanks not only for the books but for your letter.—Your +affectionate,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>The effect of reading this on Fanny shows me I must +tell you I am very happy, peaceful, and jolly, except for +questions of work and the states of other people.</p> + +<p>Woggin sends his love.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page303"></a>303</span></p> +<p class="to">To Horatio F. Brown</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>A close intimate of J. A. Symonds, and frequent visitor at Davos, +was Mr. Horatio F. Brown, author of <i>Life on the Lagoons</i>, etc. +He took warmly, as did every one, to Stevenson. The following +two notes are from a copy of Penn’s <i>Fruits of Solitude</i>, printed at +Philadelphia, which Stevenson sent him as a gift this winter after +his return to Venice.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>February 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BROWN</span>,—Here it is, with the mark of a San +Francisco <i>bouquiniste</i>. And if ever in all my “human +conduct” I have done a better thing to any fellow-creature +than handing on to you this sweet, dignified, and wholesome +book, I know I shall hear of it on the last day. To +write a book like this were impossible; at least one can +hand it on—with a wrench—one to another. My wife +cries out and my own heart misgives me, but still here +it is. I could scarcely better prove myself—Yours affectionately,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Horatio F. Brown</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>February 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BROWN</span>,—I hope, if you get thus far, you +will know what an invaluable present I have made you. +Even the copy was dear to me, printed in the colony that +Penn established, and carried in my pocket all about the +San Francisco streets, read in street cars and ferry-boats, +when I was sick unto death, and found in all times and +places a peaceful and sweet companion. But I hope, +when you shall have reached this note, my gift will not +have been in vain; for while just now we are so busy and +intelligent, there is not the man living, no, nor recently +dead, that could put, with so lovely a spirit, so much +honest, kind wisdom into words.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page304"></a>304</span></p> +<p class="to">To Horatio F. Brown</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following experiment in English alcaics was suggested by +conversations with Mr. Brown and J. A. Symonds on metrical +forms, followed by the despatch of some translations from old +Venetian boat-songs by the former after his return to Venice.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Belvedere, Davos</i>, [<i>April 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BROWN</span>,—Nine years I have conded them.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>Brave lads in olden musical centuries</p> +<p>Sang, night by night, adorable choruses,</p> + <p class="i1">Sat late by alehouse doors in April</p> + <p class="i1">Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising:</p> + +<p class="stanza">Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises,</p> +<p>Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables;</p> + <p class="i1">Spring scents inspired,<a name="FnAnchor_35" href="#Footnote_35"><span class="sp">35</span></a> old wine diluted;</p> + <p class="i1">Love and Apollo were there to chorus.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Now these, the songs, remain to eternity,</p> +<p>Those, only those, the bountiful choristers</p> + <p class="i1">Gone—those are gone, those unremembered</p> + <p class="i1">Sleep and are silent in earth for ever.</p> + +<p class="stanza">So man himself appears and evanishes,</p> +<p>So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at</p> + <p class="i1">Some green-embowered house, play their music,</p> + <p class="i1">Play and are gone on the windy highway;</p> + +<p class="stanza">Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory</p> +<p>Long after they departed eternally,</p> + <p class="i1">Forth-faring tow’rd far mountain summits,</p> + <p class="i1">Cities of men on the sounding Ocean.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page305"></a>305</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">Youth sang the song in years immemorial;</p> +<p>Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful;</p> + <p class="i1">Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtime</p> + <p class="i1">Heard and were pleased by the voice of singing;</p> + +<p class="stanza">Youth goes, and leaves behind him a prodigy—</p> +<p>Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian</p> + <p class="i1">Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven highways,</p> + <p class="i1">Dear to me here in my Alpine exile.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Please, my dear Brown, forgive my horrid delay. +Symonds overworked and knocked up. I off my sleep; +my wife gone to Paris. Weather lovely.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p>Monte Generoso in May; here, I think, till the end of +April; write again, to prove you are forgiving.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Monte Generoso was given up; and on the way home to Scotland +Stevenson had stopped for a while at Fontainebleau, and then +in Paris; whence, finding himself unpleasantly affected by the +climate, he presently took refuge at St. Germain.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel du Pavillon Henry IV., +St. Germain-en-Laye, Sunday, May 1st, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—A week in Paris reduced me to the +limpness and lack of appetite peculiar to a kid glove, and +gave Fanny a jumping sore throat. It’s my belief there +is death in the kettle there; a pestilence or the like. We +came out here, pitched on the <i>Star and Garter</i> (they call +it Somebody’s pavilion), found the place a bed of lilacs +and nightingales (first time I ever heard one), and also of +a bird called the <i>piasseur</i>, cheerfulest of sylvan creatures, +an ideal comic opera in itself. “Come along, what fun, +here’s Pan in the next glade at picnic, and this-yer’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page306"></a>306</span> +Arcadia, and it’s awful fun, and I’ve had a glass, I will +not deny, but not to see it on me,” that is his meaning as +near as I can gather. Well, the place (forest of beeches +all new-fledged, grass like velvet, fleets of hyacinth) +pleased us and did us good. We tried all ways to find a +cheaper place, but could find nothing safe; cold, damp, +brick-floored rooms and sich; we could not leave Paris +till your seven days’ sight on draft expired; we dared not +go back to be miasmatised in these homes of putridity; +so here we are till Tuesday in the <i>Star and Garter</i>. My +throat is quite cured, appetite and strength on the mend. +Fanny seems also picking up.</p> + +<p>If we are to come to Scotland, I <i>will</i> have fir-trees, and +I want a burn, the firs for my physical, the water for my +moral health.—Ever affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>At Pitlochry, Stevenson was for some weeks in good health and +working order. The inquiries about the later life of Jean Cavalier, +the Protestant leader in the Cévennes, refer to a literary scheme, +whether of romance or history I forget, which had been in his mind +ever since the <i>Travels with a Donkey</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, June 6, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—Here I am in my native land, being +gently blown and hailed upon, and sitting nearer and +nearer to the fire. A cottage near a moor is soon to +receive our human forms; it is also near a burn to which +Professor Blackie (no less!) has written some verses in +his hot old age, and near a farm from whence we shall +draw cream and fatness. Should I be moved to join +Blackie, I shall go upon my knees and pray hard against +temptation; although, since the new Version, I do not +know the proper form of words. The swollen, childish, +and pedantic vanity that moved the said revisers to put +“bring” for “lead,” is a sort of literary fault that calls +for an eternal hell; it may be quite a small place, a star +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page307"></a>307</span> +of the least magnitude, and shabbily furnished; there +shall ——, ——, the revisers of the Bible and other absolutely +loathsome literary lepers, dwell among broken +pens, bad, <i>groundy</i> ink and ruled blotting-paper made in +France—all eagerly burning to write, and all inflicted +with incurable aphasia. I should not have thought upon +that torture had I not suffered it in moderation myself, +but it is too horrid even for a hell; let’s let ’em off with +an eternal toothache.</p> + +<p>All this talk is partly to persuade you that I write to +you out of good feeling only, which is not the case. I am +a beggar; ask Dobson, Saintsbury, yourself, and any +other of these cheeses who know something of the +eighteenth century, what became of Jean Cavalier between +his coming to England and his death in 1740. Is anything +interesting known about him? Whom did he +marry? The happy French, smilingly following one +another in a long procession headed by the loud and empty +Napoleon Peyrat, say, Olympe Dunoyer, Voltaire’s old +flame. Vacquerie even thinks that they were rivals, and +is very French and very literary and very silly in his +comments. Now I may almost say it consists with my +knowledge that all this has not a shadow to rest upon. +It is very odd and very annoying; I have splendid +materials for Cavalier till he comes to my own country; +and there, though he continues to advance in the service, +he becomes entirely invisible to me. Any information +about him will be greatly welcome: I may mention that +I know as much as I desire about the other prophets, +Marion, Fage, Cavalier (de Sonne), my Cavalier’s cousin, +the unhappy Lions, and the idiotic Mr. Lacy; so if any +erudite starts upon that track, you may choke him off. +If you can find aught for me, or if you will but try, count +on my undying gratitude. Lang’s “Library” is very +pleasant reading. My book <i>will</i> reach you soon, for I write +about it to-day.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page308"></a>308</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Work on a series of tales of terror, or, as he called them, +“crawlers,” planned in collaboration with his wife, soon superseded +for the moment other literary interests in his mind. <i>Thrawn +Janet</i> and the <i>Body-Snatchers</i> were the only two of the set completed +under their original titles: <i>The Wreck of the Susanna</i> contained, I +think, the germ of <i>The Merry Men</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry</i> [<i>June 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—<i>The Black Man and Other Tales.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>The Black Man:</p> + <p class="i1"><span class="scs">I.</span> Thrawn Janet.</p> + <p class="i1"><span class="scs">II.</span> The Devil on Cramond Sands.</p> +<p>The Shadow on the Bed.</p> +<p>The Body-Snatchers.</p> +<p>The Case Bottle.</p> +<p>The King’s Horn.</p> +<p>The Actor’s Wife.</p> +<p>The Wreck of the Susanna.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>This is the new work on which I am engaged with +Fanny; they are all supernatural. <i>Thrawn Janet</i> is off +to Stephen, but as it is all in Scotch he cannot take it, I +know. It was <i>so good</i>, I could not help sending it. My +health improves. We have a lovely spot here: a little +green glen with a burn, a wonderful burn, gold and green +and snow-white, singing loud and low in different steps of +its career, now pouring over miniature crags, now fretting +itself to death in a maze of rocky stairs and pots; never +was so sweet a little river. Behind, great purple moorlands +reaching to Ben Vrackie. Hunger lives here, alone +with larks and sheep. Sweet spot, sweet spot.</p> + +<p>Write me a word about Bob’s professoriate and Landor, +and what you think of <i>The Black Man</i>. The tales are +all ghastly. <i>Thrawn Janet</i> frightened me to death. There +will maybe be another—<i>The Dead Man’s Letter</i>. I believe +I shall recover; and I am, in this blessed hope, yours +exuberantly,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page309"></a>309</span></p> +<p class="to">To Professor Æneas Mackay</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This and the next four or five letters refer to the candidature +of R. L. S. for the Edinburgh Chair.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, +Wednesday, June 21, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MACKAY</span>,—What is this I hear?—that you +are retiring from your chair. It is not, I hope, from ill-health?</p> + +<p>But if you are retiring, may I ask if you have promised +your support to any successor? I have a great mind to +try. The summer session would suit me; the chair +would suit me—if only I would suit it; I certainly should +work it hard: that I can promise. I only wish it were a +few years from now, when I hope to have something more +substantial to show for myself. Up to the present time, +all that I have published, even bordering on history, has +been in an occasional form, and I fear this is much against +me.</p> + +<p>Please let me hear a word in answer, and believe me, +yours very sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson</p> + + +<p class="to">To Professor Æneas Mackay</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry</i> [<i>June 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MACKAY</span>,—Thank you very much for your +kind letter, and still more for your good opinion. You +are not the only one who has regretted my absence from +your lectures; but you were to me, then, only a part of +a mangle through which I was being slowly and unwillingly +dragged—part of a course which I had not chosen—part, +in a word, of an organised boredom.</p> + +<p>I am glad to have your reasons for giving up the chair; +they are partly pleasant, and partly honourable to you. +And I think one may say that every man who publicly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page310"></a>310</span> +declines a plurality of offices, makes it perceptibly more +difficult for the next man to accept them.</p> + +<p>Every one tells me that I come too late upon the field, +every one being pledged, which, seeing it is yet too early +for any one to come upon the field, I must regard as a +polite evasion. Yet all advise me to stand, as it might +serve me against the next vacancy. So stand I shall, +unless things are changed. As it is, with my health this +summer class is a great attraction; it is perhaps the only +hope I may have of a permanent income. I had supposed +the needs of the chair might be met by choosing every +year some period of history in which questions of <span class="correction" title="originally printed as 'Constitional'">Constitutional</span> +Law were involved; but this is to look too far +forward.</p> + +<p>I understand (1<i>st</i>) that no overt steps can be taken +till your resignation is accepted; and (2<i>nd</i>) that in the +meantime I may, without offence, mention my design to +stand.</p> + +<p>If I am mistaken about these, please correct me as I +do not wish to appear where I should not.</p> + +<p>Again thanking you very heartily for your coals of +fire I remain yours very sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry</i> [<i>June 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR S. C.</span>,—Great and glorious news. Your +friend, the bold unfearing chap, Aims at a professorial +cap, And now besieges, do and dare, The Edinburgh +History chair. Three months in summer only it Will +bind him to that windy bit; The other nine to arrange +abroad, Untrammel’d in the eye of God. Mark in particular +one thing: He means to work that cursed thing, +and to the golden youth explain Scotland and England, +France and Spain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page311"></a>311</span></p> + +<p>In short, sir, I mean to try for this chair. I do believe +I can make something out of it. It will be a pulpit in a +sense; for I am nothing if not moral, as you know. My +works are unfortunately so light and trifling they may +interfere. But if you think, as I think, I am fit to fight +it, send me the best kind of testimonial stating all you +can in favour of me and, with your best art, turning the +difficulty of my never having done anything in history, +strictly speaking. Second, is there anybody else, think +you, from whom I could wring one—I mean, you could +wring one for me. Any party in London or Cambridge +who thinks well enough of my little books to back me up +with a few heartfelt words? Jenkin approves highly; +but says, pile in <i>English</i> testimonials. Now I only know +Stephen, Symonds, Lang, Gosse and you, and Meredith, +to be sure. The chair is in the gift of the Faculty of +Advocates, where I believe I am more wondered at than +loved. I do not know the foundation; one or two hundred, +I suppose. But it would be a good thing for me, +out and out good. Help me to live, help me to <i>work</i>, for +I am the better of pressure, and help me to say what I +want about God, man and life.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>Heart-broken trying to write rightly to people.</p> + +<p>History and Constitutional Law is the full style.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, June 24,1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I wonder if I misdirected my last +to you. I begin to fear it. I hope, however, this will go +right. I am in act to do a mad thing—to stand for the +Edinburgh Chair of History; it is elected for by the +advocates, <i>quorum pars</i>; I am told that I am too late +this year; but advised on all hands to go on, as it is +likely soon to be once more vacant; and I shall have +done myself good for the next time. Now, if I got the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page312"></a>312</span> +thing (which I cannot, it appears), I believe, in spite of +all my imperfections, I could be decently effectual. If +you can think so also, do put it in a testimonial.</p> + +<p>Heavens! <i>Je me sauve</i>, I have something else to say +to you, but after that (which is not a joke) I shall keep it +for another shoot.—Yours testimonially,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p>I surely need not add, dear lad, that if you don’t feel +like it, you will only have to pacify me by a long letter +on general subjects, when I shall hasten to respond in +recompense for my assault upon the postal highway.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles J. Guthrie</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The next two letters are addressed to an old friend and fellow-member +of the Speculative Society, who had passed Advocate six +years before, on the same day as R. L. S. himself, and is now Lord +Guthrie, a Senator of the Scottish Courts of Justice, and has +Swanston Cottage, sacred to the memory of R. L. S., for his summer +home.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, June 30, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GUTHRIE</span>,—I propose to myself to stand for +Mackay’s chair. I can promise that I will not spare to +work. If you can see your way to help me, I shall be +glad; and you may at least not mind making my candidature +known.—Believe me, yours sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles J. Guthrie</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, July 2nd, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GUTHRIE</span>,—Many thanks for your support, +and many more for the kindness and thoughtfulness of +your letter. I shall take your advice in both directions; +presuming that by “electors” you mean the curators. I +must see to this soon; and I feel it would also do no harm +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page313"></a>313</span> +to look in at the P.H.<a name="FnAnchor_36" href="#Footnote_36"><span class="sp">36</span></a> As soon then as I get through +with a piece of work that both sits upon me like a stone +and attracts me like a piece of travel, I shall come to town +and go a-visiting. Testimonial-hunting is a queer form +of sport—but has its pleasures.</p> + +<p>If I got that chair, the Spec. would have a warm +defender near at hand! The sight of your fist made me +Speculative on the past.—Yours most sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry</i> [<i>July 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—Many thanks for the testimonial; +many thanks for your blind, wondering letter; many +wishes, lastly, for your swift recovery. Insomnia is the +opposite pole from my complaint; which brings with it +a nervous lethargy, an unkind, unwholesome, and ungentle +somnolence, fruitful in heavy heads and heavy eyes +at morning. You cannot sleep; well, I can best explain +my state thus: I cannot wake. Sleep, like the lees of a +posset, lingers all day, lead-heavy, in my knees and ankles. +Weight on the shoulders, torpor on the brain. And there +is more than too much of that from an ungrateful hound +who is now enjoying his first decently competent and +peaceful weeks for close upon two years; happy in a big +brown moor behind him, and an incomparable burn by +his side; happy, above all, in some work—for at last I +am at work with that appetite and confidence that alone +makes work supportable.</p> + +<p>I told you I had something else to say. I am very +tedious—it is another request. In August and a good +part of September we shall be in Braemar, in a house with +some accommodation. Now Braemar is a place patronised +by the royalty of the Sister Kingdoms—Victoria and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page314"></a>314</span> +Cairngorms, sir, honouring that countryside by their conjunct +presence. This seems to me the spot for A Bard. +Now can you come to see us for a little while? I can +promise you, you must like my father, because you are +a human being; you ought to like Braemar, because of +your avocation; and you ought to like me, because I +like you; and again, you must like my wife, because she +likes cats; and as for my mother—well, come and see, +what do you think? that is best. Mrs. Gosse, my wife +tells me, will have other fish to fry; and to be plain, I +should not like to ask her till I had seen the house. But +a lone man I know we shall be equal to. <i>Qu’en dis tu? +Viens.</i>—Yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To P. G. Hamerton</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry</i> [<i>July 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MR. HAMMERTON</span>,—(There goes the second +M.; it is a certainty.) Thank you for your prompt and +kind answer, little as I deserved it, though I hope to +show you I was less undeserving than I seemed. But just +might I delete two words in your testimonial? The two +words “and legal” were unfortunately winged by +chance against my weakest spot, and would go far +to damn me.</p> + +<p>It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I +was married; it was a sort of marriage <i>in extremis</i>; and +if I am where I am, it is thanks to the care of that lady +who married me when I was a mere complication of cough +and bones, much fitter for an emblem of mortality than +a bridegroom.</p> + +<p>I had a fair experience of that kind of illness when all +the women (God bless them!) turn round upon the streets +and look after you with a look that is only too kind not +to be cruel. I have had nearly two years of more or less +prostration. I have done no work whatever since the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page315"></a>315</span> +February before last until quite of late. To be precise, +until the beginning of last month, exactly two essays. +All last winter I was at Davos; and indeed I am home here +just now against the doctor’s orders, and must soon be +back again to that unkindly haunt “upon the mountains +visitant“—there goes no angel there but the angel of +death.<a name="FnAnchor_37" href="#Footnote_37"><span class="sp">37</span></a> The deaths of last winter are still sore spots to +me.... So, you see, I am not very likely to go on a +“wild expedition,” cis-Stygian at least. The truth is, I +am scarce justified in standing for the chair, though I +hope you will not mention this; and yet my health is one +of my reasons, for the class is in summer.</p> + +<p>I hope this statement of my case will make my long +neglect appear less unkind. It was certainly not because +I ever forgot you, or your unwonted kindness; and +it was not because I was in any sense rioting in +pleasures.</p> + +<p>I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; +you have my warmest wishes for a good cruise down the +Saône; and yet there comes some envy to that wish, +for when shall I go cruising? Here a sheer hulk, alas! +lies R. L. S. But I will continue to hope for a better +time, canoes that will sail better to the wind, and a river +grander than the Saône.</p> + +<p>I heard, by the way, in a letter of counsel from a +well-wisher, one reason of my town’s absurdity about +the chair of Art:<a name="FnAnchor_38" href="#Footnote_38"><span class="sp">38</span></a> I fear it is characteristic of +her manners. It was because you did not call upon the +electors!</p> + +<p>Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your +son?—And believe me, etc., etc.,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page316"></a>316</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry</i> [<i>July 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I do believe I am better, mind and +body; I am tired just now, for I have just been up the +burn with Wogg, daily growing better and boo’f’ler; so +do not judge my state by my style in this. I am working +steady, four Cornhill pages scrolled every day, besides +the correspondence about this chair, which is heavy in +itself. My first story, <i>Thrawn Janet</i>, all in Scotch, is +accepted by Stephen; my second, <i>The Body Snatchers</i>, is +laid aside in a justifiable disgust, the tale being horrid; +my third, <i>The Merry Men</i>, I am more than half through, +and think real well of. It is a fantastic sonata about the +sea and wrecks; and I like it much above all my other +attempts at story-telling; I think it is strange; if ever I +shall make a hit, I have the line now, as I believe.</p> + +<p>Fanny has finished one of hers, <i>The Shadow on the Bed</i>, +and is now hammering at a second, for which we have +“no name” as yet—not by Wilkie Collins.</p> + +<p><i>Tales for Winter Nights.</i> Yes, that, I think, we will +call the lot of them when republished.</p> + +<p>Why have you not sent me a testimonial? Everybody +else but you has responded, and Symonds, but I’m afraid +he’s ill. Do think, too, if anybody else would write me +a testimonial. I am told quantity goes far. I have good +ones from Rev. Professor Campbell, Professor Meiklejohn, +Leslie Stephen, Lang, Gosse, and a very shaky one from +Hamerton.</p> + +<p>Grant is an elector, so can’t, but has written me kindly. +From Tulloch I have not yet heard. Do help me with +suggestions. This old chair, with its £250 and its light +work, would make me.</p> + +<p>It looks as if we should take Cater’s chalet<a name="FnAnchor_39" href="#Footnote_39"><span class="sp">39</span></a> after all; +but O! to go back to that place, it seems cruel. I have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page317"></a>317</span> +not yet received the Landor; but it may be at home, +detained by my mother, who returns to-morrow.</p> + +<p>Believe me, dear Colvin, ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>Yours came; the class is in summer; many thanks +for the testimonial, it is bully; arrived along with it +another from Symonds, also bully; he is ill, but not +lungs, thank God—fever got in Italy. We <i>have</i> taken +Cater’s chalet; so we are now the aristo’s of the valley. +There is no hope for me, but if there were, you would hear +sweetness and light streaming from my lips.</p> + +<p><i>The Merry Men.</i></p> + +<table class="reg1" width="70%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc2">Chap. <span class="scs">I.</span></td> + <td class="tc3">Eilean Aros.</td> + <td class="tc3" rowspan="5"> + <span style="font-size: 10em; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #778899; vertical-align: bottom;">}</span></td> + <td class="tc3" rowspan="5"><p style="margin-left: 0">Tip</p> + <p style="margin-left: 1em;">Top</p> + <p style="margin-left: 2em;">Tale</p></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2 scs">II.</td> + <td class="tc3">What the Wreck had brought to Aros. </td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2 scs">III.</td> + <td class="tc3">Past and Present in Sandag Bay.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2 scs">IV.</td> + <td class="tc3">The Gale.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tc2 scs">V.</td> + <td class="tc3">A Man out of the Sea.</td></tr> +</table> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, July 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope, then, to have a visit from +you. If before August, here; if later, at Braemar. Tupe!</p> + +<p>And now, <i>mon bon</i>, I must babble about <i>The Merry +Men</i>, my favourite work. It is a fantastic sonata about +the sea and wrecks. Chapter I. “Eilean Aros“—the +island, the roost, the “merry men,” the three people there +living—sea superstitions. Chapter II. “What the Wreck +had brought to Aros.” Eh, boy? what had it? Silver +and clocks and brocades, and what a conscience, what a +mad brain! Chapter III. “Past and Present in Sandag +Bay“—the new wreck and the old—so old—the Armada +treasure-ship, Sant<span class="sp">ma</span> Trini<span class="sp">d</span>—the grave in the heather—strangers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page318"></a>318</span> +there. Chapter IV. “The Gale“—the doomed +ship—the storm—the drunken madman on the head—cries +in the night. Chapter V. “A Man out of the Sea.” But +I must not breathe to you my plot. It is, I fancy, my +first real shoot at a story; an odd thing, sir, but, I believe, +my own, though there is a little of Scott’s <i>Pirate</i> in it, as +how should there not? He had the root of romance in +such places. Aros is Earraid, where I lived lang syne;<a name="FnAnchor_40" href="#Footnote_40"><span class="sp">40</span></a> +the Ross of Grisapol is the Ross of Mull; Ben Ryan, Ben +More. I have written to the middle of Chapter IV. Like +enough, when it is finished I shall discard all chapterings; +for the thing is written straight through. It must, unhappily, +be re-written—too well written not to be.</p> + +<p>The chair is only three months in summer; that is why +I try for it. If I get it, which I shall not, I should be +independent at once. Sweet thought. I liked your +Byron well; your Berlioz better. No one would remark +these cuts; even I, who was looking for it, knew it not +at all to be a torso. The paper strengthens me in my +recommendation to you to follow Colvin’s hint. Give us +an 1830; you will do it well, and the subject smiles widely +on the world:—</p> + +<p>1830: <i>A Chapter of Artistic History</i>, by William Ernest +Henley (or <i>of Social and Artistic History</i>, as the thing +might grow to you). Sir, you might be in the Athenæum +yet with that; and, believe me, you might and would be +far better, the author of a readable book.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p>The following names have been invented for Wogg by +his dear papa:—</p> + +<div class="list"> +<p>Grunty-pig (when he is scratched),</p> +<p>Rose-mouth (when he comes flying up with his rose-leaf + tongue depending), and</p> +<p>Hoofen-boots (when he has had his foots wet).</p> +<p>How would <i>Tales for Winter Nights</i> do?</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page319"></a>319</span></p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The spell of good health did not last long, and with a break of +the weather came a return of catarrhal troubles and hemorrhage. +This letter answers some criticisms made by his correspondent on +<i>The Merry Men</i> as drafted in MS.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Pitlochry, if you please</i> [<i>August</i>], 1881.</p> + +<p><span class="scs">Dear Henley</span>,—To answer a point or two. First, the +Spanish ship was sloop-rigged and clumsy, because she +was fitted out by some private adventurers, not over +wealthy, and glad to take what they could get. Is that +not right? Tell me if you think not. That, at least, was +how I meant it. As for the boat-cloaks, I am afraid they +are, as you say, false imagination; but I love the name, +nature, and being of them so dearly, that I feel as if I +would almost rather ruin a story than omit the reference. +The proudest moments of my life have been passed in +the stern-sheets of a boat with that romantic garment over +my shoulders. This, without prejudice to one glorious +day when standing upon some water stairs at Lerwick I +signalled with my pocket-handkerchief for a boat to come +ashore for me. I was then aged fifteen or sixteen; conceive +my glory.</p> + +<p>Several of the phrases you object to are proper nautical, +or long-shore phrases, and therefore, I think, not +out of place in this long-shore story. As for the two +members which you thought at first so ill-united; I +confess they seem perfectly so to me. I have chosen to +sacrifice a long-projected story of adventure because the +sentiment of that is identical with the sentiment of “My +uncle.” My uncle himself is not the story as I see it, only +the leading episode of that story. It’s really a story of +wrecks, as they appear to the dweller on the coast. It’s +a view of the sea. Goodness knows when I shall be able +to re-write; I must first get over this copper-headed +cold.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page320"></a>320</span></p> +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The reference to Landor in the following is to a volume of mine +in Macmillan’s series <i>English Men of Letters</i>. This and the next +two or three years were those of the Fenian dynamite outrages at +the Tower of London, the House of Lords, etc.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, August 1881.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This is the first letter I have written +this good while. I have had a brutal cold, not perhaps +very wisely treated; lots of blood—for me, I mean. I +was so well, however, before, that I seem to be sailing +through with it splendidly. My appetite never failed; +indeed, as I got worse, it sharpened—a sort of reparatory +instinct. Now I feel in a fair way to get round soon.</p> + +<p><i>Monday, August</i> (<i>2nd</i>, is it?).—We set out for the +Spital of Glenshee, and reach Braemar on Tuesday. The +Braemar address we cannot learn; it looks as if “Braemar” +were all that was necessary; if particular, you can +address 17 Heriot Row. We shall be delighted to see you +whenever, and as soon as ever, you can make it possible.</p> + +<p>... I hope heartily you will survive me, and do not +doubt it. There are seven or eight people it is no part +of my scheme in life to survive—yet if I could but heal +me of my bellowses, I could have a jolly life—have it, even +now, when I can work and stroll a little, as I have been +doing till this cold. I have so many things to make life +sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that other +one thing—health. But though you will be angry to hear +it, I believe, for myself at least, what is is best. I believed +it all through my worst days, and I am not ashamed to +profess it now.</p> + +<p>Landor has just turned up; but I had read him already. +I like him extremely; I wonder if the “cuts” +were perhaps not advantageous. It seems quite full +enough; but then you know I am a compressionist.</p> + +<p>If I am to criticise, it is a little staid; but the classical +is apt to look so. It is in curious contrast to that inexpressive, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page321"></a>321</span> +unplanned wilderness of Forster’s; clear, +readable, precise, and sufficiently human. I see nothing +lost in it, though I could have wished, in my Scotch capacity, +a trifle clearer and fuller exposition of his moral +attitude, which is not quite clear “from here.”</p> + +<p>He and his tyrannicide! I am in a mad fury about +these explosions. If that is the new world! Damn +O’Donovan Rossa; damn him behind and before, above, +below, and roundabout; damn, deracinate, and destroy +him, root and branch, self and company, world without +end. Amen. I write that for sport if you like, but I +will pray in earnest, O Lord, if you cannot convert, kindly +delete him!</p> + +<p>Stories naturally at halt. Henley has seen one and +approves. I believe it to be good myself, even real good. +He has also seen and approved one of Fanny’s. It will +make a good volume. We have now</p> + +<p>Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day.</p> +<p>The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny’s copying).</p> +<p>The Merry Men (scrolled).</p> +<p>The Body Snatchers (scrolled).</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>In germis</i></p> + +<p>The Travelling Companion.</p> +<p>The Torn Surplice (<i>not final title</i>).</p> + +<p class="noind">Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Dr. Japp (known in literature at this date and for some time +afterwards under his pseudonym H. A. Page; later under his own +name the biographer of De Quincey) had written to R. L. S. criticising +statements of fact and opinion in his essay on Thoreau, and +expressing the hope that they might meet and discuss their differences. +In the interval between the last letter and this Stevenson +with all his family had moved to Braemar.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar</i>, +<i>Sunday</i> [<i>August 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—I should long ago have written to +thank you for your kind and frank letter; but in my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page322"></a>322</span> +state of health papers are apt to get mislaid, and your +letter has been vainly hunted for until this (Sunday) +morning.</p> + +<p>I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh; +one visit to Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in +that invaluable particular health; but if it should be at all +possible for you to push on as far as Braemar, I believe +you would find an attentive listener, and I can offer you +a bed, a drive, and necessary food, etc.</p> + +<p>If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, +I can promise you two things: First, I shall religiously +revise what I have written, and bring out more clearly +the point of view from which I regarded Thoreau; second, +I shall in the Preface record your objection.</p> + +<p>The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget +that any such short paper is essentially only a <i>section +through</i> a man) was this: I desired to look at the man +through his books. Thus, for instance, when I mentioned +his return to the pencil-making, I did it only in passing +(perhaps I was wrong), because it seemed to me not an +illustration of his principles, but a brave departure from +them. Thousands of such there were I do not doubt; +still, they might be hardly to my purpose, though, as you +say so, some of them would be.</p> + +<p>Our difference as to pity I suspect was a logomachy +of my making. No pitiful acts on his part would surprise +me; I know he would be more pitiful in practice than +most of the whiners; but the spirit of that practice would +still seem to be unjustly described by the word pity.</p> + +<p>When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected +of a sneaking unkindness for my subject; but you +may be sure, sir, I would give up most other things to be +so good a man as Thoreau. Even my knowledge of him +leads me thus far.</p> + +<p>Should you find yourself able to push on to Braemar—it +may even be on your way—believe me, your visit will +be most welcome. The weather is cruel, but the place +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page323"></a>323</span> +is, as I dare say you know, the very “wale” of Scotland—bar +Tummelside.—Yours very sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt"><span class="sc">Robert Louis Stevenson.</span></p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Sitwell</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar</i>, +[<i>August 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Well</span>, I have been pretty mean, but I have not +yet got over my cold so completely as to have recovered +much energy. It is really extraordinary that I should +have recovered as well as I have in this blighting weather; +the wind pipes, the rain comes in squalls, great black +clouds are continually overhead, and it is as cold as +March. The country is delightful, more cannot be said; it +is very beautiful, a perfect joy when we get a blink of sun +to see it in. The Queen knows a thing or two, I perceive; +she has picked out the finest habitable spot in Britain.</p> + +<p>I have done no work, and scarce written a letter for +three weeks, but I think I should soon begin again; my +cough is now very trifling. I eat well, and seem to have lost +but little flesh in the meanwhile. I was <i>wonderfully</i> well before +I caught this horrid cold. I never thought I should +have been as well again; I really enjoyed life and work; and, +of course, I now have a good hope that this may return.</p> + +<p>I suppose you heard of our ghost stories. They are +somewhat delayed by my cold and a bad attack of laziness, +embroidery, etc., under which Fanny had been +some time prostrate. It is horrid that we can get no +better weather. I did not get such good accounts of +you as might have been. You must imitate me. I am +now one of the most conscientious people at trying to get +better you ever saw. I have a white hat, it is much +admired; also a plaid, and a heavy stoop; so I take my +walks abroad, witching the world.</p> + +<p>Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding +under the blow.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page324"></a>324</span></p> +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt1"><i>The Cottage</i> (<i>late the late Miss M’Gregor’s</i>),</p> +<p class="rt"><i>Castleton of Braemar, August 10, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Come on the 24th, there is a dear +fellow. Everybody else wants to come later, and it will +be a godsend for, sir—Yours sincerely.</p> + +<p>You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are +not sick of, sir—Your obedient, humble servant.</p> + +<p>We have family worship in the home of, sir—Yours +respectfully.</p> + +<p>Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you +will also see) the maps of, sir—Yours in the Lord.</p> + +<p>A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at +the hour of two before the house of, sir—Yours truly.</p> + +<p>The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage +of the late Miss Macgregor and of, sir—Yours affectionately.</p> + +<p>It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere +you know the halls of, sir—Yours emphatically.</p> + +<p>All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir—Yours +ever.</p> + +<p>You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual +collapse of, sir—Yours indeed.</p> + +<p>And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir—Yours,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>N.B.</i>—Each of these clauses has to be read with +extreme glibness, coming down whack upon the “Sir.” +This is very important. The fine stylistic inspiration will +else be lost.</p> + +<p>I commit the man who made, the man who sold, and +the woman who supplied me with my present excruciating +gilt nib to that place where the worm +never dies.</p> + +<p>The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page325"></a>325</span> +as it does to foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage +omitted from the address, which would therefore +run—The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, +August 19, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="sc">If</span> you had an uncle who was a sea captain and +went to the North Pole, you had better bring his outfit. +<i>Verbum Sapientibus.</i> I look towards you.</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Braemar, August 19, 1881.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I have by an extraordinary drollery +of Fortune sent off to you by this day’s post a P.C. inviting +you to appear in sealskin. But this had reference to the +weather, and not at all, as you may have been led to fancy, +to our rustic raiment of an evening.</p> + +<p>As to that question, I would deal, in so far as in me +lies, fairly with all men. We are not dressy people by +nature; but it sometimes occurs to us to entertain angels. +In the country, I believe, even angels may be decently +welcomed in tweed; I have faced many great personages, +for my own part, in a tasteful suit of sea-cloth with an +end of carpet pending from my gullet. Still, we do +maybe twice a summer burst out in the direction of blacks—and +yet we do it seldom. In short, let your own heart +decide, and the capacity of your portmanteau. If you came +in camel’s hair, you would still, although conspicuous, be +welcome.</p> + +<p>The sooner the better after Tuesday.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page326"></a>326</span></p> +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following records the beginning of work upon <i>Treasure +Island</i>, the name originally proposed for which was <i>The Sea Cook</i>:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Braemar, August 25, 1881.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Of course I am a rogue. Why, +Lord, it’s known, man; but you should remember I have +had a horrid cold. Now, I’m better, I think; and see +here—nobody, not you, nor Lang, nor the devil, will +hurry me with our crawlers. They are coming. Four of +them are as good as done, and the rest will come when +ripe; but I am now on another lay for the moment, purely +owing to Lloyd, this one; but I believe there’s more +coin in it than in any amount of crawlers: now, see +here, <i>The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Story for +Boys</i>.</p> + +<p>If this don’t fetch the kids, why, they have gone +rotten since my day. Will you be surprised to learn that +it is about Buccaneers, that it begins in the “Admiral +Benbow” public-house on Devon coast, that it’s all about +a map, and a treasure, and a mutiny, and a derelict ship, +and a current, and a fine old Squire Trelawney (the real +Tre, purged of literature and sin, to suit the infant mind), +and a doctor, and another doctor, and a sea cook with +one leg, and a sea-song with the chorus “Yo-ho-ho and a +bottle of rum” (at the third Ho you heave at the capstan +bars), which is a real buccaneer’s song, only known +to the crew of the late Captain Flint (died of rum at Key +West, much regretted, friends will please accept this +intimation); and lastly, would you be surprised to hear, +in this connection, the name of <i>Routledge</i>? That’s the +kind of man I am, blast your eyes. Two chapters are +written, and have been tried on Lloyd with great success; +the trouble is to work it off without oaths. Buccaneers +without oaths—bricks without straw. But youth and the +fond <span class="correction" title="originally printed as 'parient'">parent</span> have to be consulted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page327"></a>327</span></p> + +<p>And now look here—this is next day—and three +chapters are written and read. (Chapter I. The Old Sea-dog +at the “Admiral Benbow.” Chapter II. Black Dog +appears and disappears. Chapter III. The Black Spot.) +All now heard by Lloyd, F., and my father and mother, +with high approval. It’s quite silly and horrid fun, and +what I want is the <i>best</i> book about the Buccaneers that +can be had—the latter B’s above all, Blackbeard and +sich, and get Nutt or Bain to send it skimming by the +fastest post. And now I know you’ll write to me, for +<i>The Sea Cook’s</i> sake.</p> + +<p>Your Admiral Guinea is curiously near my line, but of +course I’m fooling; and your Admiral sounds like a +shublime gent, Stick to him like wax—he’ll do. My +Trelawney is, as I indicate, several thousand sea-miles off +the lie of the original or your Admiral Guinea; and +besides, I have no more about him yet but one mention of +his name, and I think it likely he may turn yet farther +from the model in the course of handling. A chapter a +day I mean to do; they are short; and perhaps in a +month <i>The Sea Cook</i> may to Routledge go, yo-ho-ho and +a bottle of rum! My Trelawney has a strong dash of +Landor, as I see him from here. No women in the story, +Lloyd’s orders; and who so blithe to obey? It’s awful +fun boys’ stories; you just indulge the pleasure of your +heart, that’s all; no trouble, no strain. The only stiff +thing is to get it ended—that I don’t see, but I look to a +volcano. O sweet, O generous, O human toils. You +would like my blind beggar in Chapter III. I believe; no +writing, just drive along as the words come and the pen +will scratch!</p> + +<p class="rt1">R. L. S.</p> +<p class="rt">Author of Boys’ Stories.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This correspondent had paid his visit as proposed, discussed the +Thoreau differences, listened delightedly to the first chapters of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page328"></a>328</span> +<i>Treasure Island</i>, and proposed to offer the story for publication to +his friend Mr. Henderson, proprietor and editor of Young Folks.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Braemar, September 1881.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—My father has gone, but I think +I may take it upon me to ask you to keep the book. Of +all things you could do to endear yourself to me, you +have done the best, for my father and you have taken a +fancy to each other.</p> + +<p>I do not know how to thank you for all your kind +trouble in the matter of <i>The Sea Cook</i>, but I am not +unmindful. My health is still poorly, and I have added +intercostal rheumatism—a new attraction—which sewed +me up nearly double for two days, and still gives me a +list to starboard—let us be ever nautical!</p> + +<p>I do not think with the start I have there will be any +difficulty in letting Mr. Henderson go ahead whenever he +likes. I will write my story up to its legitimate conclusion; +and then we shall be in a position to judge +whether a sequel would be desirable, and I would then +myself know better about its practicability from the story-teller’s +point of view.—Yours ever very sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This tells of the farther progress of <i>Treasure Island</i>, of the price +paid for it, and of the modest hopes with which it was launched. +“The poet” is Mr. Gosse. The project of a highway story, <i>Jerry +Abershaw</i>, remained a favourite one with Stevenson until it was +superseded three or four years later by another, that of the <i>Great +North Road</i>, which in its turn had to be abandoned, from lack of +health and leisure, after some six or eight chapters had been written.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Braemar, September 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Thanks for your last. The £100 +fell through, or dwindled at least into somewhere about +£30. However, that I’ve taken as a mouthful, so you +may look out for <i>The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A +Tale of the Buccaneers</i>, in Young Folks. (The terms are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page329"></a>329</span> +£2, 10s. a page of 4500 words; that’s not noble, is it? +But I have my copyright safe. I don’t get illustrated—a +blessing; that’s the price I have to pay for my +copyright.)</p> + +<p>I’ll make this boys’ book business pay; but I have to +make a beginning. When I’m done with Young Folks, +I’ll try Routledge or some one. I feel pretty sure the +<i>Sea Cook</i> will do to reprint, and bring something decent +at that.</p> + +<p>Japp is a good soul. The poet was very gay and +pleasant. He told me much: he is simply the most active +young man in England, and one of the most intelligent. +“He shall o’er Europe, shall o’er earth extend.”<a name="FnAnchor_41" href="#Footnote_41"><span class="sp">41</span></a> He is +now extending over adjacent parts of Scotland.</p> + +<p>I propose to follow up <i>The Sea Cook</i> at proper intervals +by <i>Jerry Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath</i> (which or +its site I must visit): <i>The Leading Light: A Tale of the +Coast</i>, <i>The Squaw Men: or the Wild West</i>, and other +instructive and entertaining work. <i>Jerry Abershaw</i> should +be good, eh? I love writing boys’ books. This first is +only an experiment; wait till you see what I can make +’em with my hand in. I’ll be the Harrison Ainsworth +of the future; and a chalk better by St. Christopher; or +at least as good. You’ll see that even by <i>The Sea Cook</i>.</p> + +<p>Jerry Abershaw—O what a title! Jerry Abershaw: +d—n it, sir, it’s a poem. The two most lovely words in +English; and what a sentiment! Hark you, how the +hoofs ring! Is this a blacksmith’s? No, it’s a wayside +inn. Jerry Abershaw. “It was a clear, frosty evening, +not 100 miles from Putney,” etc. Jerry Abershaw. Jerry +Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. <i>The Sea Cook</i> is now in +its sixteenth chapter, and bids for well up in the thirties. +Each three chapters is worth £2, 10s. So we’ve £12, 10s. +already.</p> + +<p>Don’t read Marryat’s <i>Pirate</i> anyhow; it is written in +sand with a salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, tottering production. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page330"></a>330</span> +But then we’re not always all there. <i>He</i> was +<i>all</i> somewhere else that trip. It’s <i>damnable</i>, Henley. I +don’t go much on <i>The Sea Cook</i>; but, Lord, it’s a little +fruitier than the <i>Pirate</i> by Cap’n. Marryat.</p> + +<p>Since this was written <i>The Cook</i> is in his nineteenth +chapter. Yo-heave ho!</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Stevenson’s uncle, Dr. George Balfour, had recommended him +to wear a specially contrived and hideous respirator for the +inhalation of pine-oil.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Braemar, 1881.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%"> + +<p>Dear Henley, with a pig’s snout on</p> +<p>I am starting for London,</p> +<p>Where I likely shall arrive,</p> +<p>On Saturday, if still alive:</p> +<p>Perhaps your pirate doctor might</p> +<p>See me on Sunday? If all’s right,</p> +<p>I should then lunch with you and with she</p> +<p>Who’s dearer to you than you are to me.</p> +<p>I shall remain but little time</p> +<p>In London, as a wretched clime,</p> +<p>But not so wretched (for none are)</p> +<p>As that of beastly old Braemar.</p> +<p>My doctor sends me skipping. I</p> +<p>Have many facts to meet your eye.</p> +<p>My pig’s snout’s now upon my face;</p> +<p>And I inhale with fishy grace,</p> +<p>My gills outflapping right and left,</p> +<p><i>Ol. pin. sylvest.</i> I am bereft</p> +<p>Of a great deal of charm by this—</p> +<p>Not quite the bull’s eye for a kiss—</p> +<p>But like a gnome of olden time</p> +<p>Or bogey in a pantomime.</p> +<p>For ladies’ love I once was fit,</p> +<p>But now am rather out of it.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page331"></a>331</span></p> +<p>Where’er I go, revolted curs</p> +<p>Snap round my military spurs;</p> +<p>The children all retire in fits</p> +<p>And scream their bellowses to bits.</p> +<p>Little I care: the worst’s been done:</p> +<p>Now let the cold impoverished sun</p> +<p>Drop frozen from his orbit; let</p> +<p>Fury and fire, cold, wind and wet,</p> +<p>And cataclysmal mad reverses</p> +<p>Rage through the federate universes;</p> +<p>Let Lawson triumph, cakes and ale,</p> +<p>Whisky and hock and claret fail;—</p> +<p>Tobacco, love, and letters perish,</p> +<p>With all that any man could cherish:</p> +<p>You it may touch, not me. I dwell</p> +<p>Too deep already—deep in hell;</p> +<p>And nothing can befall, O damn!</p> +<p>To make me uglier than I am.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>This-yer refers to an ori-nasal respirator for the inhalation +of pine-wood oil, <i>oleum pini sylvestris</i>.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>With all his throat and lung troubles actively renewed, Stevenson +fled to Davos again in October. This time he and his wife and +stepson occupied a small house by themselves, the Chalet am Stein, +near the Buol Hotel. The election to the Edinburgh Professorship +was still pending, and the following note to his father shows that +he thought for a moment of giving the electors a specimen of his +qualifications in the shape of a magazine article on the Appin +murder—a theme afterwards turned to more vital account in the +tales of <i>Kidnapped</i> and <i>Catriona</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, October 1881.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—It occurred to me last night in +bed that I could write</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p class="i2">The Murder of Red Colin,</p> +<p>A Story of the Forfeited Estates.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page332"></a>332</span></p> + +<p class="noind">This I have all that is necessary for, with the following +exceptions:—</p> + +<p><i>Trials of the Sons of Roy Rob with Anecdotes</i>: Edinburgh, +1818, and</p> + +<p>The second volume of Blackwood’s Magazine.</p> + +<p>You might also look in Arnot’s <i>Criminal Trials</i> up in +my room, and see what observations he has on the case +(Trial of James Stewart in Appin for murder of Campbell +of Glenure, 1752); if he has none, perhaps you could see—O +yes, see if Burton has it in his two vols. of trial +stories. I hope he hasn’t; but care not; do it over +again anyway.</p> + +<p>The two named authorities I must see. With these, I +could soon pull off this article; and it shall be my first +for the electors.—Ever affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Some of the habitual readers of Young Folks had written objecting +to the early instalments of <i>Treasure Island</i>, and the editor had +come forward in their defence.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Davos Printing Office, managed by Samuel Lloyd</i></p> +<p class="rt1"><i>Osbourne & Co., The Chalet</i> [<i>Nov. 9, 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR WEG</span>,—If you are taking Young Folks, for God’s +Sake Twig the editorial style; it is incredible; we are all +left panting in the rear; twig, O twig it. His name is +Clinton; I should say the most melodious prosewriter +now alive; it’s like buttermilk and blacking; it sings and +hums away in that last sheet, like a great old kettle full +of bilge water. You know: none of us could do it, boy. +See No. 571, last page: an article called “Sir Claude the +Conqueror,” and read it <i>aloud</i> in your best rhythmic tones; +mon cher, c’est épatant.</p> + +<p>Observe in the same number, how Will J. Shannon +girds at your poor friend; and how the rhythmic Clinton +steps chivalrously forth in his defence. First the Rev. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page333"></a>333</span> +Purcell; then Will J. Shannon: thick fall the barbéd +arrows.<a name="FnAnchor_42" href="#Footnote_42"><span class="sp">42</span></a></p> + +<p>I wish I could play a game of chess with you.</p> + +<p>If I survive, I shall have Clinton to dinner: it is plain +I must make hay while the sun shines; I shall not long +keep a footing in the world of penny writers, or call them +obolists. It is a world full of surprises, a romantic world. +Weg, I was known there; even I. The obolists, then, +sometimes peruse our works. It is only fair; since I so +much batten upon theirs. Talking of which, in Heaven’s +name, get <i>The Bondage of Brandon</i> (3 vols.) by Bracebridge +Hemming. It’s the devil and all for drollery. There +is a Superior (sic) of the Jesuits, straight out of Skelt.</p> + +<p>And now look here, I had three points: Clinton—disposed +of—(2nd) Benj. Franklin—do you want him? +(3rd) A radiant notion begot this morning over an atlas: +why not, you who know the lingo, give us a good legendary +and historical book on Iceland? It would, or should, +be as romantic as a book of Scott’s; as strange and stirring +as a dream. Think on’t. My wife screamed with joy at +the idea; and the little Lloyd clapped his hands; so I +offer you three readers on the spot.</p> + +<p>Fanny and I have both been in bed, tended by the +hired sick nurse; Lloyd has a broken finger (so he did +not clap his hands literally); Wogg has had an abscess +in his ear; our servant is a devil.—I am yours ever, with +both of our best regards to Mrs. Gosse,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson,</p> +<p class="rt1">The Rejected Obolist.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>This letter speaks of contributions to the Magazine of Art (in +these years edited by Mr. Henley) from J. A. Symonds and from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page334"></a>334</span> +R. L. S. himself, “Bunyan” meaning the essay on the cuts in +Bagster’s edition of the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. A toy press had just +been set up in the chalet for the lad Lloyd.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Davos Printing Office, managed by Samuel Lloyd</i></p> +<p class="rt1"><i>Osbourne & Co., The Chalet</i> [<i>Nov. 1881</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I have done better for you than you +deserved to hope; the Venice Medley is withdrawn; and +I have a Monte Oliveto (short) for you, with photographs +and sketches. I think you owe luck a candle; for this +no skill could have accomplished without the aid of +accident.</p> + +<p>How about carving and gilding? I have nearly killed +myself over Bunyan; and am too tired to finish him +to-day, as I might otherwise have done. For his back +is broken. For some reason, it proved one of the hardest +things I ever tried to write; perhaps—but no—I have no +theory to offer—it went against the spirit. But as I say +I girt my loins up and nearly died of it.</p> + +<p>In five weeks, six at the latest, I should have a complete +proof of <i>Treasure Island</i>. It will be from 75 to +80,000 words; and with anything like half good pictures, +it should sell. I suppose I may at least hope for eight +pic’s? I aspire after ten or twelve. You had better</p> + +<p>—Two days later.</p> + +<p>Bunyan skips to-day, pretty bad, always with an official +letter. Yours came last night. I had already spotted +your Dickens; very pleasant and true.</p> + +<p>My wife is far from well; quite confined to bed now; +drain poisoning. I keep getting better slowly; appetite +dicky; but some days I feel and eat well. The weather +has been hot and heartless and unDavosy.</p> + +<p>I shall give Symonds his note in about an hour from +now.</p> + +<p>Have done so; he will write of Vesalius and of Botticelli’s +Dante for you.</p> + +<p>Morris’s <i>Sigurd</i> is a grrrrreat poem; that is so. I +have cried aloud at this re-reading; he had fine stuff to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page335"></a>335</span> +go on, but he has touched it, in places, with the hand of +a master. Yes. Regin and Fafnir are incredibly fine. +Love to all.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To P. G. Hamerton</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The volume of republished essays here mentioned is <i>Familiar +Studies of Men and Books</i>. “The silly story of the election” refers +again to his correspondent’s failure as a candidate for the Edinburgh +Chair of Fine Arts.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, December1881.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON</span>,—My conscience has long +been smiting me, till it became nearly chronic. My +excuses, however, are many and not pleasant. Almost +immediately after I last wrote to you, I had a hemorreage +(I can’t spell it), was badly treated by a doctor in the +country, and have been a long while picking up—still, in +fact, have much to desire on that side. Next, as soon as +I got here, my wife took ill; she is, I fear, seriously so; +and this combination of two invalids very much depresses +both.</p> + +<p>I have a volume of republished essays coming out +with Chatto and Windus; I wish they would come, that +my wife might have the reviews to divert her. Otherwise +my news is <i>nil</i>. I am up here in a little chalet, on the +borders of a pinewood, overlooking a great part of the +Davos Thal, a beautiful scene at night, with the moon +upon the snowy mountains, and the lights warmly shining +in the village. J. A. Symonds is next door to me, just +at the foot of my Hill Difficulty (this you will please regard +as the House Beautiful), and his society is my great +stand-by.</p> + +<p>Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? +“Hardly one of us,” said my <i>confrères</i> at the bar.</p> + +<p>I was blamed by a common friend for asking you to +give me a testimonial; in the circumstances he thought +it was indelicate. Lest, by some calamity, you should +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page336"></a>336</span> +ever have felt the same way, I must say in two words +how the matter appeared to me. That silly story of the +election altered in no tittle the value of your testimony: +so much for that. On the other hand, it led me to take +quite a particular pleasure in asking you to give it; and +so much for the other. I trust, even if you cannot share +it, you will understand my view.</p> + +<p>I am in treaty with Bentley for a life of Hazlitt; I hope +it will not fall through, as I love the subject, and appear +to have found a publisher who loves it also. That, I think, +makes things more pleasant. You know I am a fervent +Hazlittite; I mean regarding him as <i>the</i> English writer +who has had the scantiest justice. Besides which, I am +anxious to write biography; really, if I understand myself +in quest of profit, I think it must be good to live with +another man from birth to death. You have tried it, +and know.</p> + +<p>How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to +Mrs. Hamerton and your son, and believe me, yours very +sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The memory here evoked of Brash the publican, who had been +a special butt for some of the youthful pranks of R. L. S. and his +friends, inspired in the next few weeks the sets of verses mentioned +below (vol. 24, pp. 14, 15, 38) in letters which show that the fictitious +Johnson and Thomson were far from being dead.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>], <i>Davos, December 5, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—We have been in miserable case +here; my wife worse and worse; and now sent away +with Lloyd for sick nurse, I not being allowed to go down. +I do not know what is to become of us; and you may +imagine how rotten I have been feeling, and feel now, +alone with my weasel-dog and my German maid, on the +top of a hill here, heavy mist and thin snow all about +me, and the devil to pay in general. I don’t care so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page337"></a>337</span> +much for solitude as I used to; results, I suppose, of +marriage.</p> + +<p>Pray write me something cheery. A little Edinburgh +gossip, in Heaven’s name. Ah! what would I not give +to steal this evening with you through the big, echoing, +college archway, and away south under the street lamps, +and away to dear Brash’s, now defunct! But the old +time is dead also, never, never to revive. It was a sad +time too, but so gay and so hopeful, and we had such +sport with all our low spirits and all our distresses, that it +looks like a kind of lamplit fairyland behind me. O for +ten Edinburgh minutes—sixpence between us, and the +ever-glorious Lothian Road, or dear mysterious Leith +Walk! But here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling; +here in this strange place, whose very strangeness would +have been heaven to him then; and aspires, yes, C. B., +with tears, after the past. See what comes of being left +alone. Do you remember Brash? the sheet of glass that +we followed along George Street? Granton? the night +at Bonny mainhead? the compass near the sign of the +<i>Twinkling Eye</i>? the night I lay on the pavement in +misery?</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + + <p style="margin-left: 5em;">I swear it by the eternal sky</p> +<p>Johnson—nor—Thomson ne’er shall die!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The next is after going down to meet his wife and stepson, when +the former had left the doctor’s hands at Berne.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Chalet Buol, Davos-Platz, December 26, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Yesterday, Sunday and Christmas, +we finished this eventful journey by a drive in an <i>open</i> +sleigh—none others were to be had—seven hours on end +through whole forests of Christmas trees. The cold was +beyond belief. I have often suffered less at a dentist’s. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page338"></a>338</span> +It was a clear, sunny day, but the sun even at noon falls, +at this season, only here and there into the Prättigau. +I kept up as long as I could in an imitation of a street +singer:—</p> + +<p class="center f80">“Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,” etc.</p> + +<p>At last Lloyd remarked, a blue mouth speaking from a +corpse-coloured face, “You seem to be the only one with +any courage left?” And, do you know, with that word +my courage disappeared, and I made the rest of the stage +in the same dumb wretchedness as the others. My only +terror was lest Fanny should ask for brandy, or laudanum, +or something. So awful was the idea of putting my hands +out, that I half thought I would refuse.</p> + +<p>Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd’s cold +better; I, with a twinge of the rheumatiz; and Fanny +better than her ordinary.</p> + +<p>General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the +journey: A prolonged visit to the dentist’s, complicated +with the fear of death.</p> + +<p>Never, O never, do you get me there again.—Ever +affectionate son,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Mr. Gosse and R. L. S. had proposed to Mr. R. W. Gilder, of +the Century Magazine, that they should collaborate for him on a +series of murder papers, beginning with the Elstree murder; and +he had accepted the proposal on terms which they thought liberal.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Hotel Buol, Davos, Dec. 26, 1881.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have just brought my wife back, +through such cold, in an open sleigh too, as I had never +fancied to exist. I won’t use the word torture, but go to +your dentist’s and in nine cases out of ten you will not +suffer more pain than we suffered.</p> + +<p>This is merely in acknowledgment of your editorial: +to say that I shall give my mind at once to the Murder. +But I bethink me you can say so much and convey my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page339"></a>339</span> +sense of the liberality of our Cousins, without exhibiting +this scrawl. So I may go on to tell you that I have at +last found a publisher as eager to publish, as I am to +write a Hazlitt. Bentley is the Boy; and very liberal, +at least, as per last advices; certainly very friendly and +eager, which makes work light, like whistling. I wish I +was with the rest of—well, of us—in the red books. But +I am glad to get a whack at Hazlitt, howsoe’er.</p> + +<p>How goes your Gray? I would not change with you; +brother! Gray would never be suited to my temperament, +while Hazlitt fits me like a glove.</p> + +<p>I hope in your studies in Young Folks you did not +miss the delicious reticences, the artistic concealments, +and general fine-shade graduation, through which the fact +of the Xmas Nr. being 3d. was instilled—too strong—inspired +into the mind of the readers. It was superb.</p> + +<p>I may add as a postscript: I wish to God I or anybody +knew what was the matter with my wife.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, March 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Herewith <i>Moral Emblems</i>. The +elephant by Fanny—the rest by me.</p> + +<p>I would have sent it long ago. But I must explain. +I brought home with me from my bad times in America +two strains of unsoundness of mind, the first, a perpetual +fear that I can do no more work—the second, a perpetual +fear that my friends have quarrelled with me.<a name="FnAnchor_43" href="#Footnote_43"><span class="sp">43</span></a> This last +long silence of yours drove me into really believing it, and +I dared not write to you.</p> + +<p>Well, it’s ancient history now, and here are the emblems. +A second series is in the press.</p> + +<p><i>Silverado</i> is still unfinished; but I think I have done +well on the whole, as you say. I shall be home, I hope, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page340"></a>340</span> +sometime in May, perhaps before; it depends on Fanny’s +health, which is still far from good and often alarms me. +I shall then see your collectanea. I shall not put pen to +paper till I settle somewhere else; Hazlitt had better +simmer awhile. I have to see Ireland too, who has most +kindly written to me and invited me to see his collections.</p> + +<p>Symonds grows much on me: in many ways, what you +would least expect, a very sound man, and very wise in a +wise way. It is curious how F. and I always turn to him +for advice: we have learned that his advice is good.—Yours +ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Alison Cunningham</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, February 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—My wife and I are very much +vexed to hear you are still unwell. We are both keeping +far better; she especially seems quite to have taken a +turn—<i>the</i> turn, we shall hope. Please let us know how +you get on, and what has been the matter with you; +Braemar I believe—the vile hole. You know what a lazy +rascal I am, so you won’t be surprised at a short letter, +I know; indeed, you will be much more surprised at my +having had the decency to write at all. We have got rid +of our young, pretty, and incompetent maid; and now we +have a fine, canny, twinkling, shrewd, auld-farrant peasant +body, who gives us good food and keeps us in good spirits. +If we could only understand what she says! But she +speaks Davos language, which is to German what Aberdeen-awa’ +is to English, so it comes heavy. God bless you, my +dear Cummy; and so says Fanny forbye.—Ever your +affectionate,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page341"></a>341</span></p> +<p class="to">To Charles Baxter</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos</i>], <i>22nd February ’82.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Your most welcome letter has +raised clouds of sulphur from my horizon....</p> + +<p>I am glad you have gone back to your music. Life +is a poor thing, I am more and more convinced, without +an art, that always waits for us and is always new. +Art and marriage are two very good stand-by’s.</p> + +<p>In an article which will appear some time in the Cornhill, +<i>Talk and Talkers</i>, and where I have full-lengthened +the conversation of Bob, Henley, Jenkin, Simpson, +Symonds, and Gosse, I have at the end one single word +about yourself. It may amuse you to see it.</p> + +<p>We are coming to Scotland after all, so we shall meet, +which pleases me, and I do believe I am strong enough +to stand it this time. My knee is still quite lame.</p> + +<p>My wife is better again.... But we take it by turns; +it is the dog that is ill now.—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the early months of this year a hurt knee kept Stevenson +more indoors than was good for him.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, February 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Here comes the letter as promised +last night. And first two requests: Pray send the enclosed +to c/o Blackmore’s publisher, ’tis from Fanny; +second, pray send us Routledge’s shilling book, Edward +Mayhew’s <i>Dogs</i>, by return if it can be managed.</p> + +<p>Our dog is very ill again, poor fellow, looks very ill too, +only sleeps at night because of morphine; and we do not +know what ails him, only fear it to be canker of the ear. +He makes a bad, black spot in our life, poor, selfish, silly, +little tangle; and my wife is wretched. Otherwise she is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page342"></a>342</span> +better, steadily and slowly moving up through all her +relapses. My knee never gets the least better; it hurts +to-night, which it has not done for long. I do not suppose +my doctor knows any least thing about it. He says it +is a nerve that I struck, but I assure you he does not know.</p> + +<p>I have just finished a paper, <i>A Gossip on Romance</i>, in +which I have tried to do, very popularly, about one-half +of the matter you wanted me to try. In a way, I have +found an answer to the question. But the subject was +hardly fit for so chatty a paper, and it is all loose ends. +If ever I do my book on the Art of Literature, I shall +gather them together and be clear.</p> + +<p>To-morrow, having once finished off the touches still +due on this, I shall tackle <i>San Francisco</i> for you. Then +the tide of work will fairly bury me, lost to view and +hope. You have no idea what it costs me to wring out +my work now. I have certainly been a fortnight over +this <i>Romance</i>, sometimes five hours a day; and yet it is +about my usual length—eight pages or so, and would be +a d——d sight the better for another curry. But I do not +think I can honestly re-write it all; so I call it done, +and shall only straighten words in a revision currently.</p> + +<p>I had meant to go on for a great while, and say all +manner of entertaining things. But all’s gone. I am +now an idiot.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following flight of fancy refers to supposed errors of judgment +on the part of an eminent firm of publishers, with whom +Stevenson had at this time no connection. Very soon afterwards +he entered into relations with them which proved equally pleasant +and profitable to both parties, and were continued on the most +cordial terms until his death.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Last night we had a dinner-party, +consisting of the John Addington, curry, onions (lovely +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page343"></a>343</span> +onions), and beefsteak. So unusual is any excitement, +that F. and I feel this morning as if we had been to a +coronation. However I must, I suppose, write.</p> + +<p>I was sorry about your female contributor squabble. +’Tis very comic, but really unpleasant. But what care I? +Now that I illustrate my own books, I can always offer +you a situation in our house—S. L. Osbourne and Co. As +an author gets a halfpenny a copy of verses, and an artist +a penny a cut, perhaps a proof-reader might get several +pounds a year.</p> + +<p>O that Coronation! What a shouting crowd there +was! I obviously got a firework in each eye. The king +looked very magnificent, to be sure; and that great hall +where we feasted on seven hundred delicate foods, and +drank fifty royal wines—<i>quel coup d’œil</i>! but was it not +overdone, even for a coronation—almost a vulgar luxury? +And eleven is certainly too late to begin dinner. (It was +really 6.30 instead of 5.30.)</p> + +<p>Your list of books that Cassells have refused in these +weeks is not quite complete; they also refused:—</p> + +<p>1. Six undiscovered Tragedies, one romantic Comedy, +a fragment of Journal extending over six years, and an +unfinished Autobiography reaching up to the first performance +of King John. By William Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>2. The Journals and Private Correspondence of David, +King of Israel.</p> + +<p>3. Poetical Works of Arthur, Iron Dook of Wellington +including a Monody on Napoleon.</p> + +<p>4. Eight books of an unfinished novel, <i>Solomon Crabb</i>. +By Henry Fielding.</p> + +<p>5. Stevenson’s Moral Emblems.</p> + +<p>You also neglected to mention, as <i>per contra</i>, that they +had during the same time accepted and triumphantly +published Brown’s <i>Handbook to Cricket</i>, <i>Jones’s First +French Reader</i>, and Robinson’s <i>Picturesque Cheshire</i>, uniform +with the same author’s <i>Stately Homes of Salop</i>.</p> + +<p>O if that list could come true! How we would tear at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page344"></a>344</span> +<i>Solomon Crabb</i>! O what a bully, bully, bully business. +Which would you read first—Shakespeare’s autobiography, +or his journals? What sport the monody on +Napoleon would be—what wooden verse, what stucco +ornament! I should read both the autobiography and +the journals before I looked at one of the plays, beyond +the names of them, which shows that Saintsbury was +right, and I do care more for life than for poetry. No—I +take it back. Do you know one of the tragedies—a +Bible tragedy too—<i>David</i>—was written in his third period—much +about the same time as Lear? The comedy, +<i>April Rain</i>, is also a late work. <i>Beckett</i> is a fine ranting +piece, like <i>Richard II.</i>, but very fine for the stage. Irving +is to play it this autumn when I’m in town; the part +rather suits him—but who is to play Henry—a tremendous +creation, sir. Betterton in his private journal seems +to have seen this piece; and he says distinctly that Henry +is the best part in any play. “Though,” he adds, “how +it be with the ancient plays I know not. But in this I +have ever feared to do ill, and indeed will not be persuaded +to that undertaking.” So says Betterton. <i>Rufus</i> is not +so good; I am not pleased with <i>Rufus</i>; plainly a <i>rifaccimento</i> +of some inferior work; but there are some damned +fine lines. As for the purely satiric ill-minded <i>Abelard and +Heloise</i>, another <i>Troilus, quoi!</i> it is not pleasant, truly, +but what strength, what verve, what knowledge of life, +and the Canon! What a finished, humorous, rich picture +is the Canon! Ah, there was nobody like Shakespeare. +But what I like is the David and Absalom business: +Absalom is so well felt—you love him as David did; +David’s speech is one roll of royal music from the first +act to the fifth.</p> + +<p>I am enjoying <i>Solomon Crabb</i> extremely; Solomon’s +capital adventure with the two highwaymen and Squire +Trecothick and Parson Vance; it is as good, I think, as +anything in Joseph Andrews. I have just come to the +part where the highwayman with the black patch over +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page345"></a>345</span> +his eye has tricked poor Solomon into his place, and the +squire and the parson are hearing the evidence. Parson +Vance is splendid. How good, too, is old Mrs. Crabb and +the coastguardsman in the third chapter, or her delightful +quarrel with the sexton of Seaham; Lord Conybeare is +surely a little overdone; but I don’t know either; he’s +such damned fine sport. Do you like Sally Barnes? I’m +in love with her. Constable Muddon is as good as Dogberry +and Verges put together; when he takes Solomon to the +cage, and the highwayman gives him Solomon’s own +guinea for his pains, and kisses Mrs. Muddon, and just then +up drives Lord Conybeare, and instead of helping Solomon, +calls him all the rascals in Christendom—O Henry Fielding, +Henry Fielding! Yet perhaps the scenes at Seaham +are the best. But I’m bewildered among all these excellences.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%"> + +<p>Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin crack—</p> +<p>This here’s a dream, return and study <span class="sc">BLACK</span>!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">—Ever yours,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Alexander Ireland</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The following is in reply to a letter Stevenson had received on +some questions connected with his proposed Life of Hazlitt from +the veteran critic and bibliographer since deceased, Mr. Alexander +Ireland. At the foot is to be found the first reference to his new +amusement of wood engraving for the Davos Press:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—This formidable paper need not alarm +you; it argues nothing beyond penury of other sorts, and +is not at all likely to lead me into a long letter. If I +were at all grateful it would, for yours has just passed for +me a considerable part of a stormy evening. And speaking +of gratitude, let me at once and with becoming eagerness +accept your kind invitation to Bowdon. I shall +hope, if we can agree as to dates when I am nearer hand, +to come to you sometime in the month of May. I was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page346"></a>346</span> +pleased to hear you were a Scot; I feel more at home +with my compatriots always; perhaps the more we are +away, the stronger we feel that bond.</p> + +<p>You ask about Davos; I have discoursed about it +already, rather sillily I think, in the <i>Pall Mall</i>, and I mean +to say no more, but the ways of the Muse are dubious and +obscure, and who knows? I may be wiled again. As a +place of residence, beyond a splendid climate, it has to +my eyes but one advantage—the neighbourhood of J. A. +Symonds—I dare say you know his work, but the man is +far more interesting. It has done me, in my two winters’ +Alpine exile, much good; so much, that I hope to leave +it now for ever, but would not be understood to boast. In +my present unpardonably crazy state, any cold might +send me skipping, either back to Davos, or further off. +Let us hope not. It is dear; a little dreary; very far +from many things that both my taste and my needs prompt +me to seek; and altogether not the place that I should +choose of my free will.</p> + +<p>I am chilled by your description of the man in question, +though I had almost argued so much from his cold +and undigested volume. If the republication does not +interfere with my publisher, it will not interfere with +me; but there, of course, comes the hitch. I do not know +Mr. Bentley, and I fear all publishers like the devil from +legend and experience both. However, when I come to +town, we shall, I hope, meet and understand each other +as well as author and publisher ever do. I liked his +letters; they seemed hearty, kind, and personal. Still—I +am notedly suspicious of the trade—your news of this +republication alarms me.</p> + +<p>The best of the present French novelists seems to me, +incomparably, Daudet. <i>Les Rois en Exil</i> comes very near +being a masterpiece. For Zola I have no toleration, +though the curious, eminently bourgeois, and eminently +French creature has power of a kind. But I would he were +deleted. I would not give a chapter of old Dumas (meaning +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page347"></a>347</span> +himself, not his collaborators) for the whole boiling of +the Zolas. Romance with the smallpox—as the great +one: diseased anyway and blackhearted and fundamentally +at enmity with joy.</p> + +<p>I trust that Mrs. Ireland does not object to smoking; +and if you are a teetotaller, I beg you to mention it before +I come—I have all the vices; some of the virtues also, +let us hope—that, at least, of being a Scotchman, and +yours very sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—My father was in the old High School the last +year, and walked in the procession to the new. I blush +to own I am an Academy boy; it seems modern, and +smacks not of the soil.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><i>P.P.S.</i>—I enclose a good joke—at least, I think so—my +first efforts at wood engraving printed by my stepson, +a boy of thirteen. I will put in also one of my later +attempts. I have been nine days at the art—observe my +progress.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Mrs. Gosse had sent R. L. S. a miniature Bible illustrated with +rude cuts, picked up at an outdoor stall. “Lloyd’s new work” is +<i>Black Canyon</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 16, 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR MRS. GOSSE</span>,—Thank you heartily for the Bible, +which is exquisite. I thoroughly appreciate the whole; +but have you done justice to the third lion in Daniel +(like the third murderer in Macbeth)—a singular animal—study +him well. The soldier in the fiery furnace beats +me.</p> + +<p>I enclose a programme of Lloyd’s new work. The +work I shall send to-morrow, for the publisher is out +and I dare not touch his “plant“: <i>il m’en cuirait</i>. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page348"></a>348</span> +work in question I think a huge lark, but still droller is +the author’s attitude. Not one incident holds with +another from beginning to end; and whenever I discover +a new inconsistency, Sam is the first to laugh—with a +kind of humorous pride at the thing being so silly.</p> + +<p>I saw the note, and I was so sorry my article had not +come in time for the old lady. We should all hurry up and +praise the living. I must praise Tupper. A propos, did +you ever read him?—or know any one who had? That +is very droll; but the truth is we all live in a clique, +buy each other’s books and like each other’s books; and +the great, gaunt, grey, gaping public snaps its big fingers +and reads Talmage and Tupper—and <i>Black Canyon</i>.</p> + +<p>My wife is better; I, for the moment, am but so-so +myself; but the printer is in very—how shall we say?—large +type at this present, and the sound of the press +never ceases. Remember me to Weg.—Yours very truly,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<div style="line-height: 1em;"> +<p class="center">NOTICE</p> +<p class="center">To-day is published by S. L. Osbourne & Co.</p> +<p class="center">ILLUSTRATED</p> +<p class="center">BLACK CANYON,</p> +<p class="center">or</p> + +<p class="center sc">Wild Adventures in the Far West.</p> + +<p class="center">An</p> +<p class="center">Instructive and amusing TALE written by</p> +<p class="center">Samuel Lloyd Osbourne</p> +<p class="center">Price 6d.</p> +</div> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p class="center sc">Opinions of the Press</p> + +<p>Although <i>Black Canyon</i> is rather shorter than ordinary +for that kind of story, it is an excellent work. We cordially +recommend it to our readers.—<i>Weekly Messenger.</i></p> + +<p>S. L. Osbourne’s new work (<i>Black Canyon</i>) is splendidly +illustrated. In the story, the characters are bold and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page349"></a>349</span> +striking. It reflects the highest honour on its writer.—<i>Morning +Call.</i></p> + +<p>A very remarkable work. Every page produces an +effect. The end is as singular as the beginning. I never +saw such a work before.—<i>R. L. Stevenson.</i></p> + + +<p class="to">To Sidney Colvin</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>I had written to him of the proposal that I should do the volume +on Keats for Macmillan’s <i>English Men of Letters</i> series. From his +essay, <i>Talk and Talkers</i>, I was eventually left out.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, Spring 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR COLVIN</span>,—About Keats—well yes, I wonder; I +see all your difficulties and yet, I have the strongest kind +of feeling that critical biography is your real vein. The +Landor was one nail; another, I think, would be good +for you and the public. Indeed I would do the Keats. He +is worth doing; it is a brave and a sad little story, and +the critical part lies deep in the very vitals of art. All +summed, I would do him; remember it is but a small +order alongside of Landor; and £100, and kudos, and a +good word for the poor, great lad, who will otherwise fall +among the molluscs. Up, heart! give me a John Keats! +Houghton, though he has done it with grace, has scarce +done it with grip.</p> + +<p>I have put you into <i>Talk and Talkers</i> sure enough. +God knows, I hope I shall offend nobody; I do begin to +quake mightily over that paper. I have a <i>Gossip on +Romance</i> about done; it puts some real criticism in a +light way, I think. It is destined for Longman who (dead +secret) is bringing out a new Mag. (6d.) in the Autumn. +Dead Secret: all his letters are three deep with masks +and passwords, and I swear on a skull daily. F. has reread +<i>Treasure I<span class="sp">d</span>.</i>, against which she protested; and now +she thinks the end about as good as the beginning; only +some six chapters situate about the midst of the tale to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page350"></a>350</span> +be rewritten. This sounds hopefuller. My new long +story, <i>The Adventures of John Delafield</i>, is largely planned.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Stevenson and Mr. Gosse were still meditating a book in which +some of the famous historical murder cases should be retold (see +above, p. 338). “Gray” and “Keats” are volumes in the <i>English +Men of Letters</i> series.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 23, 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—And I had just written the best note +to Mrs. Gosse that was in my power. Most blameable.</p> + +<p>I now send (for Mrs. Gosse)</p> + +<div class="pd05"> </div> +<p class="center scs">BLACK CANYON</p> + +<p class="noind">Also an advertisement of my new appearance as poet +(bard, rather) and hartis on wood. The cut represents +the Hero and the Eagle, and is emblematic of Cortez first +viewing the Pacific Ocean, which (according to the bard +Keats) it took place in Darien. The cut is much admired +for the sentiment of discovery, the manly proportions of +the voyager, and the fine impression of tropical scenes +and the untrodden <span class="sc">WASTE</span>, so aptly rendered by the hartis.</p> + +<p>I would send you the book; but I declare I’m ruined. +I got a penny a cut and a halfpenny a set of verses from +the flint-hearted publisher, and only one specimen copy, +as I’m a sinner. —— was apostolic alongside of Osbourne.</p> + +<p>I hope you will be able to decipher this, written at +steam speed with a breaking pen, the hotfast postman at +my heels. No excuse, says you. None, sir, says I, and +touches my ’at most civil (extraordinary evolution of pen, +now quite doomed—to resume—) I have not put pen to +the Bloody Murder yet. But it is early on my list; and +when once I get to it, three weeks should see the last +bloodstain—maybe a fortnight. For I am beginning to +combine an extraordinary laborious slowness while at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page351"></a>351</span> +work, with the most surprisingly quick results in the way +of finished manuscripts. How goes Gray? Colvin is to +do Keats. My wife is still not well.—Yours ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“The enclosed” means a packet of the Davos Press cuts.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—You must think me a forgetful +rogue, as indeed I am; for I have but now told my publisher +to send you a copy of the <i>Familiar Studies</i>. However, +I own I have delayed this letter till I could send +you the enclosed. Remembering the nights at Braemar +when we visited the Picture Gallery, I hoped they might +amuse you. You see, we do some publishing hereaway. +I shall hope to see you in town in May.—Always yours +faithfully,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The references in the first paragraph are to the volume <i>Familiar +Studies of Men and Books</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 1, 1882.</i></p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—A good day to date this letter, +which is in fact a confession of incapacity. During my +wife’s illness I somewhat lost my head, and entirely lost +a great quire of corrected proofs. This is one of the +results; I hope there are none more serious. I was never +so sick of any volume as I was of that; I was continually +receiving fresh proofs with fresh infinitesimal difficulties. +I was ill—I did really fear my wife was worse than ill. +Well, it’s out now; and though I have observed several +carelessnesses myself, and now here’s another of your +finding—of which, indeed, I ought to be ashamed—it will +only justify the sweeping humility of the Preface.</p> + +<p>Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page352"></a>352</span> +came, and I communicated your remarks.... He is a +far better and more interesting thing than any of his +books.</p> + +<p>The Elephant was my wife’s; so she is proportionately +elate you should have picked it out for praise—from a +collection, let me add, so replete with the highest qualities +of art.</p> + +<p>My wicked carcase, as John Knox calls it, holds together +wonderfully. In addition to many other things, +and a volume of travel, I find I have written, since +December, 90 Cornhill pages of magazine work—essays +and stories: 40,000 words, and I am none the worse—I +am the better. I begin to hope I may, if not outlive this +wolverine upon my shoulders, at least carry him bravely +like Symonds and Alexander Pope. I begin to take a +pride in that hope.</p> + +<p>I shall be much interested to see your criticisms; you +might perhaps send them to me. I believe you know that +is not dangerous; one folly I have not—I am not touchy +under criticism.</p> + +<p>Lloyd and my wife both beg to be remembered; and +Lloyd sends as a present a work of his own. I hope you +feel flattered; for this is <i>simply the first time he has ever +given one away</i>. I have to buy my own works, I can tell +you.—Yours very sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>From about this time until 1885 Mr. Henley acted in an informal +way as agent for R. L. S. in most of his dealings with publishers in +London. “Both” in the second paragraph means, I think, <i>Treasure +Island</i> and <i>Silverado Squatters</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope and hope for a long letter—soon +I hope to be superseded by long talks—and it +comes not. I remember I have never formally thanked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page353"></a>353</span> +you for that hundred quid, nor in general for the introduction +to Chatto and Windus, and continue to bury you +in copy as if you were my private secretary. Well, I am +not unconscious of it all; but I think least said is often +best, generally best; gratitude is a tedious sentiment, it’s +not ductile, not dramatic.</p> + +<p>If Chatto should take both, <i>cui dedicare</i>? I am running +out of dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is +stranded. <i>Treasure Island</i>, if it comes out, and I mean +it shall, of course goes to Lloyd. Lemme see, I have +now dedicated to</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%"> + +<p>W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley].</p> +<p>S. C. [Sidney Colvin].</p> +<p>T. S. [Thomas Stevenson].</p> +<p>Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson].</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>There remain: C. B., the Williamses—you know they +were the parties who stuck up for us about our marriage, +and Mrs. W. was my guardian angel, and our Best Man +and Bridesmaid rolled in one, and the only third of the +wedding party—my sister-in-law, who is booked for +<i>Prince Otto</i>—Jenkin I suppose some time—George Meredith, +the only man of genius of my acquaintance, and then I +believe I’ll have to take to the dead, the immortal memory +business.</p> + +<p>Talking of Meredith, I have just re-read for the third +and fourth time <i>The Egoist</i>. When I shall have read it +the sixth or seventh, I begin to see I shall know about it. +You will be astonished when you come to re-read it; I +had no idea of the matter—human, red matter he has +contrived to plug and pack into that strange and admirable +book. Willoughby is, of course, a pure discovery; +a complete set of nerves, not heretofore examined, and +yet running all over the human body—a suit of nerves. +Clara is the best girl ever I saw anywhere. Vernon is +almost as good. The manner and the faults of the book +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page354"></a>354</span> +greatly justify themselves on further study. Only Dr. +Middleton does not hang together; and Ladies Busshe +and Culmer <i>sont des monstruosités</i>. Vernon’s conduct +makes a wonderful odd contrast with Daniel Deronda’s. +I see more and more that Meredith is built for immortality.</p> + +<p>Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an +immortalet, claims some attention. <i>The Woman killed +with Kindness</i> is one of the most striking novels—not +plays, though it’s more of a play than anything else of his—I +ever read. He had such a sweet, sound soul, the old +boy. The death of the two pirates in <i>Fortune by Sea and +Land</i> is a document. He had obviously been present, and +heard Purser and Clinton take death by the beard with +similar braggadocios. Purser and Clinton, names of +pirates; Scarlet and Bobbington, names of highwaymen. +He had the touch of names, I think. No man I ever +knew had such a sense, such a tact, for English nomenclature: +Rainsforth, Lacy, Audley, Forrest, Acton, +Spencer, Frankford—so his names run.</p> + +<p>Byron not only wrote <i>Don Juan</i>; he called Joan of +Arc “a fanatical strumpet.” These are his words. I +think the double shame, first to a great poet, second to +an English noble, passes words.</p> + +<p>Here is a strange gossip.—I am yours loquaciously,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel +examination, an exa<i>nim</i>ation I may call it, had this +brave result. <i>Taïaut</i>! Hillo! Hey! Stand by! Avast! +Hurrah!</p> + + +<p class="to">To Mrs. T. Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 9, 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Herewith please find belated +birthday present. Fanny has another.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page355"></a>355</span></p> + +<table class="nobctr" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc3"> +<p>Cockshot = Jenkin.</p> +<p>Jack = Bob.</p> +<p>Burly = Henley.</p> +<p>Athelred = Simpson.</p> +<p>Opalstein = Symonds.</p> +<p>Purcel = Gosse.</p></td> + +<td class="tc3" style="padding-left: 2em;"><p>But</p> +<p>pray</p> +<p>regard</p> +<p>these</p> +<p>as</p> +<p>secrets.</p></td></tr> +</table> + +<p>My dear mother, how can I keep up with your breathless +changes? Innerleithen, Cramond, Bridge of Allan, +Dunblane, Selkirk. I lean to Cramond, but I shall be +pleased anywhere, any respite from Davos; never mind, +it has been a good, though a dear lesson. Now, with my +improved health, if I can pass the summer, I believe I +shall be able no more to exceed, no more to draw on you. +It is time I sufficed for myself indeed. And I believe I +can.</p> + +<p>I am still far from satisfied about Fanny; she is +certainly better, but it is by fits a good deal, and the +symptoms continue, which should not be. I had her +persuaded to leave without me this very day (Saturday +8th), but the disclosure of my mismanagement broke up +that plan; she would not leave me lest I should mismanage +more. I think this an unfair revenge; but I +have been so bothered that I cannot struggle. All Davos +has been drinking our wine. During the month of March, +three litres a day were drunk—O it is too sickening—and +that is only a specimen. It is enough to make any one +a misanthrope, but the right thing is to hate the donkey +that was duped—which I devoutly do.</p> + +<p>I have this winter finished <i>Treasure Island</i>, written +the preface to the <i>Studies</i>, a small book about the <i>Inland +Voyage</i> size, <i>The Silverado Squatters</i>, and over and above +that upwards of ninety (90) Cornhill pages of magazine +work. No man can say I have been idle.—Your affectionate +son,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page356"></a>356</span></p> +<p class="to">To R. A. M. Stevenson</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, April 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—Yours received. I have received a +communication by same mail from my mother, clamouring +for news, which I must answer as soon as I’ve done +this. Of course, I shall paint your game in lively colours.</p> + +<p>I hope to get away from here—let me not speak of it +ungratefully—from here—by Thursday at latest. I am +indeed much better; but a slip of the foot may still cast me +back. I must walk circumspectly yet awhile. But O to be +able to go out and get wet, and not spit blood next day!</p> + +<p>Yes, I remember the <i>enfantement</i> of the Arabian Nights; +the first idea of all was the handsome cabs, which I communicated +to you in St. Leonard’s Terrace drawing-room. +That same afternoon the Prince de Galles and the +Suicide Club were invented; and several more now forgotten. +I must try to start ’em again.</p> + +<p>Lloyd I believe is to be a printer—in the meantime +he confines himself to being an expense. He is a first-rate +lad for all that. He is now interrupting me about twice +to the line, which does not condooce to clarity, I’m afraid.</p> + +<p>Fanny is still far from well, quite far from well. My +faith is in the Pirate.</p> + +<p>I enclose all my artistic works; they are woodcuts—I +cut them with a knife out of blocks of wood: I am a +wood-engraver; I aaaam a wooooood engraaaaver. Lloyd +then prints ’em: are they not fun? I doat on them; in +my next venture, I am going to have colour printing; it +will be very laborious, six blocks to cut for each picter, +but the result would be pyramidal.</p> + +<p>If I get through the summer, I settle in Autumn in +le pays de France; I believe in the Brittany and become +a <i>Snoozer</i>. You will come and snooze awhile won’t you, +and try and get Louisa to join.</p> + +<p>Pepys was a decent fellow; singularly like Charles +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page357"></a>357</span> +Baxter, by the way, in every character of mind and taste, +and not unlike him in face. I did not mean I had been +too just to him but not just enough to bigger swells. I +would rather have <i>known</i> Pepys than the whole jing-bang; +I doat on him as a card to know.</p> + +<p>We shall be pretty poor at the start, of course, but I +guess we can haul through. Only intending visitors to +the Brittannic Castle must not look for nightingales’ +tongues. When next you see the form of the jeune et +beau pray give him my love, when I come to Weybridge, +I’ll hope to see him.—Ever yours affectionately,</p> + +<p class="rt"><span class="sc">R. L. Stevenson</span>, 1er Roi de Béotie.</p> + +<p style="text-align: right; padding-right: 7em;">Pour copie conforme,</p> +<p class="rt">Le sécrétaire Royale, <span class="sc">W. P. Bannatyne</span>.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Trevor Haddon</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>The few remaining letters of this period are dated from Edinburgh +and from Stobo Manse, near Peebles. This, in the matter +of weather and health, was the most disappointing of all Stevenson’s +attempts at summer residence in Scotland. Before going to Stobo +he made a short excursion with his father to Lochearnhead; and +later spent some three weeks with me at Kingussie, but from neither +place wrote any letters worth preserving. The following was +addressed to a young art-student who had read the works of Walt +Whitman after reading Stevenson’s essay on him, and being staggered +by some things he found there had written asking for further +comment and counsel.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i> [<i>June 1882</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR SIR</span>,—If I have in any way disquieted you, I +believe you are justified in bidding me stand and deliver +a remedy if there be one: which is the point.</p> + +<p>1st I am of your way of thinking: that a good deal of +Whitman is as well taken once but 2nd I quite believe +that it is better to have everything brought before one in +books. In that way the problems reach us when we are +cool, and not warped by the sophistries of an instant +passion. Life itself presents its problems with a terrible +directness and at the very hour when we are least able to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page358"></a>358</span> +judge calmly. Hence this Pisgah sight of all things, off +the top of a book, is only a rational preparation for the +ugly grips that must follow.</p> + +<p>But 3rd, no man can settle another’s life for him. It is +the test of the nature and courage of each that he shall +decide it for himself. Each in turn must meet and beard +the Sphynx. Some things however I must say—and you +will treat them as things read in a book for you to +accept or refuse as you shall see most fit.</p> + +<p>Go not out of your way to make difficulties. Hang +back from life while you are young. Shoulder no responsibilities. +You do not yet know how far you can trust +yourself—it will not be very far, or you are more fortunate +than I am. If you can keep your sexual desires +in order, be glad, be very glad. Some day, when you +meet your fate, you will be free, and the better man. +<i>Don’t make a boy and girl friendship that which it is not.</i> +Look at Burns: that is where amourettes conduct an +average good man; and a tepid marriage is only a more +selfish amourette—in the long run. Whatever you do, +see that you don’t sacrifice a woman; that’s where all +imperfect loves conduct us. At the same time, if you +can make it convenient to be chaste, for God’s sake, +avoid the primness of your virtue; hardness to a poor +harlot is a sin lower than the ugliest unchastity.</p> + +<p>Never be in a hurry anyhow.</p> + +<p>There is my sermon.</p> + +<p>Certainly, you cannot too earnestly go in for the +Greek; and about any art, think last of what pays, first +of what pleases. It is in that spirit only that an art can +be made. Progress in art is made by learning to <i>enjoy</i> it. +That which seems a little dull at first, is found to contain +the elements of pleasure more largely though more quietly +commingled.</p> + +<p>I return to my sermon for one more word: Natural +desire gives you no right to any particular woman: that +comes with love only, and don’t be too ready to believe +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page359"></a>359</span> +in love: there are many shams: the true love will not +allow you to reason about it.</p> + +<p>It is your fault if I appear so pulpiteering.</p> + +<p>Wishing you well in life and art, and that you may +long be young.—Believe me, yours truly,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Edinburgh</i>] <i>Sunday</i> [<i>June 1882</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="sc">... Note</span> turned up, but no gray opuscule, which, +however, will probably turn up to-morrow in time to go +out with me to Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire, where, if you +can make it out, you will be a good soul to pay a visit. I +shall write again about the opuscule; and about Stobo, +which I have not seen since I was thirteen, though my +memory speaks delightfully of it.</p> + +<p>I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have +written before, <i>inter alia</i>, to tell you that I had visited my +murder place and found <i>living traditions</i> not yet in any +printed book; most startling. I also got photographs +taken, but the negatives have not yet turned up. I lie +on the sofa to write this, whence the pencil; having slept +yesterday—1 + 4 + 7½ = 12½ hours and being (9 <span class="sc">a.m</span>.) +very anxious to sleep again. The arms of Porpus, quoi! +A poppy gules, etc.</p> + +<p>From Stobo you can conquer Peebles and Selkirk, or +to give them their old decent names, Tweeddale and +Ettrick. Think of having been called Tweeddale, and +being called <span class="sc">Peebles</span>! Did I ever tell you my skit on +my own travel books? We understand that Mr. Stevenson +has in the press another volume of unconventional +travels: <i>Personal Adventures in Peeblesshire</i>. Je la trouve +méchante.—Yours affectionately,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + +<p>Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers? +I did, and <i>ça-y-est</i>.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page360"></a>360</span></p> +<p class="to">To Trevor Haddon</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh</i> [<i>June 1882</i>].</p> + +<p><span class="scs">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—I see nothing “cheekie” in anything +you have done. Your letters have naturally given me +much pleasure, for it seems to me you are a pretty good +young fellow, as young fellows go; and if I add that you +remind me of myself, you need not accuse me of retrospective +vanity.</p> + +<p>You now know an address which will always find me; +you might let me have your address in London; I do not +promise anything—for I am always overworked in +London—but I shall, if I can arrange it, try to see you.</p> + +<p>I am afraid I am not so rigid on chastity: you are +probably right in your view; but this seems to me a +dilemma with two horns, the real curse of a man’s life in +our state of society—and a woman’s too, although, for +many reasons, it appears somewhat differently with the +enslaved sex. By your “fate” I believe I meant your +marriage, or that love at least which may befall any one +of us at the shortest notice and overthrow the most +settled habits and opinions. I call that your fate, because +then, if not before, you can no longer hang back, but +must stride out into life and act.—Believe me, yours +sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sc rt">Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + + +<p class="to">To Edmund Gosse</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Mr. Gosse had mistaken the name of the Peeblesshire manse, +and is reproached accordingly. “Gray” is Mr. Gosse’s volume on +that poet in Mr. Morley’s series of <i>English Men of Letters</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt"><i>Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire</i> [<i>July 1882</i>].</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p><span class="sc">I would</span> shoot you, but I have no bow:</p> +<p>The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo.</p> +<p>As Gallic Kids complain of “Bobo,”</p> +<p>I mourn for your mistake of Stobo.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page361"></a>361</span></p> + +<p>First, we shall be gone in September. But if you think +of coming in August, my mother will hunt for you with +pleasure. We should all be overjoyed—though Stobo it +could not be, as it is but a kirk and manse, but possibly +somewhere within reach. Let us know.</p> + +<p>Second, I have read your Gray with care. A more +difficult subject I can scarce fancy; it is crushing; yet +I think you have managed to shadow forth a man, and a +good man too; and honestly, I doubt if I could have +done the same. This may seem egoistic; but you are +not such a fool as to think so. It is the natural expression +of real praise. The book as a whole is readable; your +subject peeps every here and there out of the crannies +like a shy violet—he could do no more—and his aroma +hangs there.</p> + +<p>I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence brevity. +Answer about the house.—Yours affectionately,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<p class="to">To W. E. Henley</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>In the heat of conversation Stevenson was accustomed to invent +any number of fictitious personages, generally Scottish, and to give +them names and to set them playing their imaginary parts in life, +reputable or otherwise. Many of these inventions, including Mr. +Pirbright Smith and Mr. Pegfurth Bannatyne, were a kind of +incarnations of himself, or of special aspects of himself; they +assumed for him and his friends a kind of substantial existence; +and constantly in talk, and occasionally in writing, he would keep +up the play of reporting their sayings and doings quite gravely, as +in the following:—</p> +</div> + +<p class="rt">[<i>Stobo Manse, July 1882.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="scs">DEAR HENLEY</span>,... I am not worth an old damn. I +am also crushed by bad news of Symonds; his good lung +going; I cannot help reading it as a personal hint; God +help us all! Really, I am not very fit for work; but I +try, try, and nothing comes of it.</p> + +<p>I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, +damp, and <i>mauchy</i>; the rain it raineth every day; and +the glass goes tol-de-rol-de-riddle.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page362"></a>362</span></p> + +<p>Yet it’s a bonny bit; I wish I could live in it, but +doubt. I wish I was well away somewhere else. I feel +like flight some days; honour bright.</p> + +<p>Pirbright Smith is well. Old Mr. Pegfurth Bannatyne +is here staying at a country inn. His whole baggage is +a pair of socks and a book in a fishing-basket; and he +borrows even a rod from the landlord. He walked here +over the hills from Sanquhar, “singin’,” he says, “like a +mavis.” I naturally asked him about Hazlitt. “He +wouldnae take his drink,” he said, “a queer, queer fellow.” +But did not seem further communicative. He says he has +become “releegious,” but still swears like a trooper. I +asked him if he had no headquarters. “No likely,” said +he. He says he is writing his memoirs, which will be +interesting. He once met Borrow; they boxed; “and +Geordie,” says the old man chuckling, “gave me the +damnedest hiding.” Of Wordsworth he remarked, “He +wasnae sound in the faith, sir, and a milk-blooded, blue-spectacled +bitch forbye. But his po’mes are grand—there’s +no denying that.” I asked him what his book +was. “I havenae mind,” said he—that was his only +book! On turning it out, I found it was one of my own, +and on showing it to him, he remembered it at once. “O +aye,” he said, “I mind now. It’s pretty bad; ye’ll have +to do better than that, chieldy,” and chuckled, chuckled. +He is a strange old figure, to be sure. He cannot endure +Pirbright Smith—“a mere æsthatic,” he said. “Pooh!” +“Fishin’ and releegion—these are my aysthatics,” he +wound up.</p> + +<p>I thought this would interest you, so scribbled it down. +I still hope to get more out of him about Hazlitt, though +he utterly pooh-poohed the idea of writing H.’s life. “Ma +life now,” he said, “there’s been queer things in <i>it</i>.” He +is seventy-nine! but may well last to a hundred!—Yours +ever,</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_28" href="#FnAnchor_28"><span class="fn">28</span></a> In San Francisco.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_29" href="#FnAnchor_29"><span class="fn">29</span></a> “The whole front of the house was lighted, and there were pipes +and fiddles, and as much dancing and deray within as used to be in +Sir Robert’s house at Pace and Yule, and such high seasons.”—See +<i>Wandering Willie’s Tale</i> in <i>Redgauntlet</i>, borrowed perhaps from +<i>Christ’s Kirk of the Green</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_30" href="#FnAnchor_30"><span class="fn">30</span></a> The Davoser Landwasser.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_31" href="#FnAnchor_31"><span class="fn">31</span></a> In architecture, a series of piles to defend the pier of a bridge.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_32" href="#FnAnchor_32"><span class="fn">32</span></a> The translator of Sophocles in Bohn’s Classics.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_33" href="#FnAnchor_33"><span class="fn">33</span></a> Anne Killigrew.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_34" href="#FnAnchor_34"><span class="fn">34</span></a> Gentleman’s library.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_35" href="#FnAnchor_35"><span class="fn">35</span></a> <i>i.e.</i> breathed in, inhaled: a rare but legitimate use of the +word.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_36" href="#FnAnchor_36"><span class="fn">36</span></a> <i>Parliament House.</i></p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_37" href="#FnAnchor_37"><span class="fn">37</span></a></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p>“He knew the rocks where angels haunt,</p> +<p class="i05">Upon the mountains visitant.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="rt">Wordsworth’s <i>Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_38" href="#FnAnchor_38"><span class="fn">38</span></a> Mr. Hamerton had been an unsuccessful candidate for the +Professorship of Fine Art at Edinburgh University.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_39" href="#FnAnchor_39"><span class="fn">39</span></a> The Chalet am Stein (or Chalet Buol) at Davos.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_40" href="#FnAnchor_40"><span class="fn">40</span></a> In the summer of 1870: see above, pp. 24-30, and the essay +<i>Memories of an Islet</i> in <i>Memories and Portraits</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_41" href="#FnAnchor_41"><span class="fn">41</span></a> From Landor’s <i>Gebir</i>: the line refers to Napoleon Bonaparte.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_42" href="#FnAnchor_42"><span class="fn">42</span></a> The Editor’s defence was in the following terms: “That which +you condemn is really the best story now appearing in the paper, +and the impress of an able writer is stamped on every paragraph +of the <i>Treasure Island</i>. You will probably share this opinion when +you have read a little more of it.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_43" href="#FnAnchor_43"><span class="fn">43</span></a> I struggle as hard as I know how against both, but +a judicious postcard would sometimes save me the expense +of the second.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h5>END OF VOL. XXIII.</h5> + +<div style="padding-top: 2em; "> </div> +<hr class="full" /> +<p class="center noind sc" style="font-size: 65%;">Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - +Swanston Edition Vol. 23 (of 25), by Robert Louis Stevenson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF STEVENSON *** + +***** This file should be named 30894-h.htm or 30894-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/8/9/30894/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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