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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/622-0.txt b/622-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e00e7a --- /dev/null +++ b/622-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13170 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his +Family and Friends - Volume 1 [of 2], by Robert Louis Stevenson, Edited by +Sidney Colvin + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his Family and Friends - Volume 1 [of 2] + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: August 25, 2019 [eBook #622] +[This file was first posted on June 30, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** + + +Transcribed from the 1906 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Robert Louis Stevenson] + + + + + + THE LETTERS OF + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS + + + SELECTED AND EDITED WITH + NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS BY + + SIDNEY COLVIN + + VOLUME I + + * * * * * + + LONDON + METHUEN AND CO. + 36 ESSEX STREET + + _Seventh Edition_ + + * * * * * + +_First Published_ _November 1899_ +_Second Edition_ _November 1899_ +_Third Edition_ _April 1900_ +_Fourth Edition_ _November 1900_ +_Fifth Edition_ _January 1901_ +_Sixth Edition_ _October 1902_ +_Seventh Edition_ _December 1906_ + + * * * * * + +IN the present edition, several minor errors and misprints have been +corrected, and three new letters have been printed, one addressed to Mr. +Austin Dobson (vol. i. p. 340), one to Mr. Rudyard Kipling (vol. ii. p. +215), and one to Mr. George Meredith (vol. ii. p. 302). The two former +replace other letters which seemed of less interest; the last is an +addition to the book. + + S. C. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +INTRODUCTION xv–xliv + I + + STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH + TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS +INTRODUCTORY 3 + LETTERS:— + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 15 + To the Same 17 + To the Same 19 + To the Same 20 + To Mrs. Churchill Babington 24 + To Alison Cunningham 26 + To Charles Baxter 27 + To the Same 29 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 30 + To the Same 32 + To the Same 33 + To Thomas Stevenson 36 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 38 + To Charles Baxter 40 + II + + STUDENT DAYS—_continued_ + ORDERED SOUTH +LETTERS:— + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 48 + To Mrs. Sitwell 49 + To the Same 51 + To the Same 53 + To the Same 57 + To the Same 61 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 62 + To Mrs. Sitwell 65 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 67 + To the Same 69 + To Mrs. Sitwell 71 + To the Same 73 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 74 + To Mrs. Sitwell 75 + To the Same 77 + To the Same 79 + To the Same 81 + To the Same 83 + To Sidney Colvin 84 + To Mrs. Sitwell 85 + To Sidney Colvin 87 + To Mrs. Sitwell 88 + To the Same 88 + To the Same 91 + To the Same 92 + To the Same 95 + To the Same 95 + III + + ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR + EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU +LETTERS:— + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 104 + To Mrs. Sitwell 104 + To Sidney Colvin 106 + To Charles Baxter 109 + To Sidney Colvin 110 + To Mrs. Sitwell 111 + To Mrs. de Mattos 112 + To Mrs. Sitwell 114 + To Sidney Colvin 115 + To the Same 115 + To Mrs. Sitwell 116 + To W. E. Henley 117 + To Mrs. Sitwell 118 + To Sidney Colvin 119 + To Mrs. Sitwell 120 + To A. Patchett Martin 121 + To the Same 122 + To Sidney Colvin 124 + To the Same 125 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 126 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 126 + To the Same 127 + To W. E. Henley 128 + To Charles Baxter. 128 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 129 + To W. E. Henley 129 + To Edmund Gosse 130 + To W. E. Henley 132 + To Edmund Gosse 134 + To Sidney Colvin 136 + To Edmund Gosse 136 + IV + + THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT + MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO +LETTERS:— + To Sidney Colvin 144 + To the Same 144 + To W. E. Henley 146 + To Sidney Colvin 147 + To the Same 148 + To the Same 149 + To Edmund Gosse 150 + To W. E. Henley 151 + To the Same 152 + To P. G. Hamerton 155 + To Edmund Gosse 156 + To Sidney Colvin 157 + To Edmund Gosse 158 + To Sidney Colvin 160 + To the Same 162 + To Charles Baxter 164 + To Sidney Colvin 165 + To W. E. Henley 167 + To Sidney Colvin 169 + To Edmund Gosse 169 + To Dr. W. Bamford 170 + To Sidney Colvin 171 + To the Same 171 + To the Same 172 + To C. W. Stoddard 173 + To Sidney Colvin 174 + V + + ALPINE WINTERS + AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS +LETTERS:— + To A. G. Dew-Smith 185 + To Thomas Stevenson 187 + To Edmund Gosse 188 + To the Same 189 + To C. W. Stoddard 191 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 192 + To Sidney Colvin 194 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 195 + To Sidney Colvin 197 + To Horatio F. Brown 199 + To the Same 200 + To the Same 200 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 201 + To Edmund Gosse 202 + To Sidney Colvin 204 + To Professor Æneas Mackay 205 + To the Same 205 + To Edmund Gosse 206 + To the Same 207 + To P. G. Hamerton 208 + To Sidney Colvin 209 + To W. E. Henley 211 + To the Same 212 + To Sidney Colvin 213 + To Dr. Alexander Japp 215 + To Mrs. Sitwell 216 + To Edmund Gosse 217 + To the Same 218 + To the Same 219 + To W. E. Henley 219 + To Dr. Alexander Japp 221 + To W. E. Henley 222 + To Thomas Stevenson 223 + To P. G. Hamerton 224 + To Charles Baxter 226 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 227 + To Alison Cunningham 228 + To Charles Baxter 228 + To W. E. Henley 229 + To the Same 230 + To Alexander Ireland 233 + To Edmund Gosse 235 + To Dr. Alexander Japp 236 + To the Same 236 + To W. E. Henley 238 + To Mrs. T. Stevenson 240 + To Edmund Gosse 241 + To the Same 242 + To W. E. Henley 242 + VI + + MARSEILLES AND HYÈRES +LETTERS:— + To the Editor of the _New York 251 +Tribune_ + To R. A. M. Stevenson 252 + To Thomas Stevenson 253 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 254 + To Charles Baxter 254 + To Alison Cunningham 256 + To W. E. Henley 257 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 261 + To Thomas Stevenson 262 + To Mrs. Sitwell 263 + To Edmund Gosse 265 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 266 + To the Same 267 + To Edmund Gosse 268 + To the Same 269 + To W. E. Henley 270 + To the Same 271 + To the Same 272 + To the Same 273 + To the Same 274 + To Alison Cunningham 275 + To W. E. Henley 277 + To Edmund Gosse 278 + To W. E. Henley 279 + To Edmund Gosse 283 + To Sidney Colvin 284 + To W. H. Low 286 + To R. A. M. Stevenson 288 + To Thomas Stevenson 291 + To W. H. Low 292 + To W. E. Henley 294 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 295 + To Sidney Colvin 296 + To Mrs. Milne 297 + To Miss Ferrier 299 + To W. H. Low 300 + To Thomas Stevenson 301 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 302 + To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 303 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 304 + To Sidney Colvin 305 + To Mr. Dick 308 + To Cosmo Monkhouse 310 + To Edmund Gosse 312 + To Miss Ferrier 313 + To W. H. Low 314 + To Thomas Stevenson 315 + To Cosmo Monkhouse 316 + To W. E. Henley 318 + To Edmund Gosse 319 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 320 + To Sidney Colvin 321 + VII + + LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH +LETTERS:— + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 328 + To W. E. Henley 328 + To the Rev. Professor Lewis Campbell 330 + To Andrew Chatto 331 + To W. H. Low 332 + To Thomas Stevenson 334 + To W. E. Henley 335 + To Thomas Stevenson 335 + To Charles Baxter 337 + To the Same 337 + To Miss Ferrier 338 + To Edmund Gosse 339 + To Austin Dobson 340 + To Henry James 341 + To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson 343 + To W. E. Henley 344 + To the Same 345 + To H. A. Jones 346 + To Sidney Colvin 346 + To Thomas Stevenson 347 + To Sidney Colvin 348 + To the Same 349 + To J. A. Symonds 350 + To Edmund Gosse 352 + To W. H. Low 354 + To P. G. Hamerton 356 + To William Archer 358 + To Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin 359 + To the Same 360 + To W. H. Low 361 + To W. E. Henley 363 + To William Archer 364 + To Thomas Stevenson 367 + To Henry James 368 + To William Archer 369 + To the Same 371 + To W. H. Low 374 + + _Frontispiece_—PORTRAIT OF R. L. STEVENSON, _æt._ 35 + _From a photograph by_ Mr. LLOYD OSBOURNE + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +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 the request that it +should be opened after his death. He recovered, as every one knows, and +had strength enough to enjoy six years more of active life and work in +the Pacific Islands. When the end came, and the paper was opened, it was +found to contain, among other things, the expression of his wish that I +should be asked to prepare for publication ‘a selection of his letters +and a sketch of his life.’ The journal letters written to myself from +his Samoan home, subsequently to the date of the request, offered the +readiest material towards fulfilling promptly a part at least of the duty +thus laid upon me; and a selection from these was accordingly published +in the autumn following his death. {xv} + +The scanty leisure of an official life (chiefly employed as it was for +several years in seeing my friend’s collected and posthumous works +through the press) did not allow me to complete the remainder of my task +without considerable delay. For one thing, the body of correspondence +which came in from various quarters turned out much larger than had been +anticipated, and the labour of sifting and arranging it much greater. +The author of _Treasure Island_ and _Across the Plains_ and _Weir of +Hermiston_ 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 even come to be an accepted view among his friends; but +in truth it was only during one particular period of his life (see below, +vol. i. p. 103) that he at all deserved such a reproach. At other times, +as is now apparent, he had shown a degree of industry and spirit in +letter-writing extraordinary considering his health and occupations, and +especially considering his declared aversion for the task. His letters, +it is true, were often the most 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 for every +one here included some half-a-dozen at least have had to be rejected. + +In considering the scale and plan on which my friend’s instruction should +be carried out, it seemed necessary to take into account, not his own +always modest opinion of himself, but the place which, as time went on, +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; one especially has struck +notes which appeal to dominant fibres in our Anglo-Saxon stock with +irresistible force; 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 fashions of the few; it is rather to universal, hereditary instincts, +to the primitive sources of imaginative excitement and entertainment in +the race. + +By virtue, then, of this double appeal of form and matter; by his +especial hold upon the young, in whose spirit so much of his best work +was done; by his undecaying influence on other writers; by the spell +which he still exercises from the grave, and exercises most strongly on +those who are most familiar with the best company whether of the living +or the dead, Stevenson’s name and memory, so far as can be judged at +present, seem destined not to dwindle, but to grow. The voice of the +_advocatus diaboli_ 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—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 perfectly; 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 Suicide Club, or the airy sentimental comedy of +Providence and the Guitar, or the schoolboy historical inventions of +Dickon Crookback and the old sailor Arblaster, a writer of his quality +cannot 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. + +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, +surely, 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. + + ‘He loved of life the myriad sides, + Pain, prayer, or pleasure, act or sleep, + As wallowing narwhals love the deep’— + +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 moods, impressions, experiences or +cravings after experience, pains, pleasures, opinions 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 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 _him_; 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 of current usages might have +been better for him, but was simply not in his nature. ‘Damp gingerbread +puppets’ were to him the persons who lived and thought and felt and acted +only as was expected of them. ‘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?’ 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; {xxi} but the part was always for the +moment his very own: he had it not in him to pose for anything but what +he truly was. + +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 strongly personal to +himself. He may try his hand in youth at a Sentimental Journey, 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 _Markheim_ and _Jekyll and +Hyde_ are from the _Murders in the Rue Morgue_ or _William Wilson_. 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 the +brave for those of Sir Walter Scott; but literature presents few stronger +contrasts than between any scene of _Waverley_ or _Redgauntlet_ and any +scene of the _Master of Ballantrae_ or _Catriona_, 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 _Waverley_—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 poet who has his own outlook on life, his own special and +profitable vein of smiling or satirical contemplation. + +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 happily inventing and soundly constructing a whole +fable comparable to his unquestionable 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, large, spontaneous breath of creation, or are but transitorily +animated at critical and happy moments by flashes of spiritual and +dramatic insight, aided by the conscious devices of his singularly adroit +and spirited art? This is a question which no criticism but that of time +can solve; it takes the consenting instinct of generations to feel +whether the creatures of fiction, however powerfully they may strike at +first, are durably and equably, or ephemerally and fitfully, alive. 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. + +Once more, it may be questioned whether, among the many varieties of work +which Stevenson has left, all touched with genius, all charming and +stimulating to the literary sense, 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; unsurpassed 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, 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. + +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 public +regard, the words ‘selection’ and ‘sketch’ have evidently to be given a +pretty liberal interpretation. Readers, it must be supposed, will scarce +be content without both a fairly full biography, and the opportunity of a +fairly ample intercourse with the man as he was accustomed to reveal +himself in writing to his familiars. As to form—Stevenson’s own words +and the nature of the material alike seem to indicate that the _Life_ and +the _Letters_ should be kept separate. There are some kinds of +correspondence which can conveniently be woven into the body and texture +of a biography, though indeed I think it is a plan to which biographers +are much too partial. Nothing, surely, more checks the flow of a +narrative than its interruption by stationary blocks of correspondence; +nothing more disconcerts the reader than a too frequent or too abrupt +alternation of voices between the subject of a biography speaking in his +letters and the writer of it speaking in his narrative. At least it is +only when letters are occupied, as Macaulay’s for instance were, almost +entirely with facts and events, that they can without difficulty be +handled in this way. But events and facts, ‘sordid facts,’ as he called +them, were not very often suffered to intrude into Stevenson’s +correspondence. ‘I deny,’ he writes, ‘that letters should contain news +(I mean mine; those of other people should). But mine should contain +appropriate sentiments and humorous nonsense, or nonsense without the +humour.’ Business letters, letters of information, and letters of +courtesy he had sometimes to write: but when he wrote best was under the +influence of the affection or impression, or the mere whim or mood, 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. + +With a letter-writer of this character, as it seems to me, a judicious +reader desires to be left as much alone as possible. What he wants is to +relish the correspondence by itself, or with only just so much in the way +of notes and introductions as may serve to make allusions and situations +clear. Two volumes, then, of letters so edited, to be preceded by a +separate introductory volume of narrative and critical memoir, or +_étude_—such was to be the memorial to my friend which I had planned, and +hoped by this time to have ready. Unfortunately, the needful leisure has +hitherto failed me, and might fail me for some time yet, to complete the +separate volume of biography. That is now, at the wish of the family, to +be undertaken by Stevenson’s cousin and my friend, Mr. Graham Balfour. +Meanwhile the _Letters_, with introductions and notes somewhat extended +from the original plan, are herewith presented as a substantive work by +themselves. + +The book will enable those who know and love their Stevenson already to +know him more intimately, and, as I hope, to love him more. It contains, +certainly, much that is most essentially characteristic of the man. To +some, perhaps, that very lack of art as a correspondent of which we have +found him above accusing himself may give the reading an added charm and +flavour. What he could do as an artist we know—what a telling power and +heightened thrill he could give to all his effects, in so many different +modes of expression and composition, by calculated skill and the +deliberate exercise of a perfectly trained faculty. This is the quality +which nobody denies him, and which so deeply impressed his +fellow-craftsmen of all kinds. I remember the late 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.’ Now 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 will write with the most +distinguished elegance on one day, with simple good sense and good +feeling on a second, with flat triviality on another, and with the most +slashing, often ultra-colloquial, vehemence on a fourth, or will vary +through all these moods and more in one and the same letter. 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. Passages or phrases of the craziest +schoolboy or seafaring slang come tumbling after and capping others of +classical cadence and purity, of poetical and heartfelt eloquence. By +this medley of moods and manners, Stevenson’s letters at their best—the +pick, let us say, of those in the following volumes which were written +from Hyères or Bournemouth—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 this genial +spirit rose to his very best. Those whom his writings charm or impress, +but who never knew him, can but imagine how doubly they would have been +charmed and impressed by his presence. Few men probably, certainly none +that I have ever seen or read of, have had about them such a richness and +variety of human nature; and few can ever have been better gifted than 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. _Divers et ondoyant_, +in the words of Montaigne, beyond other men, he seemed to contain within +himself a whole troop of singularly assorted characters—the poet and +artist, the moralist and preacher, the humourist and jester, the man of +great heart and tender conscience, the man of eager appetite and +curiosity, the Bohemian, impatient of restraints and shams, the +adventurer and lover of travel and of action: characters, several of +them, not rare separately, especially among his Scottish +fellow-countrymen, but rare indeed to be found united, and each in such +fulness and intensity, within the bounds of a single personality. + +Before all things Stevenson was 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 art. It was his birthright— + + ‘to hear + The great bell beating far and near— + The odd, unknown, enchanted gong + That on the road hales men along, + That from the mountain calls afar, + That lures the vessel from a star, + And with a still, aerial sound + Makes all the earth enchanted ground.’ + +At the same time, he was not less a born preacher and moralist after his +fashion. A true son of the Covenanters, he had about him 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 +youth his sense of social injustice and the inequalities of human +opportunity made 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. {xxx} 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 poet and 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. + +In another aspect of his many-sided being Stevenson was not less a born +adventurer and practical experimentalist in life. Many poets are content +to dream, and many, perhaps most, moralists to preach; but 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 even 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 loved to find himself in difficult +social passes and ethical dilemmas for the sake of trying to 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 St. Martin. Another time—this was on his way to a +winter cure at Davos—some friend had given him General Hamley’s +_Operations of War_:—‘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.’ +In so frail a tabernacle was it that the aspirations of the artist, the +unconventional moralist, the lover of all experience, and the lover of +daring action had to learn to reconcile themselves as best they might. +Frail as it was, it contained withal a strong animal nature, and he was +as much exposed to the storms and solicitations of sense as to the +cravings and questionings of the spirit. 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 perfectly warm, loyal, and tender 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. + +To take this multiple personality from another point of view, it was part +of his genius 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 had to say with St. Augustine, ‘Behold! my +childhood is dead, but I am alive.’ The child, as his _Garden of Verses_ +vividly attests, and as will be seen by abundant evidence in the course +of the following pages, 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, _Treasure Island_; with all boys that he met, provided they +were really boys and not prigs nor puppies, he was instantly at home; and +the ideal of a career which he most inwardly and longingly cherished, the +ideals of practical adventure and romance, of desirable predicaments and +gratifying modes of escape from them, were from first to last those of a +boy. At the same time, even when I first knew him, there were about him +occasional traits and glimpses of old sagacity, of premature life-wisdom +and experience, such as find expression, for instance, in the essay +_Virginibus Puerisque_, among other matter more according with his then +age of twenty-six. + +Again, it is said that in every poet there must be something of the +woman—the receptivity, the emotional nature. If to be impressionable in +the extreme, 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 _ἀρτίδακρυς_, +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 all his habits and +instincts he was the least effeminate of men; and effeminacy, or aught +approaching sexlessness, was perhaps the only quality in man with which +he had no patience. In his gentle and complying nature there were +strains of iron tenacity and will. 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 cheerful self-discipline and 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. His great +countryman Scott, as this book will prove, was not more manfully free +from artistic jealousy or the least shade of irritability under +criticism, or more modestly and unfeignedly inclined to exaggerate the +qualities of other people’s work and to underrate those of his own. His +severest critic was always himself; the next most severe, those of his +own household and intimacy, whose love made them jealous lest he should +fall short of his best; for he lived in an atmosphere of love, indeed, +but not of flattery. 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. _P.S._ 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. Nor is any such want to be +found in the practice which he founded on or combined with it; in his +invincible gaiety and sweetness under sufferings and deprivations the +most galling to him; in the temper which made his presence in health or +sickness a perpetual sunshine to those about him. Take the kind of +maxims of life which he was accustomed to forge for himself and to act +by:—‘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.’ ‘Nullity wanted nothing; so he supposed he wanted advice.’ ‘Evil +was called Youth till he was old, and then he was called Habit.’ ‘Fear +kept the house; and still he must pay taxes.’ ‘Shame had a fine bed, but +where was slumber? Once he was in jail he slept.’ With this moralist +maxims meant actions; and where shall we easily find a much manlier +spirit of wisdom than this? + +There was yet another and very different side to Stevenson which struck +others more than it struck myself, namely, that of the perfectly +freakish, not perfectly human, 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. In the streets of Edinburgh he had certainly been known +for queer pranks and mystifications in youth; and up to middle life there +seemed to some of his friends to be much, if not of the Puck, at least of +the Ariel, about him. 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. + +It was only in talk, as I have said, that all the many lights and colours +of this richly compounded spirit could be seen in full play. He would +begin no matter how—in early days often with a jest at his own absurd +garments, or with the recitation, in his vibrating voice and full Scotch +accent, of some snatch of poetry that was haunting him, or with a +rhapsody of analytic delight over some minute accident of beauty or +expressiveness that had struck his observation, and would have escaped +that of everybody else, 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, differentiated, and launched on their +imaginary careers; a hundred ingenious problems of conduct and cases of +honour would be set and solved, in a manner often quite opposed to +conventional precept; romantic voyages would be planned and followed out +in vision, with a thousand incidents, to all the corners of our own +planet and of others; the possibilities of life and art would be +illuminated with glancing search-lights of bewildering range and +penetration, the most sober argument alternating with the maddest freaks +of fancy, high poetic eloquence 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 dominate the talk or absorb it; rather he helped every +one about him to discover and to exercise unexpected powers of their own. +The point could hardly be better brought out than it is in a fragment +which I borrow from Mr. Henley of an unpublished character-sketch of his +friend: ‘I leave his praise in this direction (the telling of Scottish +vernacular stories) to others. It is more to my purpose to note that he +will discourse with you of morals, music, marbles, men, manners, +metaphysics, medicine, mangold-wurzel—_que scays-je_?—with equal insight +into essentials and equal pregnancy and felicity of utterance; and that +he will stop with you to make mud pies in the first gutter, range in your +company whatever heights of thought and feeling you have found +accessible, and end by guiding you to altitudes far nearer the stars than +you have ever dreamed of footing it; and that at the last he makes you +wonder which to admire the more—his easy familiarity with the Eternal +Veracities or the brilliant flashes of imbecility with which his +excursions into the Infinite are sometimes diversified. He radiates +talk, as the sun does light and heat; and after an evening—or a week—with +him, you come forth with a sense of satisfaction in your own capacity +which somehow proves superior even to the inevitable conclusion that your +brilliance was but the reflection of his own, and that all the while you +were only playing the part of Rubinstein’s piano or Sarasate’s violin.’ + +All this the reader should imagine as helped by the most speaking of +presences: a steady, penetrating fire in the wide-set eyes, a compelling +power and sweetness 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. When I first knew him he was passing through a +period of neatness between two of Bohemian carelessness as to dress; so +that the effect of his charm was immediate. At other times of his youth +there was something for strangers, and even for friends, to get over in +the odd garments which 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. For the rest, his human charm was the same for all kinds of +people, without the least 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 common seaman, the shepherd, the street arab, +or the tramp. Even in the imposed silence and restraint of extreme +sickness the magnetic power and attraction of the man made itself felt, +and there seemed to be more vitality and fire of the spirit in him as he +lay exhausted and speechless in bed than in an ordinary roomful of people +in health. + +But I have strayed from my purpose, which is 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 never be taken down, +and has left only an ineffaceable impression in the memory of his +friends. The letters, it should be added, do not represent him at all +fully until about the thirtieth year of his age, the beginning of the +settled and married period of his life. From then onwards, and +especially from the beginning of Part VI. (the Hyères period), they +present a pretty full and complete autobiography, if not of doings, at +any rate of moods and feelings. In the earlier periods, his +correspondence for the most part expresses his real self either too +little or else one-sidedly. I have omitted very many letters of his +boyish and student days as being too immature or uninteresting; and many +of the confidences and confessions of his later youth, though they are +those of a beautiful spirit, whether as too intimate, or as giving a +disproportionate prominence to passing troubles. When he is found in +these days writing in a melancholy or minor key, it must be remembered +that at the same moment, in direct intercourse with any friend, his +spirits would instantly rise, and he would be found the gayest of +laughing companions. Very many letters or snatches of letters of nearly +all dates to his familiars have also been omitted as not intelligible +without a knowledge of the current jests, codes, and catchwords of +conversation between him and them. At one very interesting period of his +life, from about his twenty-fifth to his twenty-ninth year, he disused +the habit of letter-writing almost entirely. + +In choosing from among what remained 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 next to nothing had to be +suppressed from fear of giving pain. 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 on his first Pacific +voyage (see below, vol. ii. p. 121). + +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 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 a proportionate picture of +the man, so 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 +‘Ordered South,’ 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 quite 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 very +greatly cut down such bulletins, but could not manage to omit them +altogether. Generally speaking, I have used the editorial privilege of +omission without scruple where I thought it desirable. And in regard to +the text, I have not held myself bound to reproduce all the author’s +minor eccentricities of spelling and the like. As all his friends are +aware, to spell in a quite accurate and grown-up manner was a thing which +this master of English letters was never able to learn; but to reproduce +such trivial slips in print is, I think, to distract the reader’s +attention from the main matter. A normal orthography has therefore been +adopted throughout. + +Lastly, I have to express my thanks to my friend Mr. George Smith, +proprietor of the _Dictionary of National Biography_, for permission to +reprint in this and in following sectional introductions a few paragraphs +from that work. + + S. C. + +_August_ 1899. + + + + +I +STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH +TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS +1868–1873 + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +THE 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 few worth giving by way of an opening chapter to the present +book. Among them are interspersed one or two of a different character +addressed to other correspondents. + +But, first, it is desirable that readers not acquainted with the +circumstances and conditions of Stevenson’s parentage and early life +should be here, as briefly as possible, informed of them. On both sides +of the house he came of capable and cultivated stock. His grandfather +was Robert Stevenson, civil 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 singularly interesting 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. + +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 ‘The Manse’) 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 _Holy Fair_, 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 may have inherited from her some of +his constitutional weakness as well as of his social and intellectual +vivacity and his taste for letters. Robert Louis (baptized Robert Lewis +Balfour) Stevenson was born on November 13, 1850, at 8 Howard Place, +Edinburgh, and was the only child of his parents. His health was infirm +from the first, and he was with difficulty kept alive by the combined +care of a capable and watchful mother and a perfectly 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. In +January 1853 his parents moved to 1 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 his time was also spent in +the manse of Colinton on the Water of Leith, the home of his maternal +grandfather. Of this place his childish recollections were happy and +idyllic, while those of city life were coloured rather by impressions of +sickness, fever, and nocturnal terrors. If, however, he suffered much as +a child from the distresses, he also enjoyed to the full the pleasures, +of imagination. Illness confined him much within the house, but +imagination kept him always content and busy. In the days of the Crimean +war some one gave the child a cheap toy sword; and when his father +depreciated it, he said, ‘I tell you, the sword is of gold, and the +sheath of silver, and the boy is very well off and quite contented.’ As +disabilities closed in on him in after life, he would never grumble at +any gift, however niggardly, of fortune, and the anecdote is as +characteristic of the man as of the child. He was eager and full of +invention in every kind of play, whether solitary or sociable, and seems +to have been treated as something of a small, sickly prince among a whole +cousinhood of playmates of both the Balfour and the Stevenson +connections. He was also a greedy reader, or rather listener to reading; +for it was not until his eighth year that he began to read easily or +habitually to himself. He has recorded how his first conscious +impression of pleasure from the sound and cadence of words was received +from certain passages in M‘Cheyne’s hymns as recited to him by his nurse. +Bible stories, the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, and Mayne Reid’s tales were +especially, and it would seem equally, his delight. He began early to +take pleasure in attempts at composition of his own. A history of Moses, +dictated in his sixth year, and an account of travels in Perth, in his +ninth, are still extant. 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 intervals +for some time after the autumn of 1861) the Edinburgh Academy. One of +his tutors at the former school writes: ‘He was the most delightful boy I +ever knew; full of fun, full of tender feeling, ready for his lessons, +ready for a story, ready for fun.’ From very early days, both as child +and boy, he must have had something of that power to charm which +distinguished him above other men in after life. ‘I loike that +bo-o-o-o-y,’ a heavy Dutchman was heard saying to himself over and over +again, whom at the age of about thirteen he had held in amused +conversation during a whole passage from Ostend. The same quality, with +the signs which he always showed of quick natural intelligence when he +chose to learn, must have helped to spare him many punishments from +teachers which he earned by persistent and ingenious truantry. ‘I +think,’ remarks his mother, ‘they liked talking to him better than +teaching him.’ + +For a few months in the autumn of 1863, when his parents had been ordered +to winter at 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 that day forward he never +ceased to love, and for which the longing, amid the gloom of Edinburgh +winters, often afterwards gripped him by the heart. + + _Spring Grove School_, 12_th_ _November_ 1863. + +MA CHERE MAMAN,—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’ll est possible. I hope you will +find your 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. + +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. + + R. STEVENSON. + + 2 _Sulyarde Terrace_, _Torquay_, _Thursday_ (_April_ 1866). + +RESPECTED PATERNAL RELATIVE,—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. + +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. + +Does not this deserve remuneration? + +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. + +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, + + R. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Wick_, _Friday_, _September_ 11, 1868. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—. . . Wick lies at the end or elbow of an open triangular +bay, hemmed on either side 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. + +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, _black_ southerly wind, with occasional rising showers of rain; +it was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of it. + +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. + +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. + +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 _always_ +drunk, simply and truthfully always. From morning to evening the great +villainous-looking 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. + +An _émeute_ 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. + +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 _me_. + +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. + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Wick_, September 5, 1868. _Monday_. + +MY DEAR MAMMA,—This morning I got a delightful haul: your letter of the +fourth (surely mis-dated); Papa’s of same day; Virgil’s _Bucolics_, very +thankfully received; and Aikman’s _Annals_, {17} 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. + +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. + +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— + + ‘Carve or discourse; do not a famine fear. + Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.’ + +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. + +Do you remember condemning something of mine for being too obtrusively +didactic. Listen to Herbert— + + ‘Is it not verse except enchanted groves + And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? + Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves? + _Must all be veiled_, _while he that reads divines_ + _Catching the sense at two removes_?’ + +You see, ‘except’ was used for ‘unless’ before 1630. + + * * * * * + +_Tuesday_.—The riots were a hum. No more has been heard; and one of the +war-steamers has deserted in disgust. + +The _Moonstone_ 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. + +I thought to have gone on to Thurso to-night, but the coach was full; so +I go to-morrow instead. + +To-day I had a grouse: great glorification. + +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 P.M. to +half-past one. At last I opened my door. ‘Are we to have no sleep at +all for that _drunken brute_?’ 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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Wick_, _September_ 1868. _Saturday_, 10 A.M. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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 _shoot_ with +considerable _éclat_; but, wonderful to relate! I kept well. My hands +are all skinned, blistered, discoloured, and 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 +_its_ being so stiff and _your_ 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. + +You see, I have been roughing it; and though some parts of the letter may +be neither very comprehensible nor very interesting to _you_, I think +that perhaps it might amuse Willie Traquair, who delights in all such +dirty jobs. + +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. + +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. + +We have got double weights at the guys, and hope to get it up like a +shot. + +What fun you three must be having! I hope the cold don’t disagree with +you.—I remain, my dear mother, your affectionate son, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Pulteney_, _Wick_, _Sunday_, _September_ 1868. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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. + +Last week has been a blank one: always too much sea. + +I enjoyed myself very much last night at the R.’s. There was a little +dancing, much singing and supper. + +Are you not well that you do not write? I haven’t heard from you for +more than a fortnight. + +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 Cummie 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 M— if he’s +disengaged, to the R.’s if not. + + * * * * * + +_Sunday_ (_later_).—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. + +Seven P.M. 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? + +Dramatis personæ: père R., amusing, long-winded, in many points like +papa; mère R., nice, delicate, likes hymns, knew Aunt Margaret (’t’ould +man knew Uncle Alan); fille R., nommée Sara (no h), rather nice, lights +up well, good voice, _interested_ face; Miss L., nice also, washed out a +little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils R., 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.’ _Cest la mère qui parle_. + +I was back there again to-night. There was hymn-singing, and general +religious controversy till eight, after which talk was secular. Mrs. S. +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. + +I have done with frivolity. This morning I was awakened by Mrs. S. 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. + + [Picture: Diagram] + +C D is the new pier. + +A the schooner ashore. B the salmon house. + +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 with wood: skipper owner of vessel and cargo bottom out. + +I was in a great fright at first lest we should be liable; but it seems +that’s all right. + +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. + +I am so sleepy I am writing nonsense. + +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:— + + ‘But yet the Lord that is on high + Is more of might by far + Than noise of many waters is + Or great sea-billows are.’ + +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. + + * * * * * + +_Monday_.—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 ne sait pas +encore_. 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 spales 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 _quail_ as a huge roller +thundered on the work at the last year’s cross wall. + +How could _noster amicus Q. maximus_ appreciate a storm at Wick? It +requires a little of the artistic temperament, of which Mr. T. S., {24} +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. + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. CHURCHILL BABINGTON + + + [_Swanston Cottage_, _Lothianburn_, _Summer_ 1871.] + +MY DEAR MAUD,—If you have forgotten the hand-writing—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. + +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—_one_ p or _two_?) and pretty. All the same, we have been having +shocking weather—cold winds and grey skies. + +I have been reading heaps of nice books; but I can’t go back so far. I +am reading Clarendon’s _Hist. Rebell._ 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 _thought_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, 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. + +I think this letter has turned into a sermon, but I had nothing +interesting to talk about. + +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. _Do_ reconsider +it.—Believe me, my dear Maud, ever your most affectionate cousin, + + LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + 1871? + +MY DEAR CUMMY,—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. 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. + +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, + + LOUIS. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Dunblane_, _Friday_, 5_th_ _March_ 1872. + +MY DEAR BAXTER,—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, _tu-dieu_! 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 _Eclogues_. _Hic corulis mistos inter +consedimus ulmos_, 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 _Messieurs les +Arcadiens_ would roll out those cloying hexameters that sing themselves +in one’s mouth to such a curious lifting chant. + +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 +_iota_ this forenoon, in spite of all my idleness and Guthrie’s lost +paper, which is ever present with me—a horrible phantom. + +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 _shall_ 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 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. + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Dunblane_, _Tuesday_, 9_th_ _April_ 1872. + +MY DEAR BAXTER,—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. _That_ 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 +_Business Letters_: _The affair is in the hands of the Police_.’ Do you +hear _that_, you evildoer? Sending business letters is surely a far more +hateful and slimy degree of wickedness than sending 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. + +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 _Earthly Paradise_; you can get +it for me in Elliot’s for two and tenpence (2s. 10d.) (_business +habits_). Also bring an ounce of honeydew from Wilson’s. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Brussels_, _Thursday_, 25_th July_ 1872. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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. + +We had a very good passage, which we certainly deserved, in compensation +for having to sleep on 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 (_fiat_ +_experimentum in corpore vili_) 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, +_artificial_, 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. + +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 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. + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—The snake was about a yard long, but harmless, and now, he says, +quite tame. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel Landsberg_, _Frankfurt_, _Monday_, 29_th_ _July_ 1872. + +. . . LAST 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 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. + +To-day I got rather a curiosity—_Lieder und Balladen von Robert Burns_, +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! + +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. + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel Landsberg_, _Thursday_, 1_st_ _August_ 1872. + +. . . YESTERDAY 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 +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—_gross +wie das_—had come nearly every day out of Frankfurt to the _Eckenheimer +Wirthschaft_, 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 _Cobie_ (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 +_kloster_, with a considerable slice of the mother’s _geld_. I told them +we had no klosters in Scotland, with a certain feeling of superiority. +No more had they, I was told—‘_Hier ist unser Kloster_!’ 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 _àpropos_ of nothing and with almost defiant conviction, +‘_Er war ein feiner Mann_, _der Herr Doctor_,’ and was answered by +another with ‘_Yaw_, _yaw_, _und trank immer rothen Wein_.’ + +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.—‘_Sie sprechen da +rein_’ (clean), said one; and they all nodded their heads together like +as many mandarins, and repeated _rein_, _so rein_ in chorus. + +Of course we got upon Scotland. The hostess said, ‘_Die Schottländer +trinken gern Schnapps_,’ 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 _hot_ 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 +_‘s ist lange her_, the German version of Auld Lang Syne; so you see, +madame, the finest lyric ever written will make its way out of whatsoever +corner of patois it found its birth in. + + ‘_Meitz Herz ist im Hochland_, _mean Herz ist nicht hier_, + _Mein Herz ist im Hochland im grünen Revier_. + _Im grünen Reviere zu jagen das Reh_; + _Mein Herz ist im Hochland_, _wo immer ich geh_.’ + +I don’t think I need translate that for you. + +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 to fall back again, after these +political interludes, upon Burns, toddy, and the Highlands. + +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. + +_Friday_, _August_ 2, 1872.—In the evening, at the theatre, I had a great +laugh. Lord Allcash in _Fra Diavolo_, with his white hat, red +guide-books, and bad German, was the _pièce-de-résistance_ 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. + +I am just going off to do some German with Simpson.—Your affectionate +son, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Frankfurt_, _Rosengasse_ 13, _August_ 4, 1872. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—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 _shady_, I should be boasting. The people +sit at their doors in shirt-sleeves, smoking as they do in Seven Dials of +a Sunday. + +Last night we went to bed about ten, for the first time _householders_ 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 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, ‘_Hier alles ruht_—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, ‘_Feuer_,—_im Sachsenhausen_, 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 +_carol-ets_, 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. + +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 an awful joke to be living (two would-be advocates, +and one a baronet) in this supremely mean abode. + +The abode is, however, a great improvement on the hotel, and I think we +shall grow quite fond of it.—Ever your affectionate son, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + 13 _Rosengasse_, _Frankfurt_, _Tuesday Morning_, _August_ 1872. + +. . . Last night I was at the theatre and heard _Die Judin_ (_La Juive_), +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 _galère_, 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 _Bierhalle_, and sat +and brooded over a _Schnitt_ (half-glass) for nearly an hour. An opera +is far more _real_ 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 _live_ 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 _flourishous_ aria. + +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 _rez-de-chaussée_: 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 +_Muttersprache_; 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. + +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 _dead porridge_, 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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + (_Rentier_). + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_, _Sunday_, _February_ 2, 1873. + +MY DEAR BAXTER,—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.’ + +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 _damned_ the happiness of +(probably) the only two people who care a damn about you in the world. + +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 a worse than death, in the eyes of my father and +mother, what the _devil_ am I to do? + +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. + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + + +II +STUDENT DAYS—_Continued_ +ORDERED SOUTH +SEPTEMBER 1873-JULY 1875 + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Cockfield Rectory_, _Sudbury_, _Suffolk_, + _Tuesday_, _July_ 28, 1873. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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 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. + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_, + _Saturday_, _September_ 6, 1873. + +I HAVE 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. + +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, _Du +hast Diamanten und_ _Perlen_, 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 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—_Drum ist so wohl mir in der Welt_! 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! + +_Sunday_, 11.20 _a.m._—I wonder what you are doing now?—in church likely, +at the _Te Deum_. 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 _listen_. +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 _Roads_ until I +feel as if I were standing on my head; but I mean _Roads_, and shall do +something to them. + +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. + +_Monday night_.—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 _scuttle_) (?) and a _débris_ of broken pipes 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. + +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. + +These good booksellers of mine have at last got a _Werther_ 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 _Roads_, 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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_, + _Friday_, _September_ 12, 1873. + +. . . I WAS 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 tumbledown 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 _hébété_, 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. + +_Saturday_.—This has been a charming day for me from morning to now (5 +P.M.). 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 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. + +I am, unhappily, off my style, and can do nothing well; indeed, I fear I +have marred _Roads_ 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. + +I have finished _Roads_ 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_Monday_.—I have looked over _Roads_ 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 well? However, it shall go to you, for the +reasons given above. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Edinburgh_, _Tuesday_, _September_ 16, 1873. + +. . . I MUST 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. + +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. + +7.20 _p.m._—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 +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +_Dumfries_, _Friday_.—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 _swish_, 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. + +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 _Adelaïde_. I +have so perfect an idea out of that song! The great Alps, a wonder in +the starlight—the river, strong from the hills, and turbulent, and loudly +audible at night—the country, a scented _Frühlingsgarten_ of orchards and +deep wood where the nightingales 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, _Einst_, _O Wunder_, _einst_, +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. + +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. + +_Saturday_.—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 _Heart of Midlothian_, and the inscription +in its stiff, Jedediah Cleishbotham fashion is not without something +touching. {56} We went up the stream a little further to where two +Covenanters lie buried in an oakwood; 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:— + + ‘We died, their furious rage to stay, + Near to the kirk of Iron-gray.’ + +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 . . . + +_Sunday_.—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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_], _Saturday_, _October_ 4, 1873. + +IT 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 _leaped_ 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. + + * * * * * + +8 _p.m._—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 +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. + +I want to let you see these verses from an _Ode to the Cuckoo_, 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— + + ‘What time the pea puts on the bloom, + Thou fliest the vocal vale, + An annual guest, in other lands + Another spring to hail. + + Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year. + + O could I fly, I’d fly with thee! + We’d make on joyful wing + Our annual visit o’er the globe, + Companions of the spring.’ + +_Sunday_.—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, +_mais j’ai du courage_; I am indefatigable at rewriting and bettering, +and surely that humble quality should get me on a little. + +_Monday_, _October_ 6.—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. + +I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to Portobello, in the +heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing _par rafales_ off the sea (or +‘_en rafales_’ 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 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_], _Tuesday_, _October_ 14, 1873. + +MY 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. + + * * * * * + +_Wednesday_.—I may as well tell you exactly about my health. I am not at +all ill; have quite recovered; only I am what _MM. les médecins_ 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. + +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 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. + + * * * * * + +_Thursday_.—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. + +II.—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 _Le Capitaine Fracasse_ before the dining-room fire. I must +write no more, for I am sleepy after two nights, and to quote my book, +‘_sinon blanches_, _du moins grises_’; and so I must go to bed and +faithfully, hoggishly slumber.—Your faithful + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Mentone_, _November_ 13, 1873. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—The _Place_ is not where I thought; it is about where the +old Post Office was. The Hotel de Londres is no more an hotel. I have +found a charming room in the Hotel 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 _Place_ 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 St. +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 +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.) + +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. + +I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them to-night. +Continue to address Poste Restante. Take care of yourselves. + +This is my birthday, by the way—O, I said that before. Adieu.—Ever your +affectionate son, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Mentone_, _Sunday_, _November_ 1873. + +MY DEAR FRIEND,—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 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. + +_Tuesday_.—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. + +_Thursday_.—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 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 _viâ_ 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, _anything_ rather +than not to keep well. + +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 _ineffable +aurore_. + +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. + +_Friday_.—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 man of seventy: O Medea, kill me, or make me young +again! {67} + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel Mirabeau_, _Mentone_, _Sunday_, _January_ 4, 1874. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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 _déjeûner_ the other day, over the memory of which I lick my +lips in the silent watches. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +Here ends the political sermon of your affectionate (and somewhat +dogmatical) son, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Mentone_, _January_ 7, 1874. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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. + +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 _favori_ 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 _polisson_ 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 +_Mädchen_; which word she repeated with shrill emphasis, as though +fearing that her proposition would be called in question—_Mädchen_, +_Mädchen_, _Mädchen_, _Mädchen_. 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 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. + +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. + +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 _polisson_, which is beautifully out of +place. + + * * * * * + +_Saturday_, 10_th_ _January_.—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. + +O—I have not told you that Colvin is gone; however, he is coming back +again; he has left clothes in pawn to me.—Ever your affectionate son, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Mentone_, _Tuesday_, 13_th_ _January_ 1874. + +. . . I LOST 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. + +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 _horridly_; 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, 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! + +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. + + * * * * * + +_Wednesday_, 10.30.—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. + +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; she is drawn through her sobs into the air; and in +a moment there is Nelly singing, with the glad look that comes into her +face always when she sings, and all the tears and pain forgotten. + +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! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Mentone_, _January_ 1874.] + +. . . LAST 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 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. + + * * * * * + +_Friday_.—You have not yet heard of my book?—_Four Great Scotsmen_—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. _Voilà_, _madame_, _le menu_. _Comment le trouvez-vous_? _Il y +a_ _de la bonne viando_, _si on parvient à la cuire convenablement_. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Mentone_, _March_ 28, 1874.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—Beautiful weather, perfect weather; sun, pleasant cooling +winds; health very good; only incapacity to write. + +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 _my_ 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, 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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Swanston_], _May_ 1874, _Monday_. + +WE are now at Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. The garden is +but little clothed yet, for, you 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. + + * * * * * + +_Evening_.—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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +_Wednesday_.—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 +_Ordered South_. ‘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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Swanston_, _Wednesday_, _May_ 1874. + +STRUGGLING away at _Fables in Song_. 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 _impossible_. + +_Thursday_.—I feel happier about the _Fables_, 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 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. + +_Saturday_.—I have received such a nice long letter (four sides) from +Leslie Stephen to-day about my Victor Hugo. 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, partly, +perhaps, because I have just finished some of the deedest rubbish about +Lord Lytton’s fables 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. + +_Tuesday_.—Another 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 files 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 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. + + * * * * * + +_Saturday_.—I have been two days in Edinburgh, and so had not the +occasion to write to you. Morley has accepted the _Fables_, 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. + +Try, by way of change, Byron’s _Mazeppa_; 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.—Ever +your faithful friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Train between Edinburgh and Chester_, _August_ 8, 1874. + +MY 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. + +_Chester_.—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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +_Barmouth_, _August_ 9_th_.—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 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 _very_ 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 litterature (which word, note here, I do not spell +correctly). Good-night, and here’s the verger’s health! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Swanston_, _Wednesday_, [_Autumn_] 1874. + +I HAVE 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 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, _ad infinitum_, 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. + +My first John Knox 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 _Tentation de St. Antoine_; 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 with my +present statement, that it’s the finest thing I ever read! Of course, it +isn’t that, it’s full of _longueurs_, and is not quite ‘redd up,’ as we +say in Scotland, not quite articulated; but there are splendid things in +it. + +I say, _do_ take your maccaroni with oil: _do_, _please_. It’s _beastly_ +with butter.—Ever your faithful friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_], _December_ 23, 1874. + +_Monday_.—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 _can_ +skate a little bit; and what one can do is always pleasant to do. + +_Tuesday_.—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. + +_Wednesday_.—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. + +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. + +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. + +_Thursday_.—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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + 17 _Heriot Road_, _Edinburgh_ [_January_ 1875]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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. + +9 P.M., slept all afternoon like a lamb. + +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 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. + +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 _When the Devil +was well_: 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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Edinburgh_, _Tuesday_ [_February_ 1875]. + +I GOT your nice long gossiping letter to-day—I mean by that that there +was more news in it than usual—and 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. + +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. + +_Thursday_.—I have been still in the house since I wrote, and I _have_ +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 _A Country Dance_; 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. + +_Saturday_.—Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down here to lecture, +called on me and took me up to see a poor fellow, a 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 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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _February_ 8, 1875. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Forgive my bothering you. Here is the proof of my second +_Knox_. 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. + +No, I can write no article just now; I am _pioching_, 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) _comme le mineur enfoui sous un +éboulement_. + +_J’y parviendrai_, _nom de nom de nom_! But it’s a long look +forward.—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Barbizon_, _April_ 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND,—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 + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_, _Sunday_ [_April_ 1875]. + +HERE 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. + +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 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. + +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 _her_,’ 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. + +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. + +Poor little boy! he was not called for, I learn, until ten this morning. +This is very ill written, and I’ve missed 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. + + * * * * * + +_Monday_.—I have written nothing all morning; I cannot settle to it. +Yes—I _will_ though. + + * * * * * + +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 _women_, 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. + +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 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! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Swanston_, _Tuesday_, _April_ 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND,—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. + +What do you think of Henley’s hospital verses? They were to have been +dedicated to me, but Stephen wouldn’t allow it—said it would be +pretentious. + +_Wednesday_.—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 +coamplicated.’—Ever your faithful + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_, _Saturday_, _April_ 1875.] + +I AM 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.—_À demain_. + + * * * * * + +_Sunday_.—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 one; _mail il faut lutter_. 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 MAN HAPPY! 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 + + * * * * * + + R. L. S. + +_Wednesday_.—I am so played out with a cold in my eye that I cannot see +to write or read without difficulty. It is swollen _horrible_; 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. + + * * * * * + +_Sunday_.—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 + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_Wednesday_.—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. + +I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new 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 + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_, _June_ 1875.] + +SIMPLY a scratch. All right, jolly, well, and through with the +difficulty. My father pleased about the Burns. 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 _funeste_ experience. I wonder if a fruiterer from some +place else—say Worcestershire—would offer the same phenomena? insoluble +doubt. + + R. L. S. + +_Later_.—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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Swanston_. _End of June_, 1875. + +_Thursday_.—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. + + * * * * * + +_Saturday_—_no_, _Sunday_, 12.45.—Just been—not grinding, alas!—I +couldn’t—but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. 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 Fontainebleau 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. + + * * * * * + +_Sunday_.—I’ve been to church, and am not depressed—a great step. I was +at that beautiful church my _petit poëme en prose_ 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 grave-stones. +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 + + R. L. S. + + + + +III +ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR +EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU +JULY 1875-JULY 1879 + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Chez Siron_, _Barbizon_, _Seine et Marne_, _August_ 1875.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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. + +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. + +Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet as we +did. + +Why don’t you write? I have no more to say.—Ever your affectionate son, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Château Renard_, _Loiret_, _August_ 1875. + +. . . I HAVE 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. + + Far have you come, my lady, from the town, + And far from all your sorrows, if you please, + To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, + And in green meadows lay your body down. + + To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, + Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; + Far have you come, my lady, from the town, + And far from all your sorrows, if you please. + + Here in this seaboard land of old renown, + In meadow grass go wading to the knees; + Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; + There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; + Far have you come, my lady, from the town. + + _Nous n’irons plus au bois_. + + We’ll walk the woods no more, + But stay beside the fire, + To weep for old desire + And things that are no more. + The woods are spoiled and hoar, + The ways are full of mire; + We’ll walk the woods no more, + But stay beside the fire. + We loved, in days of yore, + Love, laughter, and the lyre. + Ah God, but death is dire, + And death is at the door— + We’ll walk the woods no more. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Edinburgh_, [_Autumn_] 1875. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Thanks for your letter and news. No—my _Burns_ 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 _Burns_ in a column or two. O +golly, I say, you know, it _can’t_ be done at the money. All the more as +I’m going to write a book about it. _Ramsay_, _Fergusson_, _and Burns_: +_an Essay_ (or _a critical essay_? 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 +_could_ 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. + +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); and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a very essential part of +my _Ramsay-Fergusson-Burns_; 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 500,00 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. _Ah nom de dieu_! What +do you think of all this? will it paddle, think you? + +I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried. + +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 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 _Life of Johnson_, Martin’s _History of France_, _Allan +Ramsay_, _Olivier Bosselin_, all sorts of rubbish, _àpropos_ of _Burns_, +_Commines_, _Juvénal des Ursins_, 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. + +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 +_Spring_ or _Béranger_, 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Edinburgh_, _October_ 1875.] + + NOO lyart leaves blaw ower the green, + Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean, + An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’, + To pass the winter. + Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in, + An’ snaws ahint her. + + I’ve seen’s hae days to fricht us a’, + The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw, + The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw, + An’ half-congealin’, + The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw + Frae blae Brunteelan’. + + I’ve seen’s been unco sweir to sally, + And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally, + Seen’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally + For near a minute— + Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley, + The deil was in it!— + + Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate, + In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t! + The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate, + Wi’ cauld an’ weet, + An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late, + Bicker oor feet. + + And at the Court, tae, aft I saw + Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa + Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’ + In weeg an’ goon, + To crack o’ what ye wull but Law + The hale forenoon. + + That muckle ha,’ maist like a kirk, + I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk + Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk + Like ghaists frae Hell, + But whether Christian ghaist or Turk + Deil ane could tell. + + The three fires lunted in the gloom, + The wind blew like the blast o’ doom, + The rain upo’ the roof abune + Played Peter Dick— + Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room + Your teeth to pick! + + But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you, + The ling-lang lanely winter through, + Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true + To lore Horatian, + We aye the ither bottle drew + To inclination. + + Sae let us in the comin’ days + Stand sicker on our auncient ways— + The strauchtest road in a’ the maze + Since Eve ate apples; + An’ let the winter weet our cla’es— + We’ll weet oor thrapples. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Edinburgh_, _Autumn_ 1875.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—_Fous ne me gombrennez pas_. Angry with you? No. Is +the thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer in the +world. The world can ill 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. + +Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me money, +you would oblige, sincerely yours, + + R. L. S. + +I have a scroll of _Springtime_ 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 _Springtime_, that’s the truth of it. It might have been +four or five quid! + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Along with this, I send you some P.P.P’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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_, _November_ 12, 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND,—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 +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 _un_happy 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 _my_ 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. DE MATTOS + + + _Edinburgh_, _January_ 1876. + +MY DEAR KATHARINE,—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 _mal réussi_, 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 + + _Grossir la pâte universelle_ + _Faite des formes que Dieu fond_. + +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 +_Huguenots_. . . . + +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, + + R. L. S. + +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! + + R. L S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Edinburgh_, _January_ 1876.] + +. . . OUR weather continues as it was, bitterly cold, and raining often. +There is not much pleasure in life certainly as it stands at present. +_Nous n’irons plus au boss_, _hélas_! + +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. + +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! + +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 _éclat_ 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Edinburgh_, _February_ 1876.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—1_st_. I have sent ‘Fontainebleau’ 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 _money_, and money soon, and not glory and the illustration +of the English language, I feel as if my poverty were going to consent. + +2_nd_. 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 ‘Charles of Orleans’ 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 ‘Fontainebleau’! His head must be +turned. + +3_rd_. If ever you do come across my ‘Spring’ (I beg your pardon for +referring to it again, but I don’t want you to forget) send it off at +once. + +4_th_. I went to Ayr, Maybole, Girvan, Ballantrae, Stranraer, Glenluce, +and Wigton. I shall make an article of it some day soon, ‘A Winter’s +Walk in Carrick and Galloway.’ I had a good time.—Yours, + + R. L S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Swanston Cottage_, _Lothianburn_, _July_ 1876.] + +HERE I am, here, and very well too. I am glad you liked ‘Walking Tours’; +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 ‘Forest +Notes,’ which is kind. There is one, if you will, that was too sweet to +be wholesome. + +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; if you see him, inquire about my +‘Burns.’ 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Swanston Cottage_, _Lothianburn_, _July_ 1876.] + +. . . 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: _Trial of Joan of Arc_, _Paston Letters_, +_Basin_, 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 _Pilgrim’s +Progress_. Is that all? Yes, I think that’s all. I have a thing in +proof for the _Cornhill_ called _Virginibus Puerisque_. ‘Charles of +Orleans’ is again laid aside, but in a good state of furtherance this +time. A paper called ‘A Defence of Idlers’ (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 as I say, I take lots of exercise, and I’m +as brown a berry. + +This is the first letter I’ve written for—O I don’t know how long. + + * * * * * + +_July_ 30_th_.—This is, I suppose, three weeks after I began. Do, +please, forgive me. + +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. + +God bless you. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—_Virginibus Puerisque_ is in August _Cornhill_. ‘Charles of +Orleans’ is finished, and sent to Stephen; ‘Idlers’ ditto, and sent to +Grove; but I’ve no word of either. So I’ve not been idle. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Chauny_, _Aisne_ [_September_ 1876]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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 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 +_jusqu’ ici_ are trifling. But I’ve a damned sore throat.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_, _May_ 1877. + +. . . A PERFECT 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. + +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 ready: ‘An Apology for Idlers’ +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! ‘THE HAIR TRUNK; OR, THE IDEAL +COMMONWEALTH.’ 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 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. + +Please write to me, although I deserve it so little, and show a Christian +spirit.—Ever your faithful friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Edinburgh_, _August_ 1877.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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. + +_Temple Bar_ appears to like my ‘Villon,’ 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, ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s +Mousetrap’: a true novel, in the old sense; all unities preserved +moreover, if that’s anything, and I believe with some little merits; not +so _clever_ perhaps as the last, but sounder and more natural. + +My ‘Villon’ is out this month; I should so much like to know what you +think of it. Stephen has written to me apropos of ‘Idlers,’ that +something more in that vein would be agreeable to his views. From +Stephen I count that a devil of a lot. + +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, + + LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + [_Penzance_, _August_ 1877.] + +. . . YOU 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, ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s Mousetrap,’ with +which I shall try _Temple Bar_; another story, in the clouds, ‘The +Stepfather’s Story,’ 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 the ‘Two St. Michael’s Mounts,’ +historical and picturesque; perhaps if it didn’t come too long, I might +throw in the ‘Bass Rock,’ and call it ‘Three Sea Fortalices,’ 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 +_Petit Jehan de Saintré_, which is a kind of fifteenth century _Sandford +and Merton_, 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. + +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. ‘Will o’ the Mill’ 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 income anyway. I am glad you liked ‘Villon’; +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 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN + + + [1877.] + +DEAR SIR,—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. + +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 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. + +I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called ‘Such is Life,’ +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, + + R. L S. + + + +TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_ [_December_ 1877]. + +MY DEAR SIR,—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. + +In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost 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. + +Of your poems I have myself a kindness for ‘Noll and Nell,’ although I +don’t think you have made it as good as you ought: verse five is surely +not _quite melodious_. I confess I like the Sonnet in the last number of +the _Review_—the Sonnet to England. + +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—_Clarissa Harlowe_. 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 Mowbray—nothing, nothing could be better! You will bless +me when you read it for this recommendation; 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: _A Dialogue +on Man_, _Woman_, _and_ ‘_Clarissa Harlowe_.’ 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. + +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? + +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 ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s Door’ 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Hôtel des Etrangers_, _Dieppe_, _January_ 1, 1878. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am at the _Inland Voyage_ 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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Paris_, _January or February_ 1878.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Paris_, 44 _Bd. Haussmann_, _Friday_, _February_ 21, 1878. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—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 _Way of the World_; 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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel du Val de Grâce_, _Rue St. Jacques_, + _Paris_, _Sunday_ [_June_ 1878]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—About criticisms, I was more surprised at the tone of the +critics than I suppose any one 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Monastier_, _September_ 1878. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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 +_Inland Voyage_ the other day: what rubbish these reviewers did talk! It +is not badly written, thin, mildly cheery, and strained. _Selon moi_. I +mean to visit Hamerton on my return journey; otherwise, I should come by +sea from Marseilles. I am very well known here now; indeed, quite a +feature of the place.—Your affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + +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! + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Monastier_, _September_ 1878.] + +DEAR HENLEY,—I hope to leave Monastier this day (Saturday) week; +thenceforward Poste Restante, Alais, Gard, is my address. ‘Travels with +a Donkey in the French Highlands.’ 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 filet_, 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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Monastier_, _at Morel’s_ [_September_ 1878]. + Lud knows about date, _vide_ postmark. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—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 +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 _Arabian Nights_ +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, + + R. L S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _October_ 1878. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—I have seen Hamerton; he was very kind, all his family +seemed pleased to see an _Inland Voyage_, 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 _Inland Voyage_ over again, and send me his cuts and cuffs in +private, after having liberally administered his kisses _coram publico_. +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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Trinity College_, _Cambridge_, _Autumn_ 1878.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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 _Tricoche et Cacolet_; 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—_cannot_. Even the _Guitar_ 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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + [17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_, _April_ 16, 1879]. + _Pool of Siloam_, _by El Dorado_, + _Delectable Mountains_, _Arcadia_ + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—Herewith of the dibbs—a homely 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. + +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 Kubla +Khan, we have the man in the fact. Carlyle’s picture, of course, is not +of the author of _Kubla_, but of the author of that surprising _Friend_ +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-_telling_—if you will take my meaning. + +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. + +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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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 _correspond_ 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. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_ [_April_ 1879]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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. + +I’ll try to improve it, but I shan’t be able to—O go to the devil. + +Seriously, you’re a cool hand. And then you have the brass to ask me +_why_ ‘my steps went one by one’? Why? Powers of man! to rhyme with +sun, 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. + + O Henley, in my hours of ease + You may say anything you please, + But when I join the Muse’s revel, + Begad, I wish you at the devil! + In vain my verse I plane and bevel, + Like Banville’s rhyming devotees; + In vain by many an artful swivel + Lug in my meaning by degrees; + I’m sure to hear my Henley cavil; + And grovelling prostrate on my knees, + Devote his body to the seas, + His correspondence to the devil! + +Impromptu poem. + +I’m going to Shandon Hydropathic _cum parentibus_. Write here. I heard +from Lang. Ferrier prayeth to be remembered; he means to write, likes +his Tourgenieff greatly. Also likes my ‘What was on the Slate,’ which, +under a new title, yet unfound, and with a new and, on the whole, kindly +_dénouement_, is going to shoot up and become a star. . . . + +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’? _Je me le demande_. +No, it would be ambiguous, as though I had used it licentiously for +‘daringly,’ and that would cloak the sense. + +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. + + R. L S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Swanston_, _Lothianburn_, _Edinburgh_, _July_ 24, 1879. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I have greatly enjoyed your articles 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. + +Chapters VIII. and IX. 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 +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 ‘Twa +Dogs’ and his ‘Address to the Unco Guid.’ 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 ‘Twa Dogs.’ Even a common Englishman +may have a glimpse, as it were from Pisgah, of its extraordinary merits. + +‘_English_, _The_:—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 _Handy Cyclopædia_. +Glescow: Blaikie & Bannock. + +Remember me in suitable fashion to Mrs. Gosse, the offspring, and the +cat.—And believe me ever yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_ [_July_ 28, 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am just in the middle of your Rembrandt. 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; 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 off into a corner. Up will rise +on the other side, sane, pleasurable, human knowledge: a thing of beauty +and a joy, etc. + +I’m three parts through Burns; 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, who 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + 17 _Heriot Row_, _Edinburgh_ [_July_ 29, 1879]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—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 _Spectator_ 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 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. + +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. + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + + +IV +THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT +MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO +JULY 1879-JULY 1880 + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _On board ss._ ‘_Devonia_,’ _an hour or two out of New York_ + [_August_ 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I have finished my story. {144} The handwriting is not +good because of the ship’s misconduct: thirty-one pages in ten days at +sea is not bad. + +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 _Pall Mall_ 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + +_P.S._—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. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_In the Emigrant Train from New York to San Francisco_, + _August_ 1879.] + +DEAR COLVIN,—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. + +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. + + Of where or how, I nothing know; + And why, I do not care; + Enough if, even so, + My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go + By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair, + Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. + + I think, I hope, I dream no more + The dreams of otherwhere, + The cherished thoughts of yore; + I have been changed from what I was before; + And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air + Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. + + Unweary God me yet shall bring + To lands of brighter air, + Where I, now half a king, + Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing, + And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear + Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. + +Exit Muse, hurried by child’s games. . . . + +Have at you again, being now well through Indiana. In America you eat +better than anywhere else: fact. The food is heavenly. + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Crossing Nebraska_ [_Saturday_, _August_ 23, 1879]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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 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. + +_Monday_.—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. + +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. + + R. L S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Coast Line Mountains_, _California_, _September_ 1879.] + +HERE 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 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Monterey_, _Ditto Co._, _California_, 21_st_ _October_ [1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 _A Chapter in Experience __of Arizona +Breckonridge_ or _A Vendetta in the West_, 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Monterey_, _California_, _September_ 1879. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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, {149} it seems already. My book is about half +drafted: the _Amateur Emigrant_, 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 ‘The +Lie,’ 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 _Devonia_, for that is the habit with all children born +in a steerage. + +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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Monterey_, _Monterey Co._, _California_, 8_th_ _October_ 1879. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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 frontiers-man, 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. + +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. + +My new book, _The Amateur Emigrant_, 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 ‘Burns’ in the _Cornhill_, and for my +‘Story of a Lie’ 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, _au fur et à mesure_ of their apparition, for I am naturally short +of literature, and I do not wish to rust. + +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. + +Is there a boy or a girl? and how is your wife? I thought of you more +than once, to put it mildly. + +I live here comfortably enough; but I shall soon be left all alone, +perhaps till Christmas. Then you may hope for correspondence—and may not +I?—Your friend, + + R L S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Monterey_, _California_, _October_ 1879.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—Herewith the _Pavilion on the Links_, 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. + +Do acknowledge the _Pavilion_ 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 _Pavilion_! May it bring me +money for myself and my sick one, who may read it, I do not know how +soon. + +Love to your wife, Anthony and all. I shall write to Colvin to-day or +to-morrow.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Monterey_, _California_, _October_ 1879.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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.; (2) a 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 a _Vendetta in the +West_, and about sixty pages of the first draft of the _Amateur +Emigrant_. 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. + +At times I get terribly frightened about my work, which seems to advance +too slowly. I hope soon to have a greater burthen to support, and must +make money a great deal quicker than I used. I may get nothing for the +_Vendetta_; I may only get some forty quid for the _Emigrant_; I cannot +hope to have them both done much before the end of November. + +O, and look here, why did you not send me the _Spectator_ which slanged +me? Rogues and rascals, is that all you are worth? + +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 drill them out. Another shot, and I’d have +gone to kingdom come. + +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 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. + +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. Burns, 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + _Monterey_, _California_ [_November_ 1879]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,—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. + +I find here (of all places in the world) your _Essays on Art_, 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. + +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. + +I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still somewhat of a +mossy ruin. If you would view my countenance aright, come—view it by the +pale moonlight. But that is on the mend. I believe I have now a distant +claim to tan. + +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. . . . + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Monterey_, _California_, 15_th_ _November_ 1879. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—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. + +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, + + R. L S. + +I try it again by daylight. Once more in bed however; for to-day it is +_mucho frio_, as 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 _A Vendetta in +the West_. 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. + +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 Hadsel’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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Monterey_, _December_ 1879.] + +TO-DAY, my dear Colvin, I send you the first part of the _Amateur +Emigrant_, 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. + +Whatever is done about any book publication, two 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 _buyers_. + +The entire A. E. 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 _clever_ 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. + +I have never seen my Burns! 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! _Comment trouvez-vous +ça_? 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. Dos +Reales; deux réaux; 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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Monterey_, _Monterey Co._, _California_, _Dec._ 8, 1879. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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 +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 _beastly_ 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. + +I have read nearly the whole volume, and shall read it nearly all over +again; you have no rivals! + +Bancroft’s _History of the United States_, 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.! + +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; _nitor aquis_, said a certain Eton boy, +translating for his sins a part of the _Inland Voyage_ 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 _might_ 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + +‘Too young to be our child’: blooming good. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + 608 _Bush Street_, _San Francisco_ [_December_ 26, 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 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 _Emigrant_, 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 . . . . {161} + +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 +_Spectator_, 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 _Norma_, 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. + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + 608 _Bush Street_, _San Francisco_ [_January_ 10, 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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. + +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 waxcloth, 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.). + +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 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 inkbottle. +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. + +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, _alias_ 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. + +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 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. + +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 _just in the meantime_, +give me no bad. If I could get _Thoreau_, _Emigrant_ and _Vendetta_ 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 _finished_, you +see, they don’t fairly count. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + 608 _Bush Street_, _San Francisco_, _Jan._ 26, ’80 + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—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 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + 608 _Bush Street_, _San Francisco_, _California_ [_January_ 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 _Emigrant_; 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 polysyllables over me that a better man than I +might have been disheartened.—However, I was not, as you see, and am not. +The _Emigrant_ 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. + +The _Vendetta_ you will not much like, I dare say: and that must be +finished next; but I’ll knock you with _The Forest State_: _A Romance_. + +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 _news_, 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. + +My health is better, my spirits steadier, I am not the least cast down. +If the _Emigrant_ was a failure, the _Pavilion_, 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 other than about people. It +bored me hellishly to write the _Emigrant_; well, it’s going to bore +others to read it; that’s only fair. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + 608 _Bush Street_, _San Francisco_, _Cal._, _February_ 1880. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—Before my work or anything I sit down to answer your long +and kind letter. + +I am well, cheerful, busy, hopeful; I cannot be knocked down; I do not +mind about the _Emigrant_. 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. + +(1) As to _Studies_. There are two more already gone to Stephen. +_Yoshida Torajiro_, which I think temperate and adequate; and _Thoreau_, +which will want a really Balzacian effort over the proofs. But I want +_Benjamin Franklin and the Art of Virtue_ to follow; and perhaps also +_William Penn_, but this last may be perhaps delayed for another volume—I +think not, though. The _Studies_ 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 _Ordered South_ 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 soon as the +_Emigrant_ is done. (4) _Emigrant_. 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 _Vendetta_, which falls next to be finished, is not entirely +pleasant. But it has points. _The Forest State_ or _The __Greenwood +State_: _A Romance_, 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 _dénouement_ is +unfortunately absolutely undramatic, which will be our only trouble in +quarrying out the play. I mean we shall quarry from it. +_Characters_—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 Z. Certain +scenes are, in conception, the best I have ever made, except for _Hester +Noble_. 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 _Emigrant_ stops the way; then a reassured scenario for _Hester_; +then the _Vendetta_; then two (or three) Essays—Benjamin Franklin, +Thoughts on Literature as an Art, Dialogue on Character and Destiny +between two Puppets, The Human Compromise; 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 _Slate_ both Fanny and I have +damned utterly; it is too morbid, ugly, and unkind; better starvation. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + 608 _Bush Street_, _San Francisco_, [_March_ 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _San Francisco_, _Cal._, _April_ 16 [1880]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—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 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 pinewoods, 3000 feet, sir, from the disputatious sea.—I am, +dear Weg, most truly yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO DR. W. BAMFORD + + + [_San Francisco_, _April_ 1880.] + +MY DEAR SIR,—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. + +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 me.—I +am, my dear sir, gratefully yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_San Francisco_, _April_ 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 H. James’s _Hawthorne_, for my _Burns_, 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 _Thoreau_ 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 +Burns; but the style, though quite manly, never attains any melody or +lenity. So much for consumption: I begin to appreciate what the +_Emigrant_ must be. As soon as I have done the last few pages of the +_Emigrant_ they shall go to you. But when will that be? I know not +quite yet—I have to be so careful.—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_San Francisco_, _April_ 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 _Emigrant_, 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 _had_ 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 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_San Francisco_, _May_ 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I received your letter and proof to-day, and was greatly +delighted with the last. + +I am now out of danger; in but a short while (_i.e._ 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 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 ‘Al Monte!’ 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO C. W. STODDARD + + + _East Oakland_, _Cal._, _May_ 1880. + +MY DEAR STODDARD,—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 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. + +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. + +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. + +At least, Stoddard, you now see that, although so costive, when I once +begin I am a copious letter-writer. I thank you, and _au revoir_. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_San Francisco_, _May_ 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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 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. + + _Calistoga_, _Napa County_, _California_. + +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 _Amateur Emigrant_; 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. + +Received James’s _Hawthorne_, on which I meditate a blast, Miss Bird, +Dixon’s _Penn_, a _wrong Cornhill_ (like my luck) and _Coquelin_: 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 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 _Vendetta_ first, for it really could not come after _Prince +Otto_. 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: +‘_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 +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 _regibus_ 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, + + R. L. S. + + + + +V +ALPINE WINTERS +AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS, +AUGUST 1880–OCTOBER 1882 + + +TO A. G. DEW-SMITH + + + [_Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos_, _November_ 1880.] + + Figure me to yourself, I pray— + A man of my peculiar cut— + Apart from dancing and deray, {185} + Into an Alpine valley shut; + + Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, + Discountenanced by God and man; + The food?—Sir, you would do as well + To cram your belly full of bran. + + The company? Alas, the day + That I should dwell with such a crew, + With devil anything to say, + Nor any one to say it to! + + The place? Although they call it Platz, + I will be bold and state my view; + It’s not a place at all—and that’s + The bottom verity, my Dew. + + There are, as I will not deny, + Innumerable inns; a road; + Several Alps indifferent high; + The snow’s inviolable abode; + + Eleven English parsons, all + Entirely inoffensive; four + True human beings—what I call + Human—the deuce a cipher more; + + A climate of surprising worth; + Innumerable dogs that bark; + Some air, some weather, and some earth; + A native race—God save the mark!— + + A race that works, yet cannot work, + Yodels, but cannot yodel right, + Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk, + I vow that I could wholly smite. + + A river that from morn to night + Down all the valley plays the fool; + Not once she pauses in her flight, + Nor knows the comfort of a pool; + + But still keeps up, by straight or bend, + The selfsame pace she hath begun— + Still hurry, hurry, to the end— + Good God, is that the way to run? + + If I a river were, I hope + That I should better realise + The opportunities and scope + Of that romantic enterprise. + + I should not ape the merely strange, + But aim besides at the divine; + And continuity and change + I still should labour to combine. + + Here should I gallop down the race, + Here charge the sterling {186} like a bull; + There, as a man might wipe his face, + Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool. + + But what, my Dew, in idle mood, + What prate I, minding not my debt? + What do I talk of bad or good? + The best is still a cigarette. + + Me whether evil fate assault, + Or smiling providences crown— + Whether on high the eternal vault + Be blue, or crash with thunder down— + + I judge the best, whate’er befall, + Is still to sit on one’s behind, + And, having duly moistened all, + Smoke with an unperturbèd mind. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Hotel Belvedere_], _Davos_, _December_ 12 [1880]. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—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. + + I. THIRTY YEARS’ INTERVAL + + (1) Rob Roy. + + (2) The Independent Companies: the Watches. + + (3) Story of Lady Grange. + + (4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: Wade and + + (5) Burt. + + II. THE HEROIC AGE + + (1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden. + + (2) Flora Macdonald. + + (3) The Forfeited Estates; including Hereditary Jurisdictions; and the + admirable conduct of the tenants. + + III. LITERATURE HERE INTERVENES + + (1) The Ossianic Controversy. + + (2) Boswell and Johnson. + + (3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan. + + IV. ECONOMY + + (1) Highland Economics. + + (2) The Reinstatement of the Proprietors. + + (3) The Evictions. + + (4) Emigration. + + (5) Present State. + + V. RELIGION + + (1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and Soc. Prop. Christ. + Knowledge. + + (2) The Men. + + (3) The Disruption. + +All this, of course, will greatly change in form, scope, and order; this +is just a bird’s-eye glance. Thank you for _Burt_, which came, and for +your Union notes. I have read one-half (about 900 pages) of Wodrow’s +_Correspondence_, 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. + +My Essays are going through the press, and should be out in January or +February.—Ever affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos Platz_ [_Dec._ 6, 1880]. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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, and +another about either Charles or 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + [_Hotel Belvedere_], _Davos_, _Dec._ 19, 1880. + +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. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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. + + (2) Byron: if anything: _Prometheus_. + + (3) Shelley (1) _The world’s great age_ from Hellas; we are both dead + on. After that you have, of course, _The West Wind_ thing. But we + think (1) would maybe be enough; no more than two any way. + + (4) Herrick. _Meddowes_ and _Come_, _my Corinna_. After that _Mr. + Wickes_: two any way. + + (5) Leave out stanza 3rd of Congreve’s thing, like a dear; we can’t + stand the ‘sigh’ nor the ‘peruke.’ + + (6) Milton. _Time_ and the _Solemn Music_. 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. + + (7) Is the _Royal George_ an ode, or only an elegy? It’s so good. + + (8) We leave Campbell to you. + + (9) If you take anything from Clough, but we don’t either of us fancy + you will, let it be _Come back_. + + (10) Quite right about Dryden. I had a hankering after _Threnodia + Augustalis_; but I find it long and with very prosaic holes: though, O! + what fine stuff between whiles. + + (11) Right with Collins. + + (12) Right about Pope’s Ode. But what can you give? _The Dying + Christian_? or one of his inimitable courtesies? These last are fairly + odes, by the Horatian model, just as my dear _Meddowes_ is an ode in + the name and for the sake of Bandusia. + + (13) Whatever you do, you’ll give us the Greek Vase. + + (14) Do you like Jonson’s ‘loathèd stage’? Verses 2, 3, and 4 are so + bad, also the last line. But there is a fine movement and feeling in + the rest. + +We will have the Duke of Wellington by God. Pro Symonds and Stevenson. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES WARREN STODDARD + + + _Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos Platz_, _Switzerland_ [_December_ 1880]. + +DEAR CHARLES WARREN STODDARD,—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 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. {191} +will be complete. The edition, briefly, _sine qua non_. 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _December_ 21, 1880. _Davos_. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—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 then; 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 _ad hoc_ 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. + +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. + +We have our Wogg in somewhat better trim now, and 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. + +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 _Evictions_; 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 _History of Modern Scotland_. +Probably Tulloch will never carry it out. And, you see, once I have +studied and written these two vols., _The Transformation of the Scottish_ +_Highlands_ and _Scotland and the Union_, 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, + + R. L S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos_, Christmas 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Thanks for yours; I waited, as 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 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Christmas Sermon_. + + [_Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos_, _December_ 26, 1880.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—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 my father’s extraordinary +kindness about this book; he is a brick; I vote for him freely. + +. . . 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 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 _design to do right_ 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 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. + +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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos_, _Spring_ 1881.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN.—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. + +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. +_Sufficit_; _explicit_. + +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, _à la bonne_ _heure_! 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! 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. + +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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + +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. + +Woggin sends his love. + + + +TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + _Davos_, 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN.—Here it is, with the mark of a San Francisco +_bouquiniste_. 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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + _Davos_, 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN.—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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + _Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos_, _Spring_ 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN,—Nine years I have conded them. + + Brave lads in olden musical centuries + Sang, night by night, adorable choruses, + Sat late by alehouse doors in April + Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising: + + Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises, + Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables; + Spring scents inspired, old wine diluted; + Love and Apollo were there to chorus. + + Now these, the songs, remain to eternity, + Those, only those, the bountiful choristers + Gone—those are gone, those unremembered + Sleep and are silent in earth for ever. + + So man himself appears and evanishes, + So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at + Some green-embowered house, play their music, + Play and are gone on the windy highway; + + Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory + Long after they departed eternally, + Forth-faring tow’rd far mountain summits, + Cities of men on the sounding Ocean. + + Youth sang the song in years immemorial; + Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful; + Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtime + Heard and were pleased by the voice of singing; + + Youth goes, and leaves behind him a prodigy— + Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian + Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven highways, + Dear to me here in my Alpine exile. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Monte Generoso in May; here, I think, till the end of April; write again, +to prove you are forgiving. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel du Pavillon Henry IV._, + _St. Germain-en-Laye_, _Sunday_, _May_ 1_st_, 1881. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—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 _Star_ and _Garter_ (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 _piasseur_, +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 +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 _Star and Garter_. My +throat is quite cured, appetite and strength on the mend. Fanny seems +also picking up. + +If we are to come to Scotland, I _will_ have fir-trees, and I want a +burn, the firs for my physical, the water for my moral health.—Ever +affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Pitlochry_, _Perthshire_, _June_ 6, 1881. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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 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, _groundy_ 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. + +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 will reach you soon, for I write about it to-day—Yours ever, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_, _Perthshire_, _June_ 1881. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—_The Black Man and Other Tales_. + + The Black Man: + + I. Thrawn Janet. + + II. The Devil on Cramond Sands. + + The Shadow on the Bed. + + The Body Snatchers. + + The Case Bottle. + + The King’s Horn. + + The Actor’s Wife. + + The Wreck of the _Susanna_. + +This is the new work on which I am engaged with Fanny; they are all +supernatural. ‘Thrawn Janet’ is off to Stephen, but as it is all in +Scotch he cannot take it, I know. It was _so good_, 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. + +Write me a word about Bob’s professoriate and Landor, and what you think +of _The Black Man_. The tales are all ghastly. ‘Thrawn Janet’ +frightened me to death. There will maybe be another—‘The Dead Man’s A +Letter.’ I believe I shall recover; and I am, in this blessed hope, +yours exuberantly, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO PROFESSOR ÆNEAS MACKAY + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_, _Wednesday_, _June_ 21, 1881. + +MY DEAR MACKAY,—What is this I hear?—that you are retiring from your +chair. It is not, I hope, from ill-health? + +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. + +Please let me hear a word in answer, and believe me, yours very +sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO PROFESSOR ÆNEAS MACKAY + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_, _Perthshire_ [_June_ 1881]. + +MY DEAR MACKAY,—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. + +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 declines a plurality of offices, makes it +perceptibly more difficult for the next man to accept them. + +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 Constitutional +Law were involved; but this is to look too far forward. + +I understand (1_st_) that no overt steps can be taken till your +resignation is accepted; and (2_nd_) that in the meantime I may, without +offence, mention my design to stand. + +If I am mistaken about these, please correct me, as I do not wish to +appear where I should not. + +Again thanking you very heartily for your coals of fire I remain yours +very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_, _June_ 24, 1881. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—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, _quorum pars_; 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 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. + +Heavens! _Je me sauve_, 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_ [_July_ 1881]. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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. + +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 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. _Qu’en dis tu_? +_Viens_.—Yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_ [_July_ 1881]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMMERTON,—(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. + +It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I was married; it was a +sort of marriage _in extremis_; 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. + +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 +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. {209} 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. + +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. + +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. + +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: I fear it is +characteristic of her manners. It was because you did not call upon the +electors! + +Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son?—And believe me, etc., +etc., + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_, [_July_ 1881]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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, ‘Thrawn Janet,’ all in Scotch, is accepted by Stephen; my second, +‘The Body Snatchers,’ is laid aside in a justifiable disgust, the tale +being horrid; my third, ‘The Merry Men,’ 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. + +Fanny has finished one of hers, ‘The Shadow on the Bed,’ and is now +hammering at a second, for which we have ‘no name’ as yet—not by Wilkie +Collins. + +_Tales for Winter Nights_. Yes, that, I think, we will call the lot of +them when republished. + +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. + +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. + +It looks as if we should take Cater’s chalet {210} after all; but O! to +go back to that place, it seems cruel. I have not yet received the +Landor; but it may be at home, detained by my mother, who returns +to-morrow. + +Believe me, dear Colvin, ever yours, + + R. L. S. + +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 _have_ 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. + +‘The Merry Men’ + + Chap. I. Eilean Aros. Tip + + Top + + Tale. + II. What the Wreck had brought to Aros. + III. Past and Present in Sandag Bay. + IV. The Gale. + V. A Man out of the Sea. + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Kinnaird Cottage_, _Pitlochry_, _July_ 1881. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—I hope, then, to have a visit from you. If before +August, here; if later, at Braemar. Tupe! + +And now, _mon bon_, I must babble about ‘The Merry Men,’ 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, +Santma Trinid—the grave in the heather—strangers 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 +_Pirate_ in it, as how should there not? He had the root of romance in +such places. Aros is Earraid, where I lived lang syne; 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. + +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:— + +1830: _A Chapter of Artistic History_, by William Ernest Henley (or _of +Social and Artistic History_, 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, + + R. L. S. + +The following names have been invented for Wogg by his dear papa:— + +Grunty-pig (when he is scratched), + +Rose-mouth (when he comes flying up with his rose-leaf tongue depending), +and + +Hoofen-boots (when he has had his foots wet). + +How would _Tales for Winter Nights_ do? + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Pitlochry_, _if you please_, [_August_] 1881. + +DEAR HENLEY,—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. + +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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Pitlochry_, _August_ 1881. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—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. + + * * * * * + +_Monday_, _August_ (2_nd_, 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. + +. . . 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. + +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. + +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, 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.’ + +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! + +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 snake a good volume. We have now + + Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day. + + The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny’s copying). + + The Merry Men (scrolled). + + The Body Snatchers (scrolled). + +_In germis_ + + The Travelling Companion. + + The Torn Surplice (_not final title_). + +Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + _The Cottage_, _Castleton of Braemar_, _Sunday_, _August_ 1881. + +MY DEAR SIR,—I should long ago have written to thank you for your kind +and frank letter; but in my state of health papers are apt to get +mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this (Sunday) +morning. + +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. + +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. + +The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such short +paper is essentially only a _section through_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 is, as I dare say you know, the very ‘wale’ of +Scotland—bar Tummelside.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _The Cottage_, _Castleton of Braemar_, _August_ 1881. + +. . . WELL, 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. + +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 I little flesh in the meanwhile. I was +_wonderfully_ 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. + +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. + +Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under the +blow.—Ever your faithful friend, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _The Cottage_ (_late the late Miss M’Gregor’s_), + _Castleton of Braemar_, _August_ 10, 1881. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—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. + +You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, +sir—Your obedient, humble servant. + +We have family worship in the home of, sir—Yours respectfully. + +Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also see) the +maps of, sir—Yours in the Lord. + +A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of two before +the house of, sir—Yours truly. + +The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the late Miss +Macgregor and of, sir—Yours affectionately. + +It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know the halls +of, sir—Yours emphatically. + +All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir—Yours ever. + +You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual collapse of, +sir—Yours indeed. + +And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir—Yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_N.B._—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. + +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. + +The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending as it does to foster +unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from the address, which +would therefore run—The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _The Cottage_, _Castleton of Braemar_, _August_ 19, 1881. + +IF you had an uncle who was a sea captain and went to the North Pole, you +had better bring his outfit. _Verbum Sapientibus_. I look towards you. + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + [_Braemar_], _August_ 19, 1881. + +MY DEAR WEG,—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. + +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. + +The sooner the better after Tuesday.—Yours ever, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Braemar_ [_August_ 25, 1881]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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, ‘The Sea Cook, or Treasure +Island: A Story for Boys.’ + +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 _Routledge_? 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 +parient have to be consulted. + +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 _best_ 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 ‘The Sea Cook’s’ sake. + +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 the +‘Sea Cook’ 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! + + R. L. S. + Author of _Boys’ Stories_. + + + +TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + _Braemar_, 1881. + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP,—My father has gone, but I think 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. + +I do not know how to thank you for all your kind trouble in the matter of +‘The Sea-Cook,’ 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! + +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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Braemar_, _September_ 1881. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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 ‘The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A +Tale of the Buccaneers,’ in _Young Folks_. (The terms are £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.) + +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 ‘Sea Cook’ will do to reprint, and bring something decent +at that. + +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.’ {223} +He is now extending over adjacent parts of Scotland. + +I propose to follow up the ‘Sea Cook’ at proper intervals by ‘Jerry +Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath’ (which or its site I must visit), ‘The +Leading Light: A Tale of the Coast,’ ‘The Squaw Men: or the Wild West,’ +and other instructive and entertaining work. ‘Jerry Abershaw’ 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 the ‘Sea Cook.’ + +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. The +‘Sea Cook’ 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. + +Don’t read Marryat’s’ _Pirate_ anyhow; it is written in sand with a +salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, tottering production. But then we’re not +always all there. _He_ was _all_ somewhere else that trip. It’s +_damnable_, Henley. I don’t go much on the ‘Sea Cook’; but, Lord, it’s a +little fruitier than the _Pirate_ by Cap’n. Marryat. + +Since this was written ‘The Cook’ is in his nineteenth chapter. Yo-heave +ho! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _Autumn_ 1881.] + +MY DEAR FATHER,—It occurred to me last night in bed that I could write + + The Murder of Red Colin, + + A Story of the Forfeited Estates. + +This I have all that is necessary for, with the following exceptions:— + +_Trials of the Sons of Roy Rob with Anecdotes_: Edinburgh, 1818, and + +The second volume of _Blackwood’s Magazine_. + +You might also look in Arnot’s _Criminal Trials_ 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + _Châlet am Stein_, _Davos_, _Autumn_ [1881]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,—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. + +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 _nil_. 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. + +Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? ‘Hardly one of us,’ +said my _confrères_ at the bar. + +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 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. + +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 _the_ 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. + +How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your +son, and believe me, yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Chalet am Stein_], _Davos_, _December_ 5, 1881. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—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 much for +solitude as I used to; results, I suppose, of marriage. + +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 blight at Bonny mainhead? the compass near the sign of the _Twinkling +Eye_? the night I lay on the pavement in misery? + + I swear it by the eternal sky + Johnson—nor Thomson—ne’er shall die! + +Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Chalet Buol_, _Davos-Platz_, _December_ 26, 1881. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—Yesterday, Sunday and Christmas, we finished this +eventful journey by a drive in an _open_ 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. 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:— + +Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, etc. + +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. + +Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd’s cold better; I, with a +twinge of the rheumatic; and Fanny better than her ordinary. + +General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the journey: A prolonged +visit to the dentist’s, complicated with the fear of death. + +Never, O never, do you get me there again.—Ever affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos-Platz_, _February_ 1882.] + +MY DEAR CUMMY,—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—_the_ 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_], 22_nd_ _February_ ’82. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Your most welcome letter has raised clouds of sulphur +from my horizon. . . . + +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. + +In an article which will appear sometime in the _Cornhill_, ‘Talk and +Talkers,’ 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. + +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. + +My wife is better again. . . . But we take it by turns; it is the dog +that is ill now.—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos-Platz_, _February_ 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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 _Dogs_, by return if it can be managed. + +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 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. + +I have just finished a paper, ‘A Gossip on Romance,’ 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. + +To-morrow, having once finished off the touches still due on this, I +shall tackle _San Francisco_ 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 +Romance, 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. + +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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _March_ 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—. . . Last night we had a dinner-party, consisting of the +John Addington, curry, onions (lovely 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. + +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. + +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—_quel coup d’œil_! but was it not over-done, 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.) + +Your list of books that Cassells have refused in these weeks is not quite +complete; they also refused:— + +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. + +2. The journals and Private Correspondence of David, King of Israel. + +3. Poetical Works of Arthur, Iron Dook of Wellington, including a Monody +on Napoleon. + +4. Eight books of an unfinished novel, _Solomon Crabb_. By Henry +Fielding. + +5. Stevenson’s Moral Emblems. + +You also neglected to mention, as _per contra_, that they had during the +same time accepted and triumphantly published Brown’s _Handbook to +Cricket_, Jones’s _First_ _French Reader_, and Robinson’s _Picturesque +Cheshire_, uniform with the same author’s _Stately Homes of Salop_. + +O if that list could come true! How we would tear at Solomon Crabb! 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—_David_—was +written in his third period—much about the same time as Lear? The +comedy, _April Rain_, is also a late work. _Beckett_ is a fine ranting +piece, like _Richard II._, 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. +_Rufus_ is not so good; I am not pleased with _Rufus_; plainly a +_rifaccimento_ of some inferior work; but there are some damned fine +lines. As for the purely satiric ill-minded _Abelard and Heloise_, +another _Troilus_, _quoi_! 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. + +I am enjoying _Solomon Crabb_ 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 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. + + Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin crack— + This here’s a dream, return and study BLACK! + +—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO ALEXANDER IRELAND + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _March_ 1882.] + +MY DEAR SIR,—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 +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. + +You ask about Davos; I have discoursed about it already, rather sillily I +think, in the _Pall Mall_, 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. + +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. + +The best of the present French novelists seems to me, incomparably, +Daudet. _Les Rois en Exil_ 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 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. + +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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—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.P.S._—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. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE. + + + _Davos_, _March_ 23, 1882. + +MY DEAR WEG,—And I had just written the best note to Mrs. Gosse that was +in my power. Most blameable. + +I now send (for Mrs. Gosse). + + BLACK CANYON. + +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 WASTE, so aptly +rendered by the hartis. + +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. + +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 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, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _March_ 1882.] + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP,—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 _Familiar +Studies_. 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, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + _Châlet Buol_, _Davos_, _April_ 1, 1882. + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP,—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; 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. + +Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and I +communicated your remarks. . . . He is a far better and more interesting +thing than any of his books. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _simply the +first time he has ever given one away_. I have to buy my own works, I +can tell you.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _April_ 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—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 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. + +If Chatto should take both, _cui dedicare_? I am running out of +dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is stranded. _Treasure +Island_, if it comes out, and I mean it shall, of course goes to Lloyd. +Lemme see, I have now dedicated to + + W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley]. + + S. C. [Sidney Colvin]. + + T. S. [Thomas Stevenson]. + + Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson]. + +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 _Prince Otto_—Jenkin I +suppose sometime—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. + +Talking of Meredith, I have just re-read for the third and fourth time +_The Egoist_. 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 greatly justify themselves +on further study. Only Dr. Middleton does not hang together; and Ladies +Busshe and Culmer _sont des monstruosités_. Vernon’s conduct makes a +wonderful odd contrast with Daniel Deronda’s. I see more and more that +Meredith is built for immortality. + +Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an immortalet, claims +some attention. _The Woman killed with Kindness_ 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 _Fortune by Sea and_ _Land_ 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. + +Byron not only wrote _Don Juan_; 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. + +Here is a strange gossip.—I am yours loquaciously, + + R. L. S. + +My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel examination, an +exa_nim_ation I may call it, had this brave result. _Taïaut_! Hillo! +Hey! Stand by! Avast! Hurrah! + + + +TO MRS. T. STEVENSON + + + [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _April_ 9, 1882.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—Herewith please find belated birthday present. Fanny has +another. + +Cockshot = Jenkin. But + + pray + + regard + + these + + as + + secrets. +Jack = Bob. +Burly = Henley. +Athelred = Simpson. +Opalstein = Symonds. +Purcel = Gosse. + +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. + +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. + +I have this winter finished _Treasure Island_, written the preface to the +_Studies_, a small book about the _Inland __Voyage_ size, _The Silverado +Squatters_, 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, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + [_Edinburgh_] _Sunday_ [_June_ 1882]. + +. . . NOTE 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. + +I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have written before, _inter +alia_, to tell you that I had visited my murder place and found _living +traditions_ 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 yesterdays—1 + 4 ++ 7½ = 12½ hours and being (9 A.M.) very anxious to sleep again. The +arms of Porpus, quoi! A poppy gules, etc. + +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 PEEBLES! 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: _Personal Adventures in +Peeblesshire_. _Je la trouve méchante_.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + +—Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers? I did, and +_ça-y-est_. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Stobo Manse_, _Peeblesshire_ [_July_ 1882]. + + I would shoot you, but I have no bow: + The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo. + As Gallic Kids complain of ‘Bobo,’ + I mourn for your mistake of Stobo. + +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. + +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. + +I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence brevity. Answer about the +house.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Stobo Manse_, _July_ 1882.] + +DEAR HENLEY, . . . 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. + +I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, damp, and +_mauchy_; the rain it raineth every day; and the glass goes tol-de-rol-de +riddle. + +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. + +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 æsth_a_tic,’ he said. ‘Pooh!’ ‘Fishin’ and releegion—these are my +aysthatics,’ he wound up. + +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 _it_.’ He is seventy-nine! but may well last to a hundred!—Yours +ever, + + R. L S. + + + + +VI +MARSEILLES AND HYÈRES, +OCTOBER 1882-AUGUST 1884 + + +TO THE EDITOR OF THE ‘NEW YORK TRIBUNE’ + + + _Terminus Hotel_, _Marseilles_, _October_ 16, 1882. + +SIR,—It has come to my ears that you have lent the authority of your +columns to an error. + +More than half in pleasantry—and I now think the pleasantry ill-judged—I +complained in a note to my _New Arabian Nights_ that some one, who shall +remain nameless for me, had borrowed the idea of a story from one of +mine. As if I had not borrowed the ideas of the half of my own! As if +any one who had written a story ill had a right to complain of any other +who should have written it better! I am indeed thoroughly ashamed of the +note, and of the principle which it implies. + +But it is no mere abstract penitence which leads me to beg a corner of +your paper—it is the desire to defend the honour of a man of letters +equally known in America and England, of a man who could afford to lend +to me and yet be none the poorer; and who, if he would so far condescend, +has my free permission to borrow from me all that he can find worth +borrowing. + +Indeed, sir, I am doubly surprised at your correspondent’s error. That +James Payn should have borrowed from me is already a strange conception. +The author of _Lost Sir Massingberd_ and _By Proxy_ may be trusted to +invent his own stories. The author of _A Grape from a Thorn_ knows +enough, in his own right, of the humorous and pathetic sides of human +nature. + +But what is far more monstrous—what argues total ignorance of the man in +question—is the idea that James Payn could ever have transgressed the +limits of professional propriety. I may tell his thousands of readers on +your side of the Atlantic that there breathes no man of letters more +inspired by kindness and generosity to his brethren of the profession, +and, to put an end to any possibility of error, I may be allowed to add +that I often have recourse, and that I had recourse once more but a few +weeks ago, to the valuable practical help which he makes it his pleasure +to extend to younger men. + +I send a duplicate of this letter to a London weekly; for the mistake, +first set forth in your columns, has already reached England, and my +wanderings have made me perhaps last of the persons interested to hear a +word of it.—I am, etc., + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _Terminus Hotel_, _Marseille_, _Saturday_ (_October_ 1882). + +MY DEAR BOB,—We have found a house!—at Saint Marcel, Banlieue de +Marseille. In a lovely valley between hills part wooded, part white +cliffs; a house of a dining-room, of a fine salon—one side lined with a +long divan—three good bedrooms (two of them with dressing-rooms), three +small rooms (chambers of _bonne_ and sich), a large kitchen, a lumber +room, many cupboards, a back court, a large, large olive yard, cultivated +by a resident _paysan_, a well, a berceau, a good deal of rockery, a +little pine shrubbery, a railway station in front, two lines of omnibus +to Marseille. + + £48 per annum. + +It is called Campagne Defli! query Campagne Debug? The Campagne +Demosquito goes on here nightly, and is very deadly. Ere we can get +installed, we shall be beggared to the door, I see. + +I vote for separations; F.’s arrival here, after our separation, was +better fun to me than being married was by far. A separation completed +is a most valuable property; worth piles.—Ever your affectionate cousin, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Terminus Hotel_, _Marseille_, _le_ 17_th_ _October_ 1882. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—. We grow, every time we see it, more delighted with our +house. It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a lovely spot, among +lovely wooded and cliffy hills—most mountainous in line—far lovelier, to +my eyes, than any Alps. To-day we have been out inventorying; and though +a mistral blew, it was delightful in an open cab, and our house with the +windows open was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear there are +fleas—it is called Campagne Defli—and I look forward to tons of +insecticide being employed. + +I have had to write a letter to the _New York Tribune_ and the +_Athenæum_. Payn was accused of stealing my stories! I think I have put +things handsomely for him. + +Just got a servant! ! !—Ever affectionate son, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +Our servant is a Muckle Hash of a Weedy! + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Campagne Defli_, _St. Marcel_, + _Banlieue de Marseille_, _November_ 13, 1882. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—Your delightful letters duly arrived this morning. They +were the only good feature of the day, which was not a success. Fanny +was in bed—she begged I would not split upon her, she felt so guilty; but +as I believe she is better this evening, and has a good chance to be +right again in a day or two, I will disregard her orders. I do not go +back, but do not go forward—or not much. It is, in one way, +miserable—for I can do no work; a very little wood-cutting, the +newspapers, and a note about every two days to write, completely exhausts +my surplus energy; even Patience I have to cultivate with parsimony. I +see, if I could only get to work, that we could live here with comfort, +almost with luxury. Even as it is, we should be able to get through a +considerable time of idleness. I like the place immensely, though I have +seen so little of it—I have only been once outside the gate since I was +here! It puts me in mind of a summer at Prestonpans and a sickly child +you once told me of. + +Thirty-two years now finished! My twenty-ninth was in San Francisco, I +remember—rather a bleak birthday. The twenty-eighth was not much better; +but the rest have been usually pleasant days in pleasant circumstances. + +Love to you and to my father and to Cummy. + + From me and Fanny and Wogg. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Grand Hotel_, _Nice_, 12_th_ _January_ ’83. + +DEAR CHARLES,—Thanks for your good letter. It is true, man, God’s trüth, +what ye say about the body Stevison. The deil himsel, it’s my belief, +couldnae get the soul harled oot o’ the creature’s wame, or he had seen +the hinder end o’ they proofs. Ye crack o’ Mæcenas, he’s naebody by you! +He gied the lad Horace a rax forrit by all accounts; but he never gied +him proofs like yon. Horace may hae been a better hand at the clink than +Stevison—mind, I’m no sayin’ ‘t—but onyway he was never sae weel prentit. +Damned, but it’s bonny! Hoo mony pages will there be, think ye? +Stevison maun hae sent ye the feck o’ twenty sangs—fifteen I’se warrant. +Weel, that’ll can make thretty pages, gin ye were to prent on ae side +only, whilk wad be perhaps what a man o’ your _great_ idees would be +ettlin’ at, man Johnson. Then there wad be the Pre-face, an’ prose ye +ken prents oot langer than po’try at the hinder end, for ye hae to say +things in’t. An’ then there’ll be a title-page and a dedication and an +index wi’ the first lines like, and the deil an’ a’. Man, it’ll be +grand. Nae copies to be given to the Liberys. + +I am alane myself, in Nice, they ca’t, but damned, I think they micht as +well ca’t Nesty. The Pile-on, ‘s they ca’t, ‘s aboot as big as the river +Tay at Perth; and it’s rainin’ maist like Greenock. Dod, I’ve seen ‘s +had mair o’ what they ca’ the I-talian at Muttonhole. I-talian! I +haenae seen the sun for eicht and forty hours. Thomson’s better, I +believe. But the body’s fair attenyated. He’s doon to seeven stane +eleeven, an’ he sooks awa’ at cod liver ile, till it’s a fair disgrace. +Ye see he tak’s it on a drap brandy; and it’s my belief, it’s just an +excuse for a dram. He an’ Stevison gang aboot their lane, maistly; +they’re company to either, like, an’ whiles they’ll speak o’Johnson. But +_he’s_ far awa’, losh me! Stevison’s last book’s in a third edeetion; +an’ it’s bein’ translated (like the psaulms o’ David, nae less) into +French; and an eediot they ca’ Asher—a kind o’ rival of Tauchnitz—is +bringin’ him oot in a paper book for the Frenchies and the German folk in +twa volumes. Sae he’s in luck, ye see.—Yours, + + THOMSON. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + [_Nice_, _February_ 1883.] + +MY DEAR CUMMY,—You must think, and quite justly, that I am one of the +meanest rogues in creation. But though I do not write (which is a thing +I hate), it by no means follows that people are out of my mind. It is +natural that I should always think more or less about you, and still more +natural that I should think of you when I went back to Nice. But the +real reason why you have been more in my mind than usual is because of +some little verses that I have been writing, and that I mean to make a +book of; and the real reason of this letter (although I ought to have +written to you anyway) is that I have just seen that the book in question +must be dedicated to + + ALISON CUNNINGHAM, + +the only person who will really understand it. I don’t know when it may +be ready, for it has to be illustrated, but I hope in the meantime you +may like the idea of what is to be; and when the time comes, I shall try +to make the dedication as pretty as I can make it. Of course, this is +only a flourish, like taking off one’s hat; but still, a person who has +taken the trouble to write things does not dedicate them to any one +without meaning it; and you must just try to take this dedication in +place of a great many things that I might have said, and that I ought to +have done, to prove that I am not altogether unconscious of the great +debt of gratitude I owe you. This little book, which is all about my +childhood, should indeed go to no other person but you, who did so much +to make that childhood happy. + +Do you know, we came very near sending for you this winter. If we had +not had news that you were ill too, I almost believe we should have done +so, we were so much in trouble. + +I am now very well; but my wife has had a very, very bad spell, through +overwork and anxiety, when I was _lost_! I suppose you heard of that. +She sends you her love, and hopes you will write to her, though she no +more than I deserves it. She would add a word herself, but she is too +played out.—I am, ever your old boy, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Nice_, _March_ 1883.] + +MY DEAR LAD,—This is to announce to you the MS. of Nursery Verses, now +numbering XLVIII. pieces or 599 verses, which, of course, one might +augment _ad infinitum_. + +But here is my notion to make all clear. + +I do not want a big ugly quarto; my soul sickens at the look of a quarto. +I want a refined octavo, not large—not _larger_ than the _Donkey Book_, +at any price. + +I think the full page might hold four verses of four lines, that is to +say, counting their blanks at two, of twenty-two lines in height. The +first page of each number would only hold two verses or ten lines, the +title being low down. At this rate, we should have seventy-eight or +eighty pages of letterpress. + +The designs should not be in the text, but facing the poem; so that if +the artist liked, he might give two pages of design to every poem that +turned the leaf, _i.e._ longer than eight lines, _i.e._ to twenty-eight +out of the forty-six. I should say he would not use this privilege (?) +above five times, and some he might scorn to illustrate at all, so we may +say fifty drawings. I shall come to the drawings next. + +But now you see my book of the thickness, since the drawings count two +pages, of 180 pages; and since the paper will perhaps be thicker, of near +two hundred by bulk. It is bound in a quiet green with the words in thin +gilt. Its shape is a slender, tall octavo. And it sells for the +publisher’s fancy, and it will be a darling to look at; in short, it +would be like one of the original Heine books in type and spacing. + +Now for the pictures. I take another sheet and begin to jot notes for +them when my imagination serves: I will run through the book, writing +when I have an idea. There, I have jotted enough to give the artist a +notion. Of course, I don’t do more than contribute ideas, but I will be +happy to help in any and every way. I may as well add another idea; when +the artist finds nothing much to illustrate, a good drawing of any +_object_ mentioned in the text, were it only a loaf of bread or a +candlestick, is a most delightful thing to a young child. I remember +this keenly. + +Of course, if the artist insists on a larger form, I must I suppose, bow +my head. But my idea I am convinced is the best, and would make the book +truly, not fashionably pretty. + +I forgot to mention that I shall have a dedication; I am going to +dedicate ’em to Cummy; it will please her, and lighten a little my +burthen of ingratitude. A low affair is the Muse business. + +I will add no more to this lest you should want to communicate with the +artist; try another sheet. I wonder how many I’ll keep wandering to. + +O I forgot. As for the title, I think ‘Nursery Verses’ the best. Poetry +is not the strong point of the text, and I shrink from any title that +might seem to claim that quality; otherwise we might have ‘Nursery Muses’ +or ‘New Songs of Innocence’ (but that were a blasphemy), or ‘Rimes of +Innocence’: the last not bad, or—an idea—‘The Jews’ Harp,’ or—now I have +it—‘The Penny Whistle.’ + + THE PENNY WHISTLE: + NURSERY VERSES + BY + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + ILLUSTRATED BY — — — + +And here we have an excellent frontispiece, of a party playing on a P. W. +to a little ring of dancing children. + + THE PENNY WHISTLE + is the name for me. + +Fool! this is all wrong, here is the true name:— + + PENNY WHISTLES + FOR SMALL WHISTLERS. + +The second title is queried, it is perhaps better, as simply PENNY +WHISTLES. + + Nor you, O Penny Whistler, grudge + That I your instrument debase: + By worse performers still we judge, + And give that fife a second place! + +Crossed penny whistles on the cover, or else a sheaf of ’em. + + SUGGESTIONS. + +IV. The procession—the child running behind it. The procession tailing +off through the gates of a cloudy city. + +IX. _Foreign Lands_.—This will, I think, want two plates—the child +climbing, his first glimpse over the garden wall, with what he sees—the +tree shooting higher and higher like the beanstalk, and the view +widening. The river slipping in. The road arriving in Fairyland. + +X. _Windy Nights_.—The child in bed listening—the horseman galloping. + +XII. The child helplessly watching his ship—then he gets smaller, and the +doll joyfully comes alive—the pair landing on the island—the ship’s deck +with the doll steering and the child firing the penny canon. Query two +plates? The doll should never come properly alive. + +XV. Building of the ship—storing her—Navigation—Tom’s accident, the other +child paying no attention. + +XXXI. _The Wind_.—I sent you my notion of already. + +XXXVII. _Foreign Children_.—The foreign types dancing in a jing-a-ring, +with the English child pushing in the middle. The foreign children +looking at and showing each other marvels. The English child at the +leeside of a roast of beef. The English child sitting thinking with his +picture-books all round him, and the jing-a-ring of the foreign children +in miniature dancing over the picture-books. + +XXXIX. Dear artist, can you do me that? + +XLII. The child being started off—the bed sailing, curtains and all, upon +the sea—the child waking and finding himself at home; the corner of +toilette might be worked in to look like the pier. + +XLVII. The lighted part of the room, to be carefully distinguished from +my child’s dark hunting grounds. A shaded lamp. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel des Iles d’Or_, _Hyères_, _Var_, _March_ 2, [1883]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—It must be at least a fortnight since we have had a +scratch of a pen from you; and if it had not been for Cummy’s letter, I +should have feared you were worse again: as it is, I hope we shall hear +from you to-day or to-morrow at latest. + + _Health_. + +Our news is good: Fanny never got so bad as we feared, and we hope now +that this attack may pass off in threatenings. I am greatly better, have +gained flesh, strength, spirits; eat well, walk a good deal, and do some +work without fatigue. I am off the sick list. + + _Lodging_. + +We have found a house up the hill, close to the town, an excellent place +though very, very little. If I can get the landlord to agree to let us +take it by the month just now, and let our month’s rent count for the +year in case we take it on, you may expect to hear we are again +installed, and to receive a letter dated thus:— + + La Solitude, + Hyères-les-Palmiers, + Var. + +If the man won’t agree to that, of course I must just give it up, as the +house would be dear enough anyway at 2000 f. However, I hope we may get +it, as it is healthy, cheerful, and close to shops, and society, and +civilisation. The garden, which is above, is lovely, and will be cool in +summer. There are two rooms below with a kitchen, and four rooms above, +all told.—Ever your affectionate son, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel des Iles d’Or_, _but my address will be Chalet la Solitude_, + _Hyères-le-Palmiers_, _Var_, _France_, _March_ 17, 1883. + +DEAR SIR,—Your undated favour from Eastbourne came to hand in course of +post, and I now hasten to acknowledge its receipt. We must ask you in +future, for the convenience of our business arrangements, to struggle +with and tread below your feet this most unsatisfactory and uncommercial +habit. Our Mr. Cassandra is better; our Mr. Wogg expresses himself +dissatisfied with our new place of business; when left alone in the front +shop, he bawled like a parrot; it is supposed the offices are haunted. + +To turn to the matter of your letter, your remarks on _Great +Expectations_ are very good. We have both re-read it this winter, and I, +in a manner, twice. The object being a play; the play, in its rough +outline, I now see: and it is extraordinary how much of Dickens had to be +discarded as unhuman, impossible, and ineffective: all that really +remains is the loan of a file (but from a grown-up young man who knows +what he was doing, and to a convict who, although he does not know it is +his father—the father knows it is his son), and the fact of the +convict-father’s return and disclosure of himself to the son whom he has +made rich. Everything else has been thrown aside; and the position has +had to be explained by a prologue which is pretty strong. I have great +hopes of this piece, which is very amiable and, in places, very strong +indeed: but it was curious how Dickens had to be rolled away; he had made +his story turn on such improbabilities, such fantastic trifles, not on a +good human basis, such as I recognised. You are right about the casts, +they were a capital idea; a good description of them at first, and then +afterwards, say second, for the lawyer to have illustrated points out of +the history of the originals, dusting the particular bust—that was all +the development the thing would bear. Dickens killed them. The only +really well _executed_ scenes are the riverside ones; the escape in +particular is excellent; and I may add, the capture of the two convicts +at the beginning. Miss Havisham is, probably, the worst thing in human +fiction. But Wemmick I like; and I like Trabb’s boy; and Mr. Wopsle as +Hamlet is splendid. + +The weather here is greatly improved, and I hope in three days to be in +the chalet. That is, if I get some money to float me there. + +I hope you are all right again, and will keep better. The month of March +is past its mid career; it must soon begin to turn toward the lamb; here +it has already begun to do so; and I hope milder weather will pick you +up. Wogg has eaten a forpet of rice and milk, his beard is streaming, +his eyes wild. I am besieged by demands of work from America. + +The £50 has just arrived; many thanks; I am now at ease.—Ever your +affectionate son, _pro_ Cassandra, Wogg and Co., + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Chalet la Solitude_, _Hyères_, [_April_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR FRIEND,—I am one of the lowest of the—but that’s understood. I +received the copy, {263} excellently written, with I think only one slip +from first to last. I have struck out two, and added five or six; so +they now number forty-five; when they are fifty, they shall out on the +world. I have not written a letter for a cruel time; I have been, and +am, so busy, drafting a long story (for me, I mean), about a hundred +_Cornhill_ pages, or say about as long as the Donkey book: _Prince Otto_ +it is called, and is, at the present hour, a sore burthen but a hopeful. +If I had him all drafted, I should whistle and sing. But no: then I’ll +have to rewrite him; and then there will be the publishers, alas! But +some time or other, I shall whistle and sing, I make no doubt. + +I am going to make a fortune, it has not yet begun, for I am not yet +clear of debt; but as soon as I can, I begin upon the fortune. I shall +begin it with a halfpenny, and it shall end with horses and yachts and +all the fun of the fair. This is the first real grey hair in my +character: rapacity has begun to show, the greed of the protuberant +guttler. Well, doubtless, when the hour strikes, we must all guttle and +protube. But it comes hard on one who was always so willow-slender and +as careless as the daisies. + +Truly I am in excellent spirits. I have crushed through a financial +crisis; Fanny is much better; I am in excellent health, and work from +four to five hours a day—from one to two above my average, that is; and +we all dwell together and make fortunes in the loveliest house you ever +saw, with a garden like a fairy story, and a view like a classical +landscape. + +Little? Well, it is not large. And when you come to see us, you will +probably have to bed at the hotel, which is hard by. But it is Eden, +madam, Eden and Beulah and the Delectable Mountains and Eldorado and the +Hesperidean Isles and Bimini. + +We both look forward, my dear friend, with the greatest eagerness to have +you here. It seems it is not to be this season; but I appoint you with +an appointment for next season. You cannot see us else: remember that. +Till my health has grown solid like an oak-tree, till my fortune begins +really to spread its boughs like the same monarch of the woods (and the +acorn, ay de mi! is not yet planted), I expect to be a prisoner among the +palms. + +Yes, it is like old times to be writing you from the Riviera, and after +all that has come and gone who can predict anything? How fortune tumbles +men about! Yet I have not found that they change their friends, thank +God. + +Both of our loves to your sister and yourself. As for me, if I am here +and happy, I know to whom I owe it; I know who made my way for me in +life, if that were all, and I remain, with love, your faithful friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Chalet la Solitude_, _Hyères_, [_April_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I am very guilty; I should have written to you long ago; +and now, though it must be done, I am so stupid that I can only boldly +recapitulate. A phrase of three members is the outside of my syntax. + +First, I liked the _Rover_ better than any of your other verse. I +believe you are right, and can make stories in verse. The last two +stanzas and one or two in the beginning—but the two last above all—I +thought excellent. I suggest a pursuit of the vein. If you want a good +story to treat, get the _Memoirs of the Chevalier Johnstone_, and do his +passage of the Tay; it would be excellent: the dinner in the field, the +woman he has to follow, the dragoons, the timid boatmen, the brave +lasses. It would go like a charm; look at it, and you will say you owe +me one. + +Second, Gilder asking me for fiction, I suddenly took a great resolve, +and have packed off to him my new work, _The Silverado Squatters_. I do +not for a moment suppose he will take it; but pray say all the good words +you can for it. I should be awfully glad to get it taken. But if it +does not mean dibbs at once, I shall be ruined for life. Pray write soon +and beg Gilder your prettiest for a poor gentleman in pecuniary sloughs. + +Fourth, next time I am supposed to be at death’s door, write to me like a +Christian, and let not your correspondence attend on business.—Yours +ever, + + R. L. S. + +_P.S._—I see I have led you to conceive the _Squatters_ are fiction. +They are not, alas! + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Chalet Solitude_, _May_ 5, [1883]. + +MY DEAREST PEOPLE,—I have had a great piece of news. There has been +offered for _Treasure Island_—how much do you suppose? I believe it +would be an excellent jest to keep the answer till my next letter. For +two cents I would do so. Shall I? Anyway, I’ll turn the page first. +No—well—A hundred pounds, all alive, O! A hundred jingling, tingling, +golden, minted quid. Is not this wonderful? Add that I have now +finished, in draft, the fifteenth chapter of my novel, and have only five +before me, and you will see what cause of gratitude I have. + +The weather, to look at the per contra sheet, continues vomitable; and +Fanny is quite out of sorts. But, really, with such cause of gladness, I +have not the heart to be dispirited by anything. My child’s verse book +is finished, dedication and all, and out of my hands—you may tell Cummy; +_Silverado_ is done, too, and cast upon the waters; and this novel so +near completion, it does look as if I should support myself without +trouble in the future. If I have only health, I can, I thank God. It is +dreadful to be a great, big man, and not be able to buy bread. + +O that this may last! + +I have to-day paid my rent for the half year, till the middle of +September, and got my lease: why they have been so long, I know not. + +I wish you all sorts of good things. + +When is our marriage day?—Your loving and ecstatic son, + + TREESURE EILAAN, + +It has been for me a Treasure Island verily. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _May_ 8, 1883. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—I was disgusted to hear my father was not so well. I +have a most troubled existence of work and business. But the work goes +well, which is the great affair. I meant to have written a most +delightful letter; too tired, however, and must stop. Perhaps I’ll find +time to add to it ere post. + +I have returned refreshed from eating, but have little time, as Lloyd +will go soon with the letters on his way to his tutor, Louis Robert +(!!!!), with whom he learns Latin in French, and French, I suppose, in +Latin, which seems to me a capital education. He, Lloyd, is a great +bicycler already, and has been long distances; he is most new-fangled +over his instrument, and does not willingly converse on other subjects. + +Our lovely garden is a prey to snails; I have gathered about a bushel, +which, not having the heart to slay, I steal forth withal and deposit +near my neighbour’s garden wall. As a case of casuistry, this presents +many points of interest. I loathe the snails, but from loathing to +actual butchery, trucidation of multitudes, there is still a step that I +hesitate to take. What, then, to do with them? My neighbour’s vineyard, +pardy! It is a rich, villa, pleasure-garden of course; if it were a +peasant’s patch, the snails, I suppose, would have to perish. + +The weather these last three days has been much better, though it is +still windy and unkind. I keep splendidly well, and am cruelly busy, +with mighty little time even for a walk. And to write at all, under such +pressure, must be held to lean to virtue’s side. + +My financial prospects are shining. O if the health will hold, I should +easily support myself.—Your ever affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, + [_May_ 20, 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I enclose the receipt and the corrections. As for your +letter and Gilder’s, I must take an hour or so to think; the matter much +importing—to me. The £40 was a heavenly thing. + +I send the MS. by Henley, because he acts for me in all matters, and had +the thing, like all my other books, in his detention. He is my unpaid +agent—an admirable arrangement for me, and one that has rather more than +doubled my income on the spot. + +If I have been long silent, think how long you were so and blush, sir, +blush. + +I was rendered unwell by the arrival of your cheque, and, like Pepys, ‘my +hand still shakes to write of it.’ To this grateful emotion, and not to +D.T., please attribute the raggedness of my hand. + +This year I should be able to live and keep my family on my own earnings, +and that in spite of eight months and more of perfect idleness at the end +of last and beginning of this. It is a sweet thought. + +This spot, our garden and our view, are sub-celestial. I sing daily with +my Bunyan, that great bard, + + ‘I dwell already the next door to Heaven!’ + +If you could see my roses, and my aloes, and my fig-marigolds, and my +olives, and my view over a plain, and my view of certain mountains as +graceful as Apollo, as severe as Zeus, you would not think the phrase +exaggerated. + +It is blowing to-day a _hot_ mistral, which is the devil or a near +connection of his. + +This to catch the post.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, _France_, + _May_ 21, 1883. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—The night giveth advice, generally bad advice; but I have +taken it. And I have written direct to Gilder to tell him to keep the +book {269} back and go on with it in November at his leisure. I do not +know if this will come in time; if it doesn’t, of course things will go +on in the way proposed. The £40, or, as I prefer to put it, the 1000 +francs, has been such a piercing sun-ray as my whole grey life is gilt +withal. On the back of it I can endure. If these good days of _Longman_ +and the _Century_ only last, it will be a very green world, this that we +dwell in and that philosophers miscall. I have no taste for that +philosophy; give me large sums paid on the receipt of the MS. and +copyright reserved, and what do I care about the non-bëent? Only I know +it can’t last. The devil always has an imp or two in every house, and my +imps are getting lively. The good lady, the dear, kind lady, the sweet, +excellent lady, Nemesis, whom alone I adore, has fixed her wooden eye +upon me. I fall prone; spare me, Mother Nemesis! But catch her! + +I must now go to bed; for I have had a whoreson influenza cold, and have +to lie down all day, and get up only to meals and the delights, June +delights, of business correspondence. + +You said nothing about my subject for a poem. Don’t you like it? My own +fishy eye has been fixed on it for prose, but I believe it could be +thrown out finely in verse, and hence I resign and pass the hand. Twig +the compliment?—Yours affectionately + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Hyères_, _May_ 1883.] + +. . . THE influenza has busted me a good deal; I have no spring, and am +headachy. So, as my good Red Lion Counter begged me for another +Butcher’s Boy—I turned me to—what thinkest ’ou?—to Tushery, by the mass! +Ay, friend, a whole tale of tushery. And every tusher tushes me so free, +that may I be tushed if the whole thing is worth a tush. _The Black +Arrow_: _A Tale of Tunstall Forest_ is his name: tush! a poor thing! + +Will _Treasure Island_ proofs be coming soon, think you? + +I will now make a confession. It was the sight of your maimed strength +and masterfulness that begot John Silver in _Treasure Island_. Of +course, he is not in any other quality or feature the least like you; but +the idea of the maimed man, ruling and dreaded by the sound, was entirely +taken from you. + +Otto is, as you say, not a thing to extend my public on. It is queer and +a little, little bit free; and some of the parties are immoral; and the +whole thing is not a romance, nor yet a comedy; nor yet a romantic +comedy; but a kind of preparation of some of the elements of all three in +a glass jar. I think it is not without merit, but I am not always on the +level of my argument, and some parts are false, and much of the rest is +thin; it is more a triumph for myself than anything else; for I see, +beyond it, better stuff. I have nine chapters ready, or almost ready, +for press. My feeling would be to get it placed anywhere for as much as +could be got for it, and rather in the shadow, till one saw the look of +it in print.—Ever yours, + + PRETTY SICK. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _May_ 1883. + +MY DEAR LAD,—The books came some time since, but I have not had the pluck +to answer: a shower of small troubles having fallen in, or troubles that +may be very large. + +I have had to incur a huge vague debt for cleaning sewers; our house was +(of course) riddled with hidden cesspools, but that was infallible. I +have the fever, and feel the duty to work very heavy on me at times; yet +go it must. I have had to leave _Fontainebleau_, when three hours would +finish it, and go full-tilt at tushery for a while. But it will come +soon. + +I think I can give you a good article on Hokusai; but that is for +afterwards; _Fontainebleau_ is first in hand + +By the way, my view is to give the _Penny Whistles_ to Crane or +Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is a fellow who, at +least, always does his best. + +Shall I ever have money enough to write a play? O dire necessity! + +A word in your ear: I don’t like trying to support myself. I hate the +strain and the anxiety; and when unexpected expenses are foisted on me, I +feel the world is playing with false dice.—Now I must Tush, adieu, + + AN ACHING, FEVERED, PENNY-JOURNALIST. + + A lytle Jape of TUSHERIE. + + By A. Tusher. + + The pleasant river gushes + Among the meadows green; + At home the author tushes; + For him it flows unseen. + + The Birds among the Bûshes + May wanton on the spray; + But vain for him who tushes + The brightness of the day! + + The frog among the rushes + Sits singing in the blue. + By’r la’kin! but these tushes + Are wearisome to do! + + The task entirely crushes + The spirit of the bard: + God pity him who tushes— + His task is very hard. + + The filthy gutter slushes, + The clouds are full of rain, + But doomed is he who tushes + To tush and tush again. + + At morn with his hair-br_u_shes, + Still, ‘tush’ he says, and weeps; + At night again he tushes, + And tushes till he sleeps. + + And when at length he pushes + Beyond the river dark— + ‘Las, to the man who tushes, + ‘Tush’ shall be God’s remark! + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Chalet La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _May_ 1883.] + +DEAR HENLEY,—You may be surprised to hear that I am now a great writer of +verses; that is, however, so. I have the mania now like my betters, and +faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a book of rhymes like +Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. Really, I have begun to learn some +of the rudiments of that trade, and have written three or four pretty +enough pieces of octosyllabic nonsense, semi-serious, semi-smiling. A +kind of prose Herrick, divested of the gift of verse, and you behold the +Bard. But I like it. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Hyères_ [_June_ 1883]. + +DEAR LAD,—I was delighted to hear the good news about —. Bravo, he goes +uphill fast. Let him beware of vanity, and he will go higher; let him be +still discontented, and let him (if it might be) see the merits and not +the faults of his rivals, and he may swarm at last to the top-gallant. +There is no other way. Admiration is the only road to excellence; and +the critical spirit kills, but envy and injustice are putrefaction on its +feet. + +Thus far the moralist. The eager author now begs to know whether you may +have got the other Whistles, and whether a fresh proof is to be taken; +also whether in that case the dedication should not be printed therewith; +_B_ulk _D_elights _P_ublishers (original aphorism; to be said sixteen +times in succession as a test of sobriety). + +Your wild and ravening commands were received; but cannot be obeyed. And +anyway, I do assure you I am getting better every day; and if the weather +would but turn, I should soon be observed to walk in hornpipes. Truly I +am on the mend. I am still very careful. I have the new dictionary; a +joy, a thing of beauty, and—bulk. I shall be raked i’ the mools before +it’s finished; that is the only pity; but meanwhile I sing. + +I beg to inform you that I, Robert Louis Stevenson, author of _Brashiana_ +and other works, am merely beginning to commence to prepare to make a +first start at trying to understand my profession. O the height and +depth of novelty and worth in any art! and O that I am privileged to swim +and shoulder through such oceans! Could one get out of sight of land—all +in the blue? Alas not, being anchored here in flesh, and the bonds of +logic being still about us. + +But what a great space and a great air there is in these small shallows +where alone we venture! and how new each sight, squall, calm, or sunrise! +An art is a fine fortune, a palace in a park, a band of music, health, +and physical beauty; all but love—to any worthy practiser. I sleep upon +my art for a pillow; I waken in my art; I am unready for death, because I +hate to leave it. I love my wife, I do not know how much, nor can, nor +shall, unless I lost her; but while I can conceive my being widowed, I +refuse the offering of life without my art. I _am_ not but in my art; it +is me; I am the body of it merely. + +And yet I produce nothing, am the author of _Brashiana_ and other works: +tiddy-iddity—as if the works one wrote were anything but ‘prentice’s +experiments. Dear reader, I deceive you with husks, the real works and +all the pleasure are still mine and incommunicable. After this break in +my work, beginning to return to it, as from light sleep, I wax +exclamatory, as you see. + + Sursum Corda: + + Heave ahead: + + Here’s luck. + + Art and Blue Heaven, + + April and God’s Larks. + + Green reeds and the sky-scattering river. + + A stately music. + + Enter God! + + R. L. S. + +Ay, but you know, until a man can write that ‘Enter God,’ he has made no +art! None! Come, let us take counsel together and make some! + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_ [_Summer_ 1883]. + +DEAR LAD,—Glad you like _Fontainebleau_. I am going to be the means, +under heaven, of aërating or liberating your pages. The idea that +because a thing is a picture-book all the writing should be on the wrong +tack is _triste_ but widespread. Thus Hokusai will be really a gossip on +convention, or in great part. And the Skelt will be as like a Charles +Lamb as I can get it. The writer should write, and not illustrate +pictures: else it’s bosh. . . . + +Your remarks about the ugly are my eye. Ugliness is only the prose of +horror. It is when you are not able to write _Macbeth_ that you write +_Thérèse Raquin_. Fashions are external: the essence of art only varies +in so far as fashion widens the field of its application; art is a mill +whose thirlage, in different ages, widens and contracts; but, in any case +and under any fashion, the great man produces beauty, terror, and mirth, +and the little man produces cleverness (personalities, psychology) +instead of beauty, ugliness instead of terror, and jokes instead of +mirth. As it was in the beginning, is now, and shall be ever, world +without end. Amen! + +And even as you read, you say, ‘Of course, _quelle rengaîne_!’ + + R. L. S. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_ [_Summer_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR CUMMY,—Yes, I own I am a real bad correspondent, and am as bad as +can be in most directions. + +I have been adding some more poems to your book. I wish they would look +sharp about it; but, you see, they are trying to find a good artist to +make the illustrations, without which no child would give a kick for it. +It will be quite a fine work, I hope. The dedication is a poem too, and +has been quite a long while written, but I do not mean you to see it till +you get the book; keep the jelly for the last, you know, as you would +often recommend in former days, so now you can take your own medicine. + +I am very sorry to hear you have been so poorly; I have been very well; +it used to be quite the other way, used it not? Do you remember making +the whistle at Mount Chessie? I do not think it _was_ my knife; I +believe it was yours; but rhyme is a very great monarch, and goes before +honesty, in these affairs at least. Do you remember, at Warriston, one +autumn Sunday, when the beech nuts were on the ground, seeing heaven +open? I would like to make a rhyme of that, but cannot. + +Is it not strange to think of all the changes: Bob, Cramond, Delhi, +Minnie, and Henrietta, all married, and fathers and mothers, and your +humble servant just the one point better off? And such a little while +ago all children together! The time goes swift and wonderfully even; and +if we are no worse than we are, we should be grateful to the power that +guides us. For more than a generation I have now been to the fore in +this rough world, and been most tenderly helped, and done cruelly wrong, +and yet escaped; and here I am still, the worse for wear, but with some +fight in me still, and not unthankful—no, surely not unthankful, or I +were then the worst of human beings! + +My little dog is a very much better child in every way, both more loving +and more amiable; but he is not fond of strangers, and is, like most of +his kind, a great, specious humbug. + +Fanny has been ill, but is much better again; she now goes donkey rides +with an old woman, who compliments her on her French. That old +woman—seventy odd—is in a parlous spiritual state. + +Pretty soon, in the new sixpenny illustrated magazine, Wogg’s picture is +to appear: this is a great honour! And the poor soul whose vanity would +just explode if he could understand it, will never be a bit the +wiser!—With much love, in which Fanny joins, believe me, your +affectionate boy, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _Summer_ 1883. + +DEAR LAD,—Snatches in return for yours; for this little once, I’m well to +windward of you. + +Seventeen chapters of _Otto_ are now drafted, and finding I was working +through my voice and getting screechy, I have turned back again to +rewrite the earlier part. It has, I do believe, some merit: of what +order, of course, I am the last to know; and, triumph of triumphs, my +wife—my wife who hates and loathes and slates my women—admits a great +part of my Countess to be on the spot. + +Yes, I could borrow, but it is the joy of being before the public, for +once. Really, £100 is a sight more than _Treasure Island_ is worth. + +The reason of my _dèche_? Well, if you begin one house, have to desert +it, begin another, and are eight months without doing any work, you will +be in a _dèche_ too. I am not in a _dèche_, however; _distinguo_—I would +fain distinguish; I am rather a swell, but _not solvent_. At a touch the +edifice, _ædificium_, might collapse. If my creditors began to babble +around me, I would sink with a slow strain of music into the crimson +west. The difficulty in my elegant villa is to find oil, _oleum_, for +the dam axles. But I’ve paid my rent until September; and beyond the +chemist, the grocer, the baker, the doctor, the gardener, Lloyd’s +teacher, and the great thief creditor Death, I can snap my fingers at all +men. Why will people spring bills on you? I try to make ’em charge me +at the moment; they won’t, the money goes, the debt remains.—The Required +Play is in the _Merry Men_. + + Q. E. F. + +I thus render honour to your _flair_; it came on me of a clap; I do not +see it yet beyond a kind of sunset glory. But it’s there: passion, +romance, the picturesque, involved: startling, simple, horrid: a sea-pink +in sea-froth! _S’agit de la désenterrer_. ‘Help!’ cries a buried +masterpiece. + +Once I see my way to the year’s end, clear, I turn to plays; till then I +grind at letters; finish _Otto_; write, say, a couple of my _Traveller’s +Tales_; and then, if all my ships come home, I will attack the drama in +earnest. I cannot mix the skeins. Thus, though I’m morally sure there +is a play in _Otto_, I dare not look for it: I shoot straight at the +story. + +As a story, a comedy, I think _Otto_ very well constructed; the echoes +are very good, all the sentiments change round, and the points of view +are continually, and, I think (if you please), happily contrasted. None +of it is exactly funny, but some of it is smiling. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_ [_Summer_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I have now leisurely read your volume; pretty soon, by the +way, you will receive one of mine. + +It is a pleasant, instructive, and scholarly volume. The three best +being, quite out of sight—Crashaw, Otway, and Etherege. They are +excellent; I hesitate between them; but perhaps Crashaw is the most +brilliant + +Your Webster is not my Webster; nor your Herrick my Herrick. On these +matters we must fire a gun to leeward, show our colours, and go by. +Argument is impossible. They are two of my favourite authors: Herrick +above all: I suppose they are two of yours. Well, Janus-like, they do +behold us two with diverse countenances, few features are common to these +different avatars; and we can but agree to differ, but still with +gratitude to our entertainers, like two guests at the same dinner, one of +whom takes clear and one white soup. By my way of thinking, neither of +us need be wrong. + +The other papers are all interesting, adequate, clear, and with a +pleasant spice of the romantic. It is a book you may be well pleased to +have so finished, and will do you much good. The Crashaw is capital: +capital; I like the taste of it. Preface clean and dignified. The +handling throughout workmanlike, with some four or five touches of +preciosity, which I regret. + +With my thanks for information, entertainment, and a pleasurable envy +here and there.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, + _Var_, _September_ 19, 1883. + +DEAR BOY,—Our letters vigorously cross: you will ere this have received a +note to Coggie: God knows what was in it. + +It is strange, a little before the first word you sent me—so late—kindly +late, I know and feel—I was thinking in my bed, when I knew you I had six +friends—Bob I had by nature; then came the good James Walter—with all his +failings—the _gentleman_ of the lot, alas to sink so low, alas to do so +little, but now, thank God, in his quiet rest; next I found Baxter—well +do I remember telling Walter I had unearthed ‘a W.S. that I thought would +do’—it was in the Academy Lane, and he questioned me as to the Signet’s +qualifications; fourth came Simpson; somewhere about the same time, I +began to get intimate with Jenkin; last came Colvin. Then, one black +winter afternoon, long Leslie Stephen, in his velvet jacket, met me in +the _Spec._ by appointment, took me over to the infirmary, and in the +crackling, blighting gaslight showed me that old head whose excellent +representation I see before me in the photograph. Now when a man has six +friends, to introduce a seventh is usually hopeless. Yet when you were +presented, you took to them and they to you upon the nail. You must have +been a fine fellow; but what a singular fortune I must have had in my six +friends that you should take to all. I don’t know if it is good Latin, +most probably not: but this is enscrolled before my eye for Walter: +_Tandem e nubibus in apricum properat_. Rest, I suppose, I know, was all +that remained; but O to look back, to remember all the mirth, all the +kindness, all the humorous limitations and loved defects of that +character; to think that he was young with me, sharing that +weather-beaten, Fergussonian youth, looking forward through the clouds to +the sunburst; and now clean gone from my path, silent—well, well. This +has been a strange awakening. Last night, when I was alone in the house, +with the window open on the lovely still night, I could have sworn he was +in the room with me; I could show you the spot; and, what was very +curious, I heard his rich laughter, a thing I had not called to mind for +I know not how long. + +I see his coral waistcoat studs that he wore the first time he dined in +my house; I see his attitude, leaning back a little, already with +something of a portly air, and laughing internally. How I admired him! +And now in the West Kirk. + +I am trying to write out this haunting bodily sense of absence; besides, +what else should I write of? + +Yes, looking back, I think of him as one who was good, though sometimes +clouded. He was the only gentle one of all my friends, save perhaps the +other Walter. And he was certainly the only modest man among the lot. +He never gave himself away; he kept back his secret; there was always a +gentle problem behind all. Dear, dear, what a wreck; and yet how +pleasant is the retrospect! God doeth all things well, though by what +strange, solemn, and murderous contrivances! + +It is strange: he was the only man I ever loved who did not habitually +interrupt. The fact draws my own portrait. And it is one of the many +reasons why I count myself honoured by his friendship. A man like you +_had_ to like me; you could not help yourself; but Ferrier was above me, +we were not equals; his true self humoured and smiled paternally upon my +failings, even as I humoured and sorrowed over his. + +Well, first his mother, then himself, they are gone: ‘in their resting +graves.’ + +When I come to think of it, I do not know what I said to his sister, and +I fear to try again. Could you send her this? There is too much both +about yourself and me in it; but that, if you do not mind, is but a mark +of sincerity. It would let her know how entirely, in the mind of (I +suppose) his oldest friend, the good, true Ferrier obliterates the memory +of the other, who was only his ‘lunatic brother.’ + +Judge of this for me, and do as you please; anyway, I will try to write +to her again; my last was some kind of scrawl that I could not see for +crying. This came upon me, remember, with terrible suddenness; I was +surprised by this death; and it is fifteen or sixteen years since first I +saw the handsome face in the _Spec_. I made sure, besides, to have died +first. Love to you, your wife, and her sisters. + +—Ever yours, dear boy, + + R. L. S. + +I never knew any man so superior to himself as poor James Walter. The +best of him only came as a vision, like Corsica from the Corniche. He +never gave his measure either morally or intellectually. The curse was +on him. Even his friends did not know him but by fits. I have passed +hours with him when he was so wise, good, and sweet, that I never knew +the like of it in any other. And for a beautiful good humour he had no +match. I remember breaking in upon him once with a whole red-hot story +(in my worst manner), pouring words upon him by the hour about some truck +not worth an egg that had befallen me; and suddenly, some half hour +after, finding that the sweet fellow had some concern of his own of +infinitely greater import, that he was patiently and smilingly waiting to +consult me on. It sounds nothing; but the courtesy and the unselfishness +were perfect. It makes me rage to think how few knew him, and how many +had the chance to sneer at their better. + +Well, he was not wasted, that we know; though if anything looked liker +irony than this fitting of a man out with these rich qualities and +faculties to be wrecked and aborted from the very stocks, I do not know +the name of it. Yet we see that he has left an influence; the memory of +his patient courtesy has often checked me in rudeness; has it not you? + +You can form no idea of how handsome Walter was. At twenty he was +splendid to see; then, too, he had the sense of power in him, and great +hopes; he looked forward, ever jesting of course, but he looked to see +himself where he had the right to expect. He believed in himself +profoundly; but _he never disbelieved in others_. To the roughest +Highland student he always had his fine, kind, open dignity of manner; +and a good word behind his back. + +The last time that I saw him before leaving for America—it was a sad blow +to both of us. When he heard I was leaving, and that might be the last +time we might meet—it almost was so—he was terribly upset, and came round +at once. We sat late, in Baxter’s empty house, where I was sleeping. My +dear friend Walter Ferrier: O if I had only written to him more! if only +one of us in these last days had been well! But I ever cherished the +honour of his friendship, and now when he is gone, I know what I have +lost still better. We live on, meaning to meet; but when the hope is +gone, the, pang comes. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, + 26_th_ _September_ 1883. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—It appears a bolt from Transatlantica is necessary to +produce four lines from you. It is not flattering; but as I was always a +bad correspondent, ’tis a vice to which I am lenient. I give you to +know, however, that I have already twice (this makes three times) sent +you what I please to call a letter, and received from you in return a +subterfuge—or nothing. . . . + +My present purpose, however, which must not be postponed, is to ask you +to telegraph to the Americans. + +After a summer of good health of a very radiant order, toothache and the +death of a very old friend, which came upon me like a thunderclap, have +rather shelved my powers. I stare upon the paper, not write. I wish I +could write like your Sculptors; yet I am well aware that I should not +try in that direction. A certain warmth (tepid enough) and a certain +dash of the picturesque are my poor essential qualities; and if I went +fooling after the too classical, I might lose even these. But I envied +you that page. + +I am, of course, deep in schemes; I was so ever. Execution alone +somewhat halts. How much do you make per annum, I wonder? This year, +for the first time, I shall pass £300; I may even get halfway to the next +milestone. This seems but a faint remuneration; and the devil of it is, +that I manage, with sickness, and moves, and education, and the like, to +keep steadily in front of my income. However, I console myself with +this, that if I were anything else under God’s Heaven, and had the same +crank health, I should make an even zero. If I had, with my present +knowledge, twelve months of my old health, I would, could, and should do +something neat. As it is, I have to tinker at my things in little +sittings; and the rent, or the butcher, or something, is always calling +me off to rattle up a pot-boiler. And then comes a back-set of my +health, and I have to twiddle my fingers and play patience. + +Well, I do not complain, but I do envy strong health where it is +squandered. Treasure your strength, and may you never learn by +experience the profound _ennui_ and irritation of the shelved artist. +For then, what is life? All that one has done to make one’s life +effective then doubles the itch of inefficiency. + +I trust also you may be long without finding out the devil that there is +in a bereavement. After love it is the one great surprise that life +preserves for us. Now I don’t think I can be astonished any more.—Yours +affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_ [_October_ 1883]. + +COLVIN, COLVIN, COLVIN,—Yours received; also interesting copy of _P. +Whistles_. ‘In the multitude of councillors the Bible declares there is +wisdom,’ said my great-uncle, ‘but I have always found in them +distraction.’ It is extraordinary how tastes vary: these proofs have +been handed about, it appears, and I have had several letters; +and—distraction. ‘Æsop: the Miller and the Ass.’ Notes on details:— + +1. I love the occasional trochaic line; and so did many excellent +writers before me. + +2. If you don’t like ‘A Good Boy,’ I do. + +3. In ‘Escape at Bedtime,’ I found two suggestions. ‘Shove’ for ‘above’ +is a correction of the press; it was so written. ‘Twinkled’ is just the +error; to the child the stars appear to be there; any word that suggests +illusion is a horror. + +4. I don’t care; I take a different view of the vocative. + +5. Bewildering and childering are good enough for me. These are rhymes, +jingles; I don’t go for eternity and the three unities. + +I will delete some of those condemned, but not all. I don’t care for the +name Penny Whistles; I sent a sheaf to Henley when I sent ’em. But I’ve +forgot the others. I would just as soon call ’em ‘Rimes for Children’ as +anything else. I am not proud nor particular. + +Your remarks on the _Black Arrow_ are to the point. I am pleased you +liked Crookback; he is a fellow whose hellish energy has always fired my +attention. I wish Shakespeare had written the play after he had learned +some of the rudiments of literature and art rather than before. Some +day, I will re-tickle the Sable Missile, and shoot it, _moyennant +finances_, once more into the air; I can lighten it of much, and devote +some more attention to Dick o’ Gloucester. It’s great sport to write +tushery. + +By this I reckon you will have heard of my proposed excursiolorum to the +Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, and kindred sites. If the +excursiolorum goes on, that is, if _moyennant finances_ comes off, I +shall write to beg you to collect introductiolorums for me. + +Distinguo: 1. _Silverado_ was not written in America, but in +Switzerland’s icy mountains. 2. What you read is the bleeding and +disembowelled remains of what I wrote. 3. The good stuff is all to +come—so I think. ‘The Sea Fogs,’ ‘The Hunter’s Family,’ ‘Toils and +Pleasures’—_belles pages_.—Yours ever, + + RAMNUGGER. + +O!—Seeley is too clever to live, and the book a gem. But why has he read +too much Arnold? Why will he avoid—obviously avoid—fine writing up to +which he has led? This is a winking, curled-and-oiled, ultra-cultured, +Oxford-don sort of an affectation that infuriates my honest soul. ‘You +see’—they say—‘how unbombastic _we_ are; we come right up to eloquence, +and, when it’s hanging on the pen, dammy, we scorn it!’ It is literary +Deronda-ism. If you don’t want the woman, the image, or the phrase, +mortify your vanity and avoid the appearance of wanting them. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _October_ [1883]. + +MY DEAR LOW,—. . . Some day or other, in Cassell’s _Magazine of Art_, you +will see a paper which will interest you, and where your name appears. +It is called ‘Fontainebleau: Village Communities of Artists,’ and the +signature of R. L. Stevenson will be found annexed. + +Please tell the editor of _Manhattan_ the following secrets for me: +1_st_, That I am a beast; 2_nd_, that I owe him a letter; 3_rd_, that I +have lost his, and cannot recall either his name or address; 4_th_, that +I am very deep in engagements, which my absurd health makes it hard for +me to overtake; but 5_th_, that I will bear him in mind; 6_th_ and last, +that I am a brute. + +My address is still the same, and I live in a most sweet corner of the +universe, sea and fine hills before me, and a rich variegated plain; and +at my back a craggy hill, loaded with vast feudal ruins. I am very +quiet; a person passing by my door half startles me; but I enjoy the most +aromatic airs, and at night the most wonderful view into a moonlit +garden. By day this garden fades into nothing, overpowered by its +surroundings and the luminous distance; but at night and when the moon is +out, that garden, the arbour, the flight of stairs that mount the +artificial hillock, the plumed blue gum-trees that hang trembling, become +the very skirts of Paradise. Angels I know frequent it; and it thrills +all night with the flutes of silence. Damn that garden;—and by day it is +gone. + +Continue to testify boldly against realism. Down with Dagon, the fish +god! All art swings down towards imitation, in these days, fatally. But +the man who loves art with wisdom sees the joke; it is the lustful that +tremble and respect her ladyship; but the honest and romantic lovers of +the Muse can see a joke and sit down to laugh with Apollo. + +The prospect of your return to Europe is very agreeable; and I was +pleased by what you said about your parents. One of my oldest friends +died recently, and this has given me new thoughts of death. Up to now I +had rather thought of him as a mere personal enemy of my own; but now +that I see him hunting after my friends, he looks altogether darker. My +own father is not well; and Henley, of whom you must have heard me speak, +is in a questionable state of health. These things are very solemn, and +take some of the colour out of life. It is a great thing, after all, to +be a man of reasonable honour and kindness. Do you remember once +consulting me in Paris whether you had not better sacrifice honesty to +art; and how, after much confabulation, we agreed that your art would +suffer if you did? We decided better than we knew. In this strange +welter where we live, all hangs together by a million filaments; and to +do reasonably well by others, is the first prerequisite of art. Art is a +virtue; and if I were the man I should be, my art would rise in the +proportion of my life. + +If you were privileged to give some happiness to your parents, I know +your art will gain by it. _By God_, _it will_! _Sic subscribitur_, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_ [_October_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR BOB,—Yes, I got both your letters at Lyons, but have been since +then decading in several steps Toothache; fever; Ferrier’s death; lung. +Now it is decided I am to leave to-morrow, penniless, for Nice to see Dr. +Williams. + +I was much struck by your last. I have written a breathless note on +Realism for Henley; a fifth part of the subject, hurriedly touched, which +will show you how my thoughts are driving. You are now at last beginning +to think upon the problems of executive, plastic art, for you are now for +the first time attacking them. Hitherto you have spoken and thought of +two things—technique and the _ars artium_, or common background of all +arts. Studio work is the real touch. That is the genial error of the +present French teaching. Realism I regard as a mere question of method. +The ‘brown foreground,’ ‘old mastery,’ and the like, ranking with +villanelles, as technical sports and pastimes. Real art, whether ideal +or realistic, addresses precisely the same feeling, and seeks the same +qualities—significance or charm. And the same—very same—inspiration is +only methodically differentiated according as the artist is an arrant +realist or an arrant idealist. Each, by his own method, seeks to save +and perpetuate the same significance or charm; the one by suppressing, +the other by forcing, detail. All other idealism is the brown foreground +over again, and hence only art in the sense of a game, like cup and ball. +All other realism is not art at all—but not at all. It is, then, an +insincere and showy handicraft. + +Were you to re-read some Balzac, as I have been doing, it would greatly +help to clear your eyes. He was a man who never found his method. An +inarticulate Shakespeare, smothered under forcible-feeble detail. It is +astounding to the riper mind how bad he is, how feeble, how untrue, how +tedious; and, of course, when he surrendered to his temperament, how good +and powerful. And yet never plain nor clear. He could not consent to be +dull, and thus became so. He would leave nothing undeveloped, and thus +drowned out of sight of land amid the multitude of crying and incongruous +details. There is but one art—to omit! O if I knew how to omit, I would +ask no other knowledge. A man who knew how to omit would make an _Iliad_ +of a daily paper. + +Your definition of seeing is quite right. It is the first part of +omission to be partly blind. Artistic sight is judicious blindness. Sam +Bough {289} must have been a jolly blind old boy. He would turn a +corner, look for one-half or quarter minute, and then say, ‘This’ll do, +lad.’ Down he sat, there and then, with whole artistic plan, scheme of +colour, and the like, and begin by laying a foundation of powerful and +seemingly incongruous colour on the block. He saw, not the scene, but +the water-colour sketch. Every artist by sixty should so behold nature. +Where does he learn that? In the studio, I swear. He goes to nature for +facts, relations, values—material; as a man, before writing a historical +novel, reads up memoirs. But it is not by reading memoirs that he has +learned the selective criterion. He has learned that in the practice of +his art; and he will never learn it well, but when disengaged from the +ardent struggle of immediate representation, of realistic and _ex facto_ +art. He learns it in the crystallisation of day-dreams; in changing, not +in copying, fact; in the pursuit of the ideal, not in the study of +nature. These temples of art are, as you say, inaccessible to the +realistic climber. It is not by looking at the sea that you get + + ‘The multitudinous seas incarnadine,’ + +nor by looking at Mont Blanc that you find + + ‘And visited all night by troops of stars.’ + +A kind of ardour of the blood is the mother of all this; and according as +this ardour is swayed by knowledge and seconded by craft, the art +expression flows clear, and significance and charm, like a moon rising, +are born above the barren juggle of mere symbols. + +The painter must study more from nature than the man of words. But why? +Because literature deals with men’s business and passions which, in the +game of life, we are irresistibly obliged to study; but painting with +relations of light, and colour, and significances, and form, which, from +the immemorial habit of the race, we pass over with an unregardful eye. +Hence this crouching upon camp-stools, and these crusts. {290} But +neither one nor other is a part of art, only preliminary studies. + +I want you to help me to get people to understand that realism is a +method, and only methodic in its consequences; when the realist is an +artist, that is, and supposing the idealist with whom you compare him to +be anything but a _farceur_ and a _dilettante_. The two schools of +working do, and should, lead to the choice of different subjects. But +that is a consequence, not a cause. See my chaotic note, which will +appear, I fancy, in November in Henley’s sheet. + +Poor Ferrier, it bust me horrid. He was, after you, the oldest of my +friends. + +I am now very tired, and will go to bed having prelected freely. Fanny +will finish. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, 12_th_ _October_ 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—I have just lunched; the day is exquisite, the air comes +though the open window rich with odour, and I am by no means spiritually +minded. Your letter, however, was very much valued, and has been read +oftener than once. What you say about yourself I was glad to hear; a +little decent resignation is not only becoming a Christian, but is likely +to be excellent for the health of a Stevenson. To fret and fume is +undignified, suicidally foolish, and theologically unpardonable; we are +here not to make, but to tread predestined, pathways; we are the foam of +a wave, and to preserve a proper equanimity is not merely the first part +of submission to God, but the chief of possible kindnesses to those about +us. I am lecturing myself, but you also. To do our best is one part, +but to wash our hands smilingly of the consequence is the next part, of +any sensible virtue. + +I have come, for the moment, to a pause in my moral works; for I have +many irons in the fire, and I wish to finish something to bring coin +before I can afford to go on with what I think doubtfully to be a duty. +It is a most difficult work; a touch of the parson will drive off those I +hope to influence; a touch of overstrained laxity, besides disgusting, +like a grimace, may do harm. Nothing that I have ever seen yet speaks +directly and efficaciously to young men; and I do hope I may find the art +and wisdom to fill up a gap. The great point, as I see it, is to ask as +little as possible, and meet, if it may be, every view or absence of +view; and it should be, must be, easy. Honesty is the one desideratum; +but think how hard a one to meet. I think all the time of Ferrier and +myself; these are the pair that I address. Poor Ferrier, so much a +better man than I, and such a temporal wreck. But the thing of which we +must divest our minds is to look partially upon others; all is to be +viewed; and the creature judged, as he must be by his Creator, not +dissected through a prism of morals, but in the unrefracted ray. So +seen, and in relation to the almost omnipotent surroundings, who is to +distinguish between F. and such a man as Dr. Candlish, or between such a +man as David Hume and such an one as Robert Burns? To compare my poor +and good Walter with myself is to make me startle; he, upon all grounds +above the merely expedient, was the nobler being. Yet wrecked utterly +ere the full age of manhood; and the last skirmishes so well fought, so +humanly useless, so pathetically brave, only the leaps of an expiring +lamp. All this is a very pointed instance. It shuts the mouth. I have +learned more, in some ways, from him than from any other soul I ever met; +and he, strange to think, was the best gentleman, in all kinder senses, +that I ever knew.—Ever your affectionate son, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + [_Chalet la Solitude_, _Hyères_, _Oct._ 23, 1883.] + +MY DEAR LOW,—_C’est d’un bon camarade_; and I am much obliged to you for +your two letters and the inclosure. Times are a lityle changed with all +of us since the ever memorable days of Lavenue: hallowed be his name! +hallowed his old Fleury!—of which you did not see—I think—as I did—the +glorious apotheosis: advanced on a Tuesday to three francs, on the +Thursday to six, and on Friday swept off, holus bolus, for the +proprietor’s private consumption. Well, we had the start of that +proprietor. Many a good bottle came our way, and was, I think, worthily +made welcome. + +I am pleased that Mr. Gilder should like my literature; and I ask you +particularly to thank Mr. Bunner (have I the name right?) for his notice, +which was of that friendly, headlong sort that really pleases an author +like what the French call a ‘shake-hands.’ It pleased me the more coming +from the States, where I have met not much recognition, save from the +buccaneers, and above all from pirates who misspell my name. I saw my +book advertised in a number of the _Critic_ as the work of one R. L. +Stephenson; and, I own, I boiled. It is so easy to know the name of the +man whose book you have stolen; for there it is, at full length, on the +title-page of your booty. But no, damn him, not he! He calls me +Stephenson. These woes I only refer to by the way, as they set a higher +value on the _Century_ notice. + +I am now a person with an established ill-health—a wife—a dog possessed +with an evil, a Gadarene spirit—a chalet on a hill, looking out over the +Mediterranean—a certain reputation—and very obscure finances. Otherwise, +very much the same, I guess; and were a bottle of Fleury a thing to be +obtained, capable of developing theories along with a fit spirit even as +of yore. Yet I now draw near to the Middle Ages; nearly three years ago, +that fatal Thirty struck; and yet the great work is not yet done—not yet +even conceived. But so, as one goes on, the wood seems to thicken, the +footpath to narrow, and the House Beautiful on the hill’s summit to draw +further and further away. We learn, indeed, to use our means; but only +to learn, along with it, the paralysing knowledge that these means are +only applicable to two or three poor commonplace motives. Eight years +ago, if I could have slung ink as I can now, I should have thought myself +well on the road after Shakespeare; and now—I find I have only got a pair +of walking-shoes and not yet begun to travel. And art is still away +there on the mountain summit. But I need not continue; for, of course, +this is your story just as much as it is mine; and, strange to think, it +was Shakespeare’s too, and Beethoven’s, and Phidias’s. It is a blessed +thing that, in this forest of art, we can pursue our wood-lice and +sparrows, _and not catch them_, with almost the same fervour of +exhilaration as that with which Sophocles hunted and brought down the +Mastodon. + +Tell me something of your work, and your wife.—My dear fellow, I am yours +ever, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +My wife begs to be remembered to both of you; I cannot say as much for my +dog, who has never seen you, but he would like, on general principles, to +bite you. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Hyères_, _November_ 1883.] + +MY DEAR LAD,—. . . Of course, my seamanship is jimmy: did I not beseech +you I know not how often to find me an ancient mariner—and you, whose own +wife’s own brother is one of the ancientest, did nothing for me? As for +my seamen, did Runciman ever know eighteenth century buccaneers? No? +Well, no more did I. But I have known and sailed with seamen too, and +lived and eaten with them; and I made my put-up shot in no great +ignorance, but as a put-up thing has to be made, _i.e._ to be coherent +and picturesque, and damn the expense. Are they fairly lively on the +wires? Then, favour me with your tongues. Are they wooden, and dim, and +no sport? Then it is I that am silent, otherwise not. The work, strange +as it may sound in the ear, is not a work of realism. The next thing I +shall hear is that the etiquette is wrong in Otto’s Court! With a +warrant, and I mean it to be so, and the whole matter never cost me half +a thought. I make these paper people to please myself, and Skelt, and +God Almighty, and with no ulterior purpose. Yet am I mortal myself; for, +as I remind you, I begged for a supervising mariner. However, my heart +is in the right place. I have been to sea, but I never crossed the +threshold of a court; and the courts shall be the way I want ’em. + +I’m glad to think I owe you the review that pleased me best of all the +reviews I ever had; the one I liked best before that was —’s on the +_Arabians_. These two are the flowers of the collection, according to +me. To live reading such reviews and die eating ortolans—sich is my +aspiration. + +Whenever you come you will be equally welcome. I am trying to finish +_Otto_ ere you shall arrive, so as to take and be able to enjoy a +well-earned—O yes, a well-earned—holiday. Longman fetched by Otto: is it +a spoon or a spoilt horn? Momentous, if the latter; if the former, a +spoon to dip much praise and pudding, and to give, I do think, much +pleasure. The last part, now in hand, much smiles upon me.—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, [_November_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—You must not blame me too much for my silence; I am over +head and ears in work, and do not know what to do first. I have been +hard at _Otto_, hard at _Silverado_ proofs, which I have worked over +again to a tremendous extent; cutting, adding, rewriting, until some of +the worst chapters of the original are now, to my mind, as good as any. +I was the more bound to make it good, as I had such liberal terms; it’s +not for want of trying if I have failed. + +I got your letter on my birthday; indeed, that was how I found it out +about three in the afternoon, when postie comes. Thank you for all you +said. As for my wife, that was the best investment ever made by man; but +‘in our branch of the family’ we seem to marry well. I, considering my +piles of work, am wonderfully well; I have not been so busy for I know +not how long. I hope you will send me the money I asked however, as I am +not only penniless, but shall remain so in all human probability for some +considerable time. I have got in the mass of my expectations; and the +£100 which is to float us on the new year can not come due till +_Silverado_ is all ready; I am delaying it myself for the moment; then +will follow the binders and the travellers and an infinity of other +nuisances; and only at the last, the jingling-tingling. + +Do you know that _Treasure Island_ has appeared? In the November number +of Henley’s Magazine, a capital number anyway, there is a funny +publisher’s puff of it for your book; also a bad article by me. Lang +dotes on _Treasure Island_: ‘Except _Tom Sawyer_ and the _Odyssey_,’ he +writes, ‘I never liked any romance so much.’ I will inclose the letter +though. The Bogue is angelic, although very dirty. It has rained—at +last! It was jolly cold when the rain came. + +I was overjoyed to hear such good news of my father. Let him go on at +that! Ever your affectionate, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, [_November_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no shame. +I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self-righteous +spirit. + +I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and +indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy’s ear. + +I suppose you heard of Ferrier’s death: my oldest friend, except Bob. It +has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am strangely concerned +about it. + +My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight nights we +have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the Arabian Nights, +inhabit just my corner of the world—nest there like mavises. + + Here lies + The carcase + of + Robert Louis Stevenson, + An active, austere, and not inelegant + writer, + who, + at the termination of a long career, + wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by + the attention of two hemispheres, + yet owned it to have been his crowning favour + TO INHABIT + LA SOLITUDE. + +(With the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyères, he has been +interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden which he honoured for so +long with his poetic presence.) + +I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. Write. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. MILNE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, [_November_ 1883]. + +MY DEAR HENRIETTA,—Certainly; who else would they be? More by token, on +that particular occasion, you were sailing under the title of Princess +Royal; I, after a furious contest, under that of Prince Alfred; and +Willie, still a little sulky, as the Prince of Wales. We were all in a +buck basket about half-way between the swing and the gate; and I can +still see the Pirate Squadron heave in sight upon the weather bow. + +I wrote a piece besides on Giant Bunker; but I was not happily inspired, +and it is condemned. Perhaps I’ll try again; he was a horrid fellow, +Giant Bunker! and some of my happiest hours were passed in pursuit of +him. You were a capital fellow to play: how few there were who could! +None better than yourself. I shall never forget some of the days at +Bridge of Allan; they were one golden dream. See ‘A Good Boy’ in the +_Penny Whistles_, much of the sentiment of which is taken direct from one +evening at B. of A. when we had had a great play with the little Glasgow +girl. Hallowed be that fat book of fairy tales! Do you remember acting +the Fair One with Golden Locks? What a romantic drama! Generally +speaking, whenever I think of play, it is pretty certain that you will +come into my head. I wrote a paper called ‘Child’s Play’ once, where, I +believe, you or Willie would recognise things. . . . + +Surely Willie is just the man to marry; and if his wife wasn’t a happy +woman, I think I could tell her who was to blame. Is there no word of +it? Well, these things are beyond arrangement; and the wind bloweth +where it listeth—which, I observe, is generally towards the west in +Scotland. Here it prefers a south-easterly course, and is called the +Mistral—usually with an adjective in front. But if you will remember my +yesterday’s toothache and this morning’s crick, you will be in a position +to choose an adjective for yourself. Not that the wind is unhealthy; +only when it comes strong, it is both very high and very cold, which +makes it the d-v-l. But as I am writing to a lady, I had better avoid +this topic; winds requiring a great scope of language. + +Please remember me to all at home; give Ramsay a pennyworth of acidulated +drops for his good taste.—And believe me, your affectionate cousin, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS FERRIER + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _Var_, _November_ 22, 1883. + +DEAR MISS FERRIER,—Many thanks for the photograph. It is—well, it is +like most photographs. The sun is an artist of too much renown; and, at +any rate, we who knew Walter ‘in the brave days of old’ will be difficult +to please. + +I was inexpressibly touched to get a letter from some lawyers as to some +money. I have never had any account with my friends; some have gained +and some lost; and I should feel there was something dishonest in a +partial liquidation even if I could recollect the facts, _which I +cannot_. But the fact of his having put aside this memorandum touched me +greatly. + +The mystery of his life is great. Our chemist in this place, who had +been at Malvern, recognised the picture. You may remember Walter had a +romantic affection for all pharmacies? and the bottles in the window were +for him a poem? He said once that he knew no pleasure like driving +through a lamplit city, waiting for the chemists to go by. + +All these things return now. + +He had a pretty full translation of Schiller’s _Æsthetic Letters_, which +we read together, as well as the second part of _Faust_, in Gladstone +Terrace, he helping me with the German. There is no keepsake I should +more value than the MS. of that translation. They were the best days I +ever had with him, little dreaming all would so soon be over. It needs a +blow like this to convict a man of mortality and its burthen. I always +thought I should go by myself; not to survive. But now I feel as if the +earth were undermined, and all my friends have lost one thickness of +reality since that one passed. Those are happy who can take it +otherwise; with that I found things all beginning to dislimn. Here we +have no abiding city, and one felt as though he had—and O too much acted. + +But if you tell me, he did not feel my silence. However, he must have +done so; and my guilt is irreparable now. I thank God at least heartily +that he did not resent it. + +Please remember me to Sir Alexander and Lady Grant, to whose care I will +address this. When next I am in Edinburgh I will take flowers, alas! to +the West Kirk. Many a long hour we passed in graveyards, the man who has +gone and I—or rather not that man—but the beautiful, genial, witty youth +who so betrayed him.—Dear Miss Ferrier, I am yours most sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _Var_, 13_th_ _December_ 1883. + +MY DEAR LOW,—. . . I was much pleased with what you send about my work. +Ill-health is a great handicapper in the race. I have never at command +that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a thing red-hot. +_Silverado_ is an example of stuff worried and pawed about, God knows how +often, in poor health, and you can see for yourself the result: good +pages, an imperfect fusion, a certain languor of the whole. Not, in +short, art. I have told Roberts to send you a copy of the book when it +appears, where there are some fair passages that will be new to you. My +brief romance, _Prince Otto_—far my most difficult adventure up to now—is +near an end. I have still one chapter to write _de fond en comble_, and +three or four to strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I do not know +if I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; but I am tempted to hope +the first. If the present bargain hold, it will not see the light of day +for some thirteen months. Then I shall be glad to know how it strikes +you. There is a good deal of stuff in it, both dramatic and, I think, +poetic; and the story is not like these purposeless fables of to-day, but +is, at least, intended to stand _firm_ upon a base of philosophy—or +morals—as you please. It has been long gestated, and is wrought with +care. _Enfin_, _nous verrons_. My labours have this year for the first +time been rewarded with upwards of £350; that of itself, so base we are! +encourages me; and the better tenor of my health yet more.—Remember me to +Mrs. Low, and believe me, yours most sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _December_ 20, 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—I do not know which of us is to blame; I suspect it is +you this time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I was pleased +to see; I am, on the whole, very well—suffering a little still from my +fever and liver complications, but better. + +I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you above all +things _not_ to read, as it has made me very ill, and would make you +worse—Lockhart’s _Scott_. It is worth reading, as all things are from +time to time that keep us nose to nose with fact; though I think such +reading may be abused, and that a great deal of life is better spent in +reading of a light and yet chivalrous strain. Thus, no Waverley novel +approaches in power, blackness, bitterness, and moral elevation to the +diary and Lockhart’s narrative of the end; and yet the Waverley novels +are better reading for every day than the Life. You may take a tonic +daily, but not phlebotomy. + +The great double danger of taking life too easily, and taking it too +hard, how difficult it is to balance that! But we are all too little +inclined to faith; we are all, in our serious moments, too much inclined +to forget that all are sinners, and fall justly by their faults, and +therefore that we have no more to do with that than with the +thunder-cloud; only to trust, and do our best, and wear as smiling a face +as may be for others and ourselves. But there is no royal road among +this complicated business. Hegel the German got the best word of all +philosophy with his antinomies: the contrary of everything is its +postulate. That is, of course, grossly expressed, but gives a hint of +the idea, which contains a great deal of the mysteries of religion, and a +vast amount of the practical wisdom of life. For your part, there is no +doubt as to your duty—to take things easy and be as happy as you can, for +your sake, and my mother’s, and that of many besides. Excuse this +sermon.—Ever your loving son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _December_ 25, 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,—This it is supposed will reach you about +Christmas, and I believe I should include Lloyd in the greeting. But I +want to lecture my father; he is not grateful enough; he is like Fanny; +his resignation is not the ‘true blue.’ A man who has gained a stone; +whose son is better, and, after so many fears to the contrary, I dare to +say, a credit to him; whose business is arranged; whose marriage is a +picture—what I should call resignation in such a case as his would be to +‘take down his fiddle and play as lood as ever he could.’ That and +nought else. And now, you dear old pious ingrate, on this Christmas +morning, think what your mercies have been; and do not walk too far +before your breakfast—as far as to the top of India Street, then to the +top of Dundas Street, and then to your ain stair heid; and do not forget +that even as _laborare_, so _joculari_, _est orare_; and to be happy the +first step to being pious. + +I have as good as finished my novel, and a hard job it has been—but now +practically over, _laus deo_! My financial prospects better than ever +before; my excellent wife a touch dolorous, like Mr. Tommy; my Bogue +quite converted, and myself in good spirits. O, send Curry Powder per +Baxter. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_La Solitude_, _Hyères_], _last Sunday of_ ’83. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—I give my father up. I give him a parable: that the +Waverley novels are better reading for every day than the tragic Life. +And he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his head, and is gloomier +than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I don’t want no such a parent. +This is not the man for my money. I do not call that by the name of +religion which fills a man with bile. I write him a whole letter, +bidding him beware of extremes, and telling him that his gloom is +gallows-worthy; and I get back an answer—Perish the thought of it. + +Here am I on the threshold of another year, when, according to all human +foresight, I should long ago have been resolved into my elements; here am +I, who you were persuaded was born to disgrace you—and, I will do you the +justice to add, on no such insufficient grounds—no very burning discredit +when all is done; here am I married, and the marriage recognised to be a +blessing of the first order, A1 at Lloyd’s. There is he, at his not +first youth, able to take more exercise than I at thirty-three, and +gaining a stone’s weight, a thing of which I am incapable. There are +you; has the man no gratitude? There is Smeoroch {303}: is he blind? +Tell him from me that all this is + + NOT THE TRUE BLUE! + +I will think more of his prayers when I see in him a spirit of _praise_. +Piety is a more childlike and happy attitude than he admits. Martha, +Martha, do you hear the knocking at the door? But Mary was happy. Even +the Shorter Catechism, not the merriest epitome of religion, and a work +exactly as pious although not quite so true as the multiplication +table—even that dry-as-dust epitome begins with a heroic note. What is +man’s chief end? Let him study that; and ask himself if to refuse to +enjoy God’s kindest gifts is in the spirit indicated. Up, Dullard! It +is better service to enjoy a novel than to mump. + +I have been most unjust to the Shorter Catechism, I perceive. I wish to +say that I keenly admire its merits as a performance; and that all that +was in my mind was its peculiarly unreligious and unmoral texture; from +which defect it can never, of course, exercise the least influence on the +minds of children. But they learn fine style and some austere thinking +unconsciously.—Ever your loving son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, _January_ 1 (1884). + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—A Good New Year to you. The year closes, leaving me with +£50 in the bank, owing no man nothing, £100 more due to me in a week or +so, and £150 more in the course of the month; and I can look back on a +total receipt of £465, 0s. 6d. for the last twelve months! + +And yet I am not happy! + +Yet I beg! Here is my beggary:— + + 1. Sellar’s Trial. + + 2. George Borrow’s Book about Wales. + + 3. My Grandfather’s Trip to Holland. + + 4. And (but this is, I fear, impossible) the Bell Rock Book. + +When I think of how last year began, after four months of sickness and +idleness, all my plans gone to water, myself starting alone, a kind of +spectre, for Nice—should I not be grateful? Come, let us sing unto the +Lord! + +Nor should I forget the expected visit, but I will not believe in that +till it befall; I am no cultivator of disappointments, ’tis a herb that +does not grow in my garden; but I get some good crops both of remorse and +gratitude. The last I can recommend to all gardeners; it grows best in +shiny weather, but once well grown, is very hardy; it does not require +much labour; only that the husbandman should smoke his pipe about the +flower-plots and admire God’s pleasant wonders. Winter green (otherwise +known as Resignation, or the ‘false gratitude plant’) springs in much the +same soil; is little hardier, if at all; and requires to be so dug about +and dunged, that there is little margin left for profit. The variety +known as the Black Winter green (H. V. Stevensoniana) is rather for +ornament than profit. + +‘John, do you see that bed of resignation?’—‘It’s doin’ bravely, +sir.’—‘John, I will not have it in my garden; it flatters not the eye and +comforts not the stomach; root it out.’—‘Sir, I ha’e seen o’ them that +rase as high as nettles; gran’ plants!’—‘What then? Were they as tall as +alps, if still unsavoury and bleak, what matters it? Out with it, then; +and in its place put Laughter and a Good Conceit (that capital home +evergreen), and a bush of Flowering Piety—but see it be the flowering +sort—the other species is no ornament to any gentleman’s Back Garden.’ + + JNO. BUNYAN. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, 9_th_ _March_ 1884. + +MY DEAR S. C.,—You will already have received a not very sane note from +me; so your patience was rewarded—may I say, your patient silence? +However, now comes a letter, which on receipt, I thus acknowledge. + +I have already expressed myself as to the political aspect. About +Grahame, I feel happier; it does seem to have been really a good, neat, +honest piece of work. We do not seem to be so badly off for commanders: +Wolseley and Roberts, and this pile of Woods, Stewarts, Alisons, +Grahames, and the like. Had we but ONE statesman on any side of the +house! + +Two chapters of _Otto_ do remain: one to rewrite, one to create; and I am +not yet able to tackle them. For me it is my chief o’ works; hence +probably not so for others, since it only means that I have here attacked +the greatest difficulties. But some chapters towards the end: three in +particular—I do think come off. I find them stirring, dramatic, and not +unpoetical. We shall see, however; as like as not, the effort will be +more obvious than the success. For, of course, I strung myself hard to +carry it out. The next will come easier, and possibly be more popular. +I believe in the covering of much paper, each time with a definite and +not too difficult artistic purpose; and then, from time to time, drawing +oneself up and trying, in a superior effort, to combine the facilities +thus acquired or improved. Thus one progresses. But, mind, it is very +likely that the big effort, instead of being the masterpiece, may be the +blotted copy, the gymnastic exercise. This no man can tell; only the +brutal and licentious public, snouting in Mudie’s wash-trough, can return +a dubious answer. + +I am to-day, thanks to a pure heaven and a beneficent, loud-talking, +antiseptic mistral, on the high places as to health and spirits. Money +holds out wonderfully. Fanny has gone for a drive to certain meadows +which are now one sheet of jonquils: sea-bound meadows, the thought of +which may freshen you in Bloomsbury. ‘Ye have been fresh and fair, Ye +have been filled with flowers’—I fear I misquote. Why do people babble? +Surely Herrick, in his true vein, is superior to Martial himself, though +Martial is a very pretty poet. + +Did you ever read St. Augustine? The first chapters of the _Confessions_ +are marked by a commanding genius. Shakespearian in depth. I was struck +dumb, but, alas! when you begin to wander into controversy, the poet +drops out. His description of infancy is most seizing. And how is this: +‘Sed majorum nugae negotia vocantur; puerorum autem talia cum sint +puniuntur a majoribus.’ Which is quite after the heart of R. L. S. See +also his splendid passage about the ‘luminosus limes amicitiae’ and the +‘nebulae de limosa concupiscentia carnis’; going on ‘_Utrumque_ in +confuso aestuabat et rapiebat imbecillam aetatem per abrupta +cupiditatum.’ That ‘Utrumque’ is a real contribution to life’s science. +Lust _alone_ is but a pigmy; but it never, or rarely, attacks us +single-handed. + +Do you ever read (to go miles off, indeed) the incredible Barbey +d’Aurevilly? A psychological Poe—to be for a moment Henley. I own with +pleasure I prefer him with all his folly, rot, sentiment, and mixed +metaphors, to the whole modern school in France. It makes me laugh when +it’s nonsense; and when he gets an effect (though it’s still nonsense and +mere Poëry, not poesy) it wakens me. _Ce qui ne meurt pas_ nearly killed +me with laughing, and left me—well, it left me very nearly admiring the +old ass. At least, it’s the kind of thing one feels one couldn’t do. +The dreadful moonlight, when they all three sit silent in the room—by +George, sir, it’s imagined—and the brief scene between the husband and +wife is all there. _Quant au fond_, the whole thing, of course, is a +fever dream, and worthy of eternal laughter. Had the young man broken +stones, and the two women been hard-working honest prostitutes, there had +been an end of the whole immoral and baseless business: you could at +least have respected them in that case. + +I also read _Petronius Arbiter_, which is a rum work, not so immoral as +most modern works, but singularly silly. I tackled some Tacitus too. I +got them with a dreadful French crib on the same page with the text, +which helps me along and drives me mad. The French do not even try to +translate. They try to be much more classical than the classics, with +astounding results of barrenness and tedium. Tacitus, I fear, was too +solid for me. I liked the war part; but the dreary intriguing at Rome +was too much. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MR. DICK + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _Var_, 12_th_ _March_ 1884. + +MY DEAR MR. DICK,—I have been a great while owing you a letter; but I am +not without excuses, as you have heard. I overworked to get a piece of +work finished before I had my holiday, thinking to enjoy it more; and +instead of that, the machinery near hand came sundry in my hands! like +Murdie’s uniform. However, I am now, I think, in a fair way of recovery; +I think I was made, what there is of me, of whipcord and thorn-switches; +surely I am tough! But I fancy I shall not overdrive again, or not so +long. It is my theory that work is highly beneficial, but that it +should, if possible, and certainly for such partially broken-down +instruments as the thing I call my body, be taken in batches, with a +clear break and breathing space between. I always do vary my work, +laying one thing aside to take up another, not merely because I believe +it rests the brain, but because I have found it most beneficial to the +result. Reading, Bacon says, makes a full man, but what makes me full on +any subject is to banish it for a time from all my thoughts. However, +what I now propose is, out of every quarter, to work two months’ and rest +the third. I believe I shall get more done, as I generally manage, on my +present scheme, to have four months’ impotent illness and two of +imperfect health—one before, one after, I break down. This, at least, is +not an economical division of the year. + +I re-read the other day that heartbreaking book, the _Life of Scott_. +One should read such works now and then, but O, not often. As I live, I +feel more and more that literature should be cheerful and brave-spirited, +even if it cannot be made beautiful and pious and heroic. We wish it to +be a green place; the _Waverley Novels_ are better to re-read than the +over-true life, fine as dear Sir Walter was. The Bible, in most parts, +is a cheerful book; it is our little piping theologies, tracts, and +sermons that are dull and dowie; and even the Shorter Catechism, which is +scarcely a work of consolation, opens with the best and shortest and +completest sermon ever written—upon Man’s chief end.—Believe me, my dear +Mr. Dick, very sincerely yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—You see I have changed my hand. I was threatened apparently with +scrivener’s cramp, and at any rate had got to write so small, that the +revisal of my MS. tried my eyes, hence my signature alone remains upon +the old model; for it appears that if I changed that, I should be cut off +from my ‘vivers.’ + + R. L. S. + + + +TO COSMO MONKHOUSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, _March_ 16, 1884. + +MY DEAR MONKHOUSE,—You see with what promptitude I plunge into +correspondence; but the truth is, I am condemned to a complete inaction, +stagnate dismally, and love a letter. Yours, which would have been +welcome at any time, was thus doubly precious. + +Dover sounds somewhat shiveringly in my ears. You should see the weather +_I_ have—cloudless, clear as crystal, with just a punkah-draft of the +most aromatic air, all pine and gum tree. You would be ashamed of Dover; +you would scruple to refer, sir, to a spot so paltry. To be idle at +Dover is a strange pretension; pray, how do you warm yourself? If I were +there I should grind knives or write blank verse, or— But at least you +do not bathe? It is idle to deny it: I have—I may say I nourish—a +growing jealousy of the robust, large-legged, healthy Britain-dwellers, +patient of grog, scorners of the timid umbrella, innocuously breathing +fog: all which I once was, and I am ashamed to say liked it. How +ignorant is youth! grossly rolling among unselected pleasures; and how +nobler, purer, sweeter, and lighter, to sip the choice tonic, to recline +in the luxurious invalid chair, and to tread, well-shawled, the little +round of the constitutional. Seriously, do you like to repose? Ye gods, +I hate it. I never rest with any acceptation; I do not know what people +mean who say they like sleep and that damned bedtime which, since long +ere I was breeched, has rung a knell to all my day’s doings and beings. +And when a man, seemingly sane, tells me he has ‘fallen in love with +stagnation,’ I can only say to him, ‘You will never be a Pirate!’ This +may not cause any regret to Mrs. Monkhouse; but in your own soul it will +clang hollow—think of it! Never! After all boyhood’s aspirations and +youth’s immoral day-dreams, you are condemned to sit down, grossly draw +in your chair to the fat board, and be a beastly Burgess till you die. +Can it be? Is there not some escape, some furlough from the Moral Law, +some holiday jaunt contrivable into a Better Land? Shall we never shed +blood? This prospect is too grey. + + ‘Here lies a man who never did + Anything but what he was bid; + Who lived his life in paltry ease, + And died of commonplace disease.’ + +To confess plainly, I had intended to spend my life (or any leisure I +might have from Piracy upon the high seas) as the leader of a great horde +of irregular cavalry, devastating whole valleys. I can still, looking +back, see myself in many favourite attitudes; signalling for a boat from +my pirate ship with a pocket-handkerchief, I at the jetty end, and one or +two of my bold blades keeping the crowd at bay; or else turning in the +saddle to look back at my whole command (some five thousand strong) +following me at the hand-gallop up the road out of the burning valley: +this last by moonlight. + +_Et point du tout_. I am a poor scribe, and have scarce broken a +commandment to mention, and have recently dined upon cold veal! As for +you (who probably had some ambitions), I hear of you living at Dover, in +lodgings, like the beasts of the field. But in heaven, when we get +there, we shall have a good time, and see some real carnage. For heaven +is—must be—that great Kingdom of Antinomia, which Lamb saw dimly +adumbrated in the _Country Wife_, where the worm which never dies (the +conscience) peacefully expires, and the sinner lies down beside the Ten +Commandments. Till then, here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, with +neither health nor vice for anything more spirited than procrastination, +which I may well call the Consolation Stakes of Wickedness; and by whose +diligent practice, without the least amusement to ourselves, we can rob +the orphan and bring down grey hairs with sorrow to the dust. + +This astonishing gush of nonsense I now hasten to close, envelope, and +expedite to Shakespeare’s Cliff. Remember me to Shakespeare, and believe +me, yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, _March_ 17, 1884. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—Your office—office is profanely said—your bower upon the +leads is divine. Have you, like Pepys, ‘the right to fiddle’ there? I +see you mount the companion, barbiton in hand, and, fluttered about by +city sparrows, pour forth your spirit in a voluntary. Now when the +spring begins, you must lay in your flowers: how do you say about a +potted hawthorn? Would it bloom? Wallflower is a choice pot-herb; +lily-of-the-valley, too, and carnation, and Indian cress trailed about +the window, is not only beautiful by colour, but the leaves are good to +eat. I recommend thyme and rosemary for the aroma, which should not be +left upon one side; they are good quiet growths. + +On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is still +better—it takes one further—the havens with their little anchors, the +rocks, banks, and soundings, are adorably marine; and such furniture will +suit your ship-shape habitation. I wish I could see those cabins; they +smile upon me with the most intimate charm. From your leads, do you +behold St. Paul’s? I always like to see the Foolscap; it is London _per +se_ and no spot from which it is visible is without romance. Then it is +good company for the man of letters, whose veritable nursing Pater-Noster +is so near at hand. + +I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so pretty. +My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the writing, not even +finished; though so near, thank God, that a few days of tolerable +strength will see the roof upon that structure. I have worked very hard +at it, and so do not expect any great public favour. _In moments of +effort_, _one learns to do the easy things that people like_. There is +the golden maxim; thus one should strain and then play, strain again and +play again. The strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the +reader, and pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two +contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers would +have called ‘rank conformity,’ and to pour forth cheap replicas, upon the +one hand; upon the other, and still more insidiously present, to forget +that art is a diversion and a decoration, that no triumph or effort is of +value, nor anything worth reaching except charm.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MISS FERRIER + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, [_March_ 22, 1884]. + +MY DEAR MISS FERRIER,—Are you really going to fall us? This seems a +dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for friends on this +bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have been promising her, a +rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has failed, and you utter a very +doubtful note. You do not know how delightful this place is, nor how +anxious we are for a visit. Look at the names: ‘The Solitude’—is that +romantic? The palm-trees?—how is that for the gorgeous East? ‘Var’? the +name of a river—‘the quiet waters by’! ’Tis true, they are in another +department, and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a music, +what a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we have +skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by the +sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English May—for, +considering we are in France and serve up our song-birds, I am ashamed to +say, on a little field of toast and with a sprig of thyme (my own +receipt) in their most innocent and now unvocal bellies—considering all +this, we have a wonderfully fair wood-music round this Solitude of ours. +What can I say more?—All this awaits you. _Kennst du das Land_, in +short.—Your sincere friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, [_April_ 1884]. + +MY DEAR LOW,—The blind man in these sprawled lines sends greeting. I +have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The news—‘great +news—glorious news—sec-ond ed-ition!’—went the round in England. + +Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the +Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me) much +liked. + +Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to send to +press. Then I thought of the _Manhattan_, towards whom I have guilty and +compunctious feelings. Last, I had the best thought of all—to send them +to you in case you might think them suitable for illustration. It seemed +to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if not, hand them on to +_Manhattan_, _Century_, or _Lippincott_, at your pleasure, as all three +desire my work or pretend to. But I trust the lines will not go +unattended. Some riverside will haunt you; and O! be tender to my +bathing girls. The lines are copied in my wife’s hand, as I cannot see +to write otherwise than with the pen of Cormoran, Gargantua, or Nimrod. +Love to your wife.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + +Copied it myself. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _La Solitude_, _April_ 19, 1884. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—Yesterday I very powerfully stated the _Heresis +Stevensoniana_, or the complete body of divinity of the family +theologian, to Miss Ferrier. She was much impressed; so was I. You are +a great heresiarch; and I know no better. Whaur the devil did ye get +thon about the soap? Is it altogether your own? I never heard it +elsewhere; and yet I suspect it must have been held at some time or +other, and if you were to look up you would probably find yourself +condemned by some Council. + +I am glad to hear you are so well. The hear is excellent. The +_Cornhills_ came; I made Miss Ferrier read us ‘Thrawn Janet,’ and was +quite bowled over by my own works. The ‘Merry Men’ I mean to make much +longer, with a whole new denouement, not yet quite clear to me. ‘The +Story of a Lie,’ I must rewrite entirely also, as it is too weak and +ragged, yet is worth saving for the Admiral. Did I ever tell you that +the Admiral was recognised in America? + +When they are all on their legs this will make an excellent collection. + +Has Davie never read _Guy Mannering_, _Rob Roy_, or _The Antiquary_? All +of which are worth three _Waverleys_. I think _Kenilworth_ better than +_Waverley_; _Nigel_, too; and _Quentin Durward_ about as good. But it +shows a true piece of insight to prefer _Waverley_, for it _is_ +different; and though not quite coherent, better worked in parts than +almost any other: surely more carefully. It is undeniable that the love +of the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with success. Perhaps it +does on many of us, which may be the granite on which D.’s opinion +stands. However, I hold it, in Patrick Walker’s phrase, for an ‘old, +condemned, damnable error.’ Dr. Simson was condemned by P. W. as being +‘a bagful of’ such. One of Patrick’s amenities! + +Another ground there may be to D.’s opinion; those who avoid (or seek to +avoid) Scott’s facility are apt to be continually straining and torturing +their style to get in more of life. And to many the extra significance +does not redeem the strain. + + DOCTOR STEVENSON. + + + +TO COSMO MONKHOUSE + + + _La Solitude_, _Hyères_, [_April_ 24, 1884]. + +DEAR MONKHOUSE,—If you are in love with repose, here is your occasion: +change with me. I am too blind to read, hence no reading; I am too weak +to walk, hence no walking; I am not allowed to speak, hence no talking; +but the great simplification has yet to be named; for, if this goes on, I +shall soon have nothing to eat—and hence, O Hallelujah! hence no eating. +The offer is a fair one: I have not sold myself to the devil, for I could +never find him. I am married, but so are you. I sometimes write verses, +but so do you. Come! _Hic quies_! As for the commandments, I have +broken them so small that they are the dust of my chambers; you walk upon +them, triturate and toothless; and with the Golosh of Philosophy, they +shall not bite your heel. True, the tenement is falling. Ay, friend, +but yours also. Take a larger view; what is a year or two? dust in the +balance! ’Tis done, behold you Cosmo Stevenson, and me R. L. Monkhouse; +you at Hyères, I in London; you rejoicing in the clammiest repose, me +proceeding to tear your tabernacle into rags, as I have already so +admirably torn my own. + +My place to which I now introduce you—it is yours—is like a London house, +high and very narrow; upon the lungs I will not linger; the heart is +large enough for a ballroom; the belly greedy and inefficient; the brain +stocked with the most damnable explosives, like a dynamiter’s den. The +whole place is well furnished, though not in a very pure taste; +Corinthian much of it; showy and not strong. + +About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an interesting +exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, falling over a blood-stained +remorse; opening that cupboard in the cerebellum and being welcomed by +the spirit of your murdered uncle. I should probably not like your +remorses; I wonder if you will like mine; I have a spirited assortment; +they whistle in my ear o’ nights like a north-easter. I trust yours +don’t dine with the family; mine are better mannered; you will hear +nought of them till, 2 A.M., except one, to be sure, that I have made a +pet of, but he is small; I keep him in buttons, so as to avoid +commentaries; you will like him much—if you like what is genuine. + +Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good article, with a trick +of stopping; cathedral bell note; ornamental dial; supported by Venus and +the Graces; quite a summer-parlour piety. Of yours, since your last, I +fear there is little to be said. + +There is one article I wish to take away with me: my spirits. They suit +me. I don’t want yours; I like my own; I have had them a long while in +bottle. It is my only reservation.—Yours (as you decide), + + R. L. MONKHOUSE. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Hyères_, _May_ 1884. + +DEAR BOY,—_Old Mortality_ {318} is out, and I am glad to say Coggie likes +it. We like her immensely. + +I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot work—cannot: that is flat, +not even verses: as for prose, that more active place is shut on me long +since. + +My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically comic. +_As you Like It_ is to me the most bird-haunted spot in letters; +_Tempest_ and _Twelfth Night_ follow. These are what I mean by poetry +and nature. I make an effort of my mind to be quite one with Molière, +except upon the stage, where his inimitable _jeux de scène_ beggar +belief; but you will observe they are stage-plays—things _ad hoc_; not +great Olympian debauches of the heart and fancy; hence more perfect, and +not so great. Then I come, after great wanderings, to Carmosine and to +Fantasio; to one part of La Dernière Aldini (which, by the by, we might +dramatise in a week), to the notes that Meredith has found, Evan and the +postillion, Evan and Rose, Harry in Germany. And to me these things are +the good; beauty, touched with sex and laughter; beauty with God’s earth +for the background. Tragedy does not seem to me to come off; and when it +does, it does so by the heroic illusion; the anti-masque has been +omitted; laughter, which attends on all our steps in life, and sits by +the deathbed, and certainly redacts the epitaph, laughter has been lost +from these great-hearted lies. But the comedy which keeps the beauty and +touches the terrors of our life (laughter and tragedy-in-a-good-humour +having kissed), that is the last word of moved representation; embracing +the greatest number of elements of fate and character; and telling its +story, not with the one eye of pity, but with the two of pity and mirth. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _From my Bed_, _May_ 29, 1884. + +DEAR GOSSE,—The news of the Professorate found me in the article of—well, +of heads or tails; I am still in bed, and a very poor person. You must +thus excuse my damned delay; but, I assure you, I was delighted. You +will believe me the more, if I confess to you that my first sentiment was +envy; yes, sir, on my blood-boltered couch I envied the professor. +However, it was not of long duration; the double thought that you +deserved and that you would thoroughly enjoy your success fell like +balsam on my wounds. How came it that you never communicated my +rejection of Gilder’s offer for the Rhone? But it matters not. Such +earthly vanities are over for the present. This has been a fine +well-conducted illness. A month in bed; a month of silence; a fortnight +of not stirring my right hand; a month of not moving without being +lifted. Come! _Ça y est_: devilish like being dead.—Yours, dear +Professor, academically, + + R. L. S. + +I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with me! I got him +cheap—second-hand. + +In turning over my late friend Ferrier’s commonplace book, I find three +poems from _Viol and Flute_ copied out in his hand: ‘When Flower-time,’ +‘Love in Winter,’ and ‘Mistrust.’ They are capital too. But I thought +the fact would interest you. He was no poetist either; so it means the +more. ‘Love in W.!’ I like the best. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Hotel Chabassière_, _Royat_, [_July_ 1884]. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—The weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff of +cold, and was finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day, however, +it has cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to + + (_Several days after_.) + +I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am better, and keep +better, but the weather is a mere injustice. The imitation of Edinburgh +is, at times, deceptive; there is a note among the chimney pots that +suggests Howe Street; though I think the shrillest spot in Christendom +was not upon the Howe Street side, but in front, just under the Miss +Graemes’ big chimney stack. It had a fine alto character—a sort of bleat +that used to divide the marrow in my joints—say in the wee, slack hours. +That music is now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, +not regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; a +knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I mind it above +all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was blue and spotted with +rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold evening was seen blue all +over, with the lamps of Queen’s and Frederick’s Street dotting it with +yellow, and flaring east-ward in the squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I +have been in such circumstances—I, who have now positively forgotten the +colour of unhappiness; who am full like a fed ox, and dull like a fresh +turf, and have no more spiritual life, for good or evil, than a French +bagman. + +We are at Chabassière’s, for of course it was nonsense to go up the hill +when we could not walk. + +The child’s poems in a far extended form are likely soon to be heard +of—which Cummy I dare say will be glad to know. They will make a book of +about one hundred pages.—Ever your affectionate, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Royat_, _July_ 1884.] + +. . . HERE is a quaint thing, I have read _Robinson_, _Colonel Jack_, +_Moll Flanders_, _Memoirs of a Cavalier_, _History of the Plague_, +_History of the Great Storm_, _Scotch Church and Union_. And there my +knowledge of Defoe ends—except a book, the name of which I forget, about +Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not write, and could not +have written if he wanted. To which of these does B. J. refer? I guess +it must be the history of the Scottish Church. I jest; for, of course, I +_know_ it must be a book I have never read, and which this makes me keen +to read—I mean _Captain Singleton_. Can it be got and sent to me? If +_Treasure Island_ is at all like it, it will be delightful. I was just +the other day wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was +writing _T. I._, as a mine for pirate tips. _T. I._ came out of +Kingsley’s _At Last_, where I got the Dead Man’s Chest—and that was the +seed—and out of the great Captain Johnson’s _History of Notorious_ +_Pirates_. The scenery is Californian in part, and in part _chic._ + +I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made man—till the next time. + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +If it was _Captain Singleton_, send it to me, won’t you? + +_Later_.—My life dwindles into a kind of valley of the shadow picnic. I +cannot read; so much of the time (as to-day) I must not speak above my +breath, that to play patience, or to see my wife play it, is become the +be-all and the end-all of my dim career. To add to my gaiety, I may +write letters, but there are few to answer. Patience and Poesy are thus +my rod and staff; with these I not unpleasantly support my days. + +I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be silenced; and if +to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to understand them cannot be +my wife’s. Do not think me unhappy; I have not been so for years; but I +am blurred, inhabit the debatable frontier of sleep, and have but dim +designs upon activity. All is at a standstill; books closed, paper put +aside, the voice, the eternal voice of R. L. S., well silenced. Hence +this plaint reaches you with no very great meaning, no very great +purpose, and written part in slumber by a heavy, dull, somnolent, +superannuated son of a bedpost. + + + + +VII +LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH, +SEPTEMBER 1884–DECEMBER 1885 + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _Sunday_, 28_th_ _September_ 1884. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—I keep better, and am to-day downstairs for the first +time. I find the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the front. Will +you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale, and has blown for +nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping wind, lashing rain; the sea is +a fine colour, and wind-bound ships lie at anchor under the Old Harry +rocks, to make one glad to be ashore. + +The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I hope they may +produce some of the ready.—I am, ever affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _October_ 1884?] + +DEAR BOY,—I trust this finds you well; it leaves me so-so. The weather +is so cold that I must stick to bed, which is rotten and tedious, but +can’t be helped. + +I find in the blotting book the enclosed, which I wrote to you the eve of +my blood. Is it not strange? That night, when I naturally thought I was +coopered, the thought of it was much in my mind; I thought it had gone; +and I thought what a strange prophecy I had made in jest, and how it was +indeed like to be the end of many letters. But I have written a good few +since, and the spell is broken. I am just as pleased, for I earnestly +desire to live. This pleasant middle age into whose port we are steering +is quite to my fancy. I would cast anchor here, and go ashore for twenty +years, and see the manners of the place. Youth was a great time, but +somewhat fussy. Now in middle age (bar lucre) all seems mighty placid. +It likes me; I spy a little bright café in one corner of the port, in +front of which I now propose we should sit down. There is just enough of +the bustle of the harbour and no more; and the ships are close in, +regarding us with stern-windows—the ships that bring deals from Norway +and parrots from the Indies. Let us sit down here for twenty years, with +a packet of tobacco and a drink, and talk of art and women. By-and-by, +the whole city will sink, and the ships too, and the table, and we also; +but we shall have sat for twenty years and had a fine talk; and by that +time, who knows? exhausted the subject. + +I send you a book which (or I am mistook) will please you; it pleased me. +But I do desire a book of adventure—a romance—and no man will get or +write me one. Dumas I have read and re-read too often; Scott, too, and I +am short. I want to hear swords clash. I want a book to begin in a good +way; a book, I guess, like _Treasure Island_, alas! which I have never +read, and cannot though I live to ninety. I would God that some one else +had written it! By all that I can learn, it is the very book for my +complaint. I like the way I hear it opens; and they tell me John Silver +is good fun. And to me it is, and must ever be, a dream unrealised, a +book unwritten. O my sighings after romance, or even Skeltery, and O! +the weary age which will produce me neither! + + CHAPTER I + + The night was damp and cloudy, the ways foul. The single horseman, + cloaked and booted, who pursued his way across Willesden Common, had + not met a traveller, when the sound of wheels— + + CHAPTER I + + ‘Yes, sir,’ said the old pilot, ‘she must have dropped into the bay a + little afore dawn. A queer craft she looks.’ + + ‘She shows no colours,’ returned the young gentleman musingly. + + ‘They’re a-lowering of a quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,’ resumed the old salt. + ‘We shall soon know more of her.’ + + ‘Ay,’ replied the young gentleman called Mark, ‘and here, Mr. Seadrift, + comes your sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.’ + + ‘God bless her kind heart, sir,’ ejaculated old Seadrift. + + CHAPTER I + + The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great + house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties + finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging from + one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way. Little did + he think what strange adventures were to befall him!— + +That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead. + + What should be: What is: +The Filibuster’s Cache. Aunt Anne’s Tea Cosy. +Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly’s Niece. +Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THE REV. PROFESSOR LEWIS CAMPBELL + + + [_Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _November_ 1884.] + +MY DEAR CAMPBELL,—The books came duly to hand. My wife has occupied the +translation {330} ever since, nor have I yet been able to dislodge her. +As for the primer, I have read it with a very strange result: that I find +no fault. If you knew how, dogmatic and pugnacious, I stand warden on +the literary art, you would the more appreciate your success and my—well, +I will own it—disappointment. For I love to put people right (or wrong) +about the arts. But what you say of Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply +satisfies me; it is well felt and well said; a little less technically +than it is my weakness to desire to see it put, but clear and adequate. +You are very right to express your admiration for the resource displayed +in Œdipus King; it is a miracle. Would it not have been well to mention +Voltaire’s interesting onslaught, a thing which gives the best lesson of +the difference of neighbour arts?—since all his criticisms, which had +been fatal to a narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw +in this masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though such +a fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, so imperfect, +so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required of these +conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts. + +I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by hoping for +better luck next time. My wife begs to be remembered to both of +you.—Yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO ANDREW CHATTO + + + _Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _October_ 3, 1884. + +DEAR MR. CHATTO,—I have an offer of £25 for _Otto_ from America. I do +not know if you mean to have the American rights; from the nature of the +contract, I think not; but if you understood that you were to sell the +sheets, I will either hand over the bargain to you, or finish it myself +and hand you over the money if you are pleased with the amount. You see, +I leave this quite in your hands. To parody an old Scotch story of +servant and master: if you don’t know that you have a good author, I know +that I have a good publisher. Your fair, open, and handsome dealings are +a good point in my life, and do more for my crazy health than has yet +been done by any doctor.—Very truly yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, _Bournemouth_, _Hants_, + _England_, _First week in November_, _I guess_, 1884. + +MY DEAR LOW,—Now, look here, the above is my address for three months, I +hope; continue, on your part, if you please, to write to Edinburgh, which +is safe; but if Mrs. Low thinks of coming to England, she might take a +run down from London (four hours from Waterloo, main line) and stay a day +or two with us among the pines. If not, I hope it will be only a +pleasure deferred till you can join her. + +My Children’s Verses will be published here in a volume called _A Child’s +Garden_. The sheets are in hand; I will see if I cannot send you the +lot, so that you might have a bit of a start. In that case I would do +nothing to publish in the States, and you might try an illustrated +edition there; which, if the book went fairly over here, might, when +ready, be imported. But of this more fully ere long. You will see some +verses of mine in the last _Magazine of Art_, with pictures by a young +lady; rather pretty, I think. If we find a market for _Phasellulus +loquitur_, we can try another. I hope it isn’t necessary to put the +verse into that rustic printing. I am Philistine enough to prefer clean +printer’s type; indeed, I can form no idea of the verses thus transcribed +by the incult and tottering hand of the draughtsman, nor gather any +impression beyond one of weariness to the eyes. Yet the other day, in +the _Century_, I saw it imputed as a crime to Vedder that he had not thus +travestied Omar Khayyàm. We live in a rum age of music without airs, +stories without incident, pictures without beauty, American wood +engravings that should have been etchings, and dry-point etchings that +ought to have been mezzo-tints. I think of giving ’em literature without +words; and I believe if you were to try invisible illustration, it would +enjoy a considerable vogue. So long as an artist is on his head, is +painting with a flute, or writes with an etcher’s needle, or conducts the +orchestra with a meat-axe, all is well; and plaudits shower along with +roses. But any plain man who tries to follow the obtrusive canons of his +art, is but a commonplace figure. To hell with him is the motto, or at +least not that; for he will have his reward, but he will never be thought +a person of parts. + + _January_ 3, 1885. + +And here has this been lying near two months. I have failed to get +together a preliminary copy of the Child’s Verses for you, in spite of +doughty efforts; but yesterday I sent you the first sheet of the +definitive edition, and shall continue to send the others as they come. +If you can, and care to, work them—why so, well. If not, I send you +fodder. But the time presses; for though I will delay a little over the +proofs, and though—it is even possible they may delay the English issue +until Easter, it will certainly not be later. Therefore perpend, and do +not get caught out. Of course, if you can do pictures, it will be a +great pleasure to me to see our names joined; and more than that, a great +advantage, as I daresay you may be able to make a bargain for some share +a little less spectral than the common for the poor author. But this is +all as you shall choose; I give you _carte blanche_ to do or not to +do.—Yours most sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +O, Sargent has been and painted my portrait; a very nice fellow he is, +and is supposed to have done well; it is a poetical but very +chicken-boned figure-head, as thus represented. + + R. L. S. Go on. + +_P.P.S._—Your picture came; and let me thank you for it very much. I am +so hunted I had near forgotten. I find it very graceful; and I mean to +have it framed. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _November_ 1884. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—I have no hesitation in recommending you to let your name +go up; please yourself about an address; though I think, if we could +meet, we could arrange something suitable. What you propose would be +well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest a whine. From that +point of view it would be better to change a little; but this, whether we +meet or not, we must discuss. Tait, Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, +all think you amply deserve this honour and far more; it is not the True +Blue to call this serious compliment a ‘trial’; you should be glad of +this recognition. As for resigning, that is easy enough if found +necessary; but to refuse would be husky and unsatisfactory. _Sic subs._ + + R. L. S. + +My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well. Fanny is very very +much out of sorts, principally through perpetual misery with me. I fear +I have been a little in the dumps, which, _as you know_, _sir_, is a very +great sin. I must try to be more cheerful; but my cough is so severe +that I have sometimes most exhausting nights and very peevish wakenings. +However, this shall be remedied, and last night I was distinctly better +than the night before. There is, my dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise +blandly as we sit together on the devil’s garden-wall), no more +abominable sin than this gloom, this plaguey peevishness; why (say I) +what matters it if we be a little uncomfortable—that is no reason for +mangling our unhappy wives. And then I turn and _girn_ on the +unfortunate Cassandra.—Your fellow culprit, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _November_ 1884. + +DEAR HENLEY,—We are all to pieces in health, and heavily handicapped with +Arabs. I have a dreadful cough, whose attacks leave me _ætat._ 90. I +never let up on the Arabs, all the same, and rarely get less than eight +pages out of hand, though hardly able to come downstairs for twittering +knees. + +I shall put in —’s letter. He says so little of his circumstances that I +am in an impossibility to give him advice more specific than a copybook. +Give him my love, however, and tell him it is the mark of the parochial +gentleman who has never travelled to find all wrong in a foreign land. +Let him hold on, and he will find one country as good as another; and in +the meanwhile let him resist the fatal British tendency to communicate +his dissatisfaction with a country to its inhabitants. ’Tis a good idea, +but it somehow fails to please. In a fortnight, if I can keep my spirit +in the box at all, I should be nearly through this Arabian desert; so can +tackle something fresh.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, _Bournemouth_ + (_The three B’s_) [_November_ 5, 1884]. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, that +you are a silly fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I be +offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you had the same +impression of the _Deacon_; and yet, when you saw it played, were less +revolted than you looked for; and I will still hope that the _Admiral_ +also is not so bad as you suppose. There is one point, however, where I +differ from you very frankly. Religion is in the world; I do not think +you are the man to deny the importance of its rôle; and I have long +decided not to leave it on one side in art. The opposition of the +Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, either horrible or irreverent; +but it may be, and it probably is, very ill done: what then? This is a +failure; better luck next time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, +more wisdom in the design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the +new victory. Concern yourself about no failure; they do not cost lives, +as in engineering; they are the _pierres perdues_ of successes. Fame is +(truly) a vapour; do not think of it; if the writer means well and tries +hard, no failure will injure him, whether with God or man. + +I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am inclined to +acquit the _Admiral_ of having a share in the responsibility. My very +heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; and the change to this charming house +in the forest will, I hope, complete my re-establishment.—With love to +all, believe me, your ever affectionate, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, _Bournemouth_, + _November_ 11, [1884]. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I am in my new house, thus proudly styled, as you +perceive; but the deevil a tower ava’ can be perceived (except out of +window); this is not as it should be; one might have hoped, at least, a +turret. We are all vilely unwell. I put in the dark watches imitating a +donkey with some success, but little pleasure; and in the afternoon I +indulge in a smart fever, accompanied by aches and shivers. There is +thus little monotony to be deplored. I at least am a _regular_ invalid; +I would scorn to bray in the afternoon; I would indignantly refuse the +proposal to fever in the night. What is bred in the bone will come out, +sir, in the flesh; and the same spirit that prompted me to date my letter +regulates the hour and character of my attacks.—I am, sir, yours, + + THOMSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Postmark_, _Bournemouth_, 13_th_ _November_ 1884. + +MY DEAR THOMSON,—It’s a maist remarkable fac’, but nae shüner had I +written yon braggin’, blawin’ letter aboot ma business habits, when bang! +that very day, ma hoast {337} begude in the aifternune. It is really +remaurkable; it’s providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae fair dry, the +words werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got the lee. The mair ye +think o’t, Thomson, the less ye’ll like the looks o’t. Proavidence (I’m +no’ sayin’) is all verra weel _in its place_; but if Proavidence has nae +mainners, wha’s to learn’t? Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo would +you like Proavidence to keep your till for ye? The richt place for +Proavidence is in the kirk; it has naething to do wi’ private +correspondence between twa gentlemen, nor freendly cracks, nor a wee bit +word of sculduddery {338} ahint the door, nor, in shoart, wi’ ony +_hole-and-corner wark_, what I would call. I’m pairfec’ly willin’ to +meet in wi’ Proavidence, I’ll be prood to meet in wi’ him, when my time’s +come and I cannae dae nae better; but if he’s to come skinking aboot my +stair-fit, damned, I micht as weel be deid for a’ the comfort I’ll can +get in life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it’s beneath him? +Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae steir my heid for a plain, +auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he taks himsel,’ ‘s just aboot as +honest as he can weel afford, an’ but for a wheen auld scandals, near +forgotten noo, is a pairfec’ly respectable and thoroughly decent man. Or +if I fashed wi’ him ava’, it wad be kind o’ handsome like; a pun’-note +under his stair door, or a bottle o’ auld, blended malt to his bit +marnin’, as a teshtymonial like yon ye ken sae weel aboot, but mair +successfu’. + +Dear Thomson, have I ony money? If I have, _send it_, for the loard’s +sake. + + JOHNSON. + + + +TO MISS FERRIER + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _November_ 12, 1884. + +MY DEAR COGGIE,—Many thanks for the two photos which now decorate my +room. I was particularly glad to have the Bell Rock. I wonder if you +saw me plunge, lance in rest, into a controversy thereanent? It was a +very one-sided affair. I slept upon the field of battle, paraded, sang +Te Deum, and came home after a review rather than a campaign. + +Please tell Campbell I got his letter. The Wild Woman of the West has +been much amiss and complaining sorely. I hope nothing more serious is +wrong with her than just my ill-health, and consequent anxiety and +labour; but the deuce of it is, that the cause continues. I am about +knocked out of time now: a miserable, snuffling, shivering, +fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting +shadow and remains of man. But we’ll no gie ower jist yet a bittie. +We’ve seen waur; and dod, mem, it’s my belief that we’ll see better. I +dinna ken ‘at I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but +jist here’s guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale o’ guid fortune to +your bonny sel’; and my respecs to the Perfessor and his wife, and the +Prinshiple, an’ the Bell Rock, an’ ony ither public chara’ters that I’m +acquaunt wi’. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, _Bournemouth_, _Nov._ 15, 1884. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—This Mr. Morley {339} of yours is a most desperate fellow. +He has sent me (for my opinion) the most truculent advertisement I ever +saw, in which the white hairs of Gladstone are dragged round Troy behind +my chariot wheels. What can I say? I say nothing to him; and to you, I +content myself with remarking that he seems a desperate fellow. + +All luck to you on your American adventure; may you find health, wealth, +and entertainment! If you see, as you likely will, Frank R. Stockton, +pray greet him from me in words to this effect:— + + My Stockton if I failed to like, + It were a sheer depravity, + For I went down with the _Thomas Hyke_ + And up with the _Negative Gravity_! + +I adore these tales. + +I hear flourishing accounts of your success at Cambridge, so you leave +with a good omen. Remember me to _green corn_ if it is in season; if +not, you had better hang yourself on a sour apple tree, for your voyage +has been lost.—Yours affectionately, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO AUSTIN DOBSON + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_ [_December_ 1884?]. + +DEAR DOBSON,—Set down my delay to your own fault; I wished to acknowledge +such a gift from you in some of my inapt and slovenly rhymes; but you +should have sent me your pen and not your desk. The verses stand up to +the axles in a miry cross-road, whence the coursers of the sun shall +never draw them; hence I am constrained to this uncourtliness, that I +must appear before one of the kings of that country of rhyme without my +singing robes. For less than this, if we may trust the book of Esther, +favourites have tasted death; but I conceive the kingdom of the Muses +mildlier mannered; and in particular that county which you administer and +which I seem to see as a half-suburban land; a land of holly-hocks and +country houses; a land where at night, in thorny and sequestered bypaths, +you will meet masqueraders going to a ball in their sedans, and the +rector steering homeward by the light of his lantern; a land of the +windmill, and the west wind, and the flowering hawthorn with a little +scented letter in the hollow of its trunk, and the kites flying over all +in the season of kites, and the far away blue spires of a cathedral city. + +Will you forgive me, then, for my delay and accept my thanks not only for +your present, but for the letter which followed it, and which perhaps I +more particularly value, and believe me to be, with much admiration, +yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, _Bournemouth_, + _December_ 8, 1884. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—This is a very brave hearing from more points than +one. The first point is that there is a hope of a sequel. For this I +laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of information and thoughtful +interest in the art of literature, those who try to practise it with any +deliberate purpose run the risk of finding no fit audience. People +suppose it is ‘the stuff’ that interests them; they think, for instance, +that the prodigious fine thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare impress +by their own weight, not understanding that the unpolished diamond is but +a stone. They think that striking situations, or good dialogue, are got +by studying life; they will not rise to understand that they are prepared +by deliberate artifice and set off by painful suppressions. Now, I want +the whole thing well ventilated, for my own education and the public’s; +and I beg you to look as quick as you can, to follow me up with every +circumstance of defeat where we differ, and (to prevent the flouting of +the laity) to emphasise the points where we agree. I trust your paper +will show me the way to a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I shall hope to +make with so much art as to woo or drive you from your threatened +silence. I would not ask better than to pass my life in beating out this +quarter of corn with such a seconder as yourself. + +Point the second—I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak so kindly of my +work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to myself a very rude, left-handed +countryman; not fit to be read, far less complimented, by a man so +accomplished, so adroit, so craftsmanlike as you. You will happily never +have cause to understand the despair with which a writer like myself +considers (say) the park scene in Lady Barberina. Every touch surprises +me by its intangible precision; and the effect when done, as light as +syllabub, as distinct as a picture, fills me with envy. Each man among +us prefers his own aim, and I prefer mine; but when we come to speak of +performance, I recognise myself, compared with you, to be a lout and +slouch of the first water. + +Where we differ, both as to the design of stories and the delineation of +character, I begin to lament. Of course, I am not so dull as to ask you +to desert your walk; but could you not, in one novel, to oblige a sincere +admirer, and to enrich his shelves with a beloved volume, could you not, +and might you not, cast your characters in a mould a little more abstract +and academic (dear Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your other work, a +taste of what I mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not say in any +stronger, but in a slightly more emphatic key—as it were an episode from +one of the old (so-called) novels of adventure? I fear you will not; and +I suppose I must sighingly admit you to be right. And yet, when I see, +as it were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite precision and +shot through with those side-lights of reflection in which you excel, I +relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think upon it. + +As you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid: this +puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is possible that some +day you may feel that a day near the sea and among pinewoods would be a +pleasant change from town. If so, please let us know; and my wife and I +will be delighted to put you up, and give you what we can to eat and +drink (I have a fair bottle of claret).—On the back of which, believe me, +yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—I reopen this to say that I have re-read my paper, and cannot +think I have at all succeeded in being either veracious or polite. I +knew, of course, that I took your paper merely as a pin to hang my own +remarks upon; but, alas! what a thing is any paper! What fine remarks +can you not hang on mine! How I have sinned against proportion, and with +every effort to the contrary, against the merest rudiments of courtesy to +you! You are indeed a very acute reader to have divined the real +attitude of my mind; and I can only conclude, not without closed eyes and +shrinking shoulders, in the well-worn words + + Lay on, Macduff! + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _December_ 9, 1884. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—The dreadful tragedy of the _Pall Mall_ has come to a +happy but ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale writ for +them is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to flash out +before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, ‘The Body Snatcher.’ +When you come, please to bring— + + (1) My _Montaigne_, or, at least, the two last volumes. + + (2) My _Milton_ in the three vols. in green. + + (3) The _Shakespeare_ that Babington sent me for a wedding-gift. + + (4) Hazlitt’s _Table Talk and Plain Speaker_. + +If you care to get a box of books from Douglas and Foulis, let them be +_solid_. _Croker Papers_, _Correspondence of Napoleon_, _History of +Henry IV._, Lang’s _Folk Lore_, would be my desires. + +I had a charming letter from Henry James about my _Longman_ paper. I did +not understand queries about the verses; the pictures to the Seagull I +thought charming; those to the second have left me with a pain in my poor +belly and a swimming in the head. + +About money, I am afloat and no more, and I warn you, unless I have great +luck, I shall have to fall upon you at the New Year like a hundredweight +of bricks. Doctor, rent, chemist, are all threatening; sickness has +bitterly delayed my work; and unless, as I say, I have the mischief’s +luck, I shall completely break down. _Verbum sapientibus_. I do not +live cheaply, and I question if I ever shall; but if only I had a +halfpenny worth of health, I could now easily suffice. The last +breakdown of my head is what makes this bankruptcy probable. + +Fanny is still out of sorts; Bogue better; self fair, but a stranger to +the blessings of sleep.—Ever affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, [_December_ 1884]. + +DEAR LAD,—I have made up my mind about the P. M. G., and send you a copy, +which please keep or return. As for not giving a reduction, what are we? +Are we artists or city men? Why do we sneer at stock-brokers? O nary; I +will not take the £40. I took that as a fair price for my best work; I +was not able to produce my best; and I will be damned if I steal with my +eyes open. _Sufficit_. This is my lookout. As for the paper being +rich, certainly it is; but I am honourable. It is no more above me in +money than the poor slaveys and cads from whom I look for honesty are +below me. Am I Pepys, that because I can find the countenance of ‘some +of our ablest merchants,’ that because—and—pour forth languid twaddle and +get paid for it, I, too, should ‘cheerfully continue to steal’? I am not +Pepys. I do not live much to God and honour; but I will not wilfully +turn my back on both. I am, like all the rest of us, falling ever lower +from the bright ideas I began with, falling into greed, into idleness, +into middle-aged and slippered fireside cowardice; but is it you, my bold +blade, that I hear crying this sordid and rank twaddle in my ear? +Preaching the dankest Grundyism and upholding the rank customs of our +trade—you, who are so cruel hard upon the customs of the publishers? O +man, look at the Beam in our own Eyes; and whatever else you do, do not +plead Satan’s cause, or plead it for all; either embrace the bad, or +respect the good when you see a poor devil trying for it. If this is the +honesty of authors—to take what you can get and console yourself because +publishers are rich—take my name from the rolls of that association. +’Tis a caucus of weaker thieves, jealous of the stronger.—Ever yours, + + THE ROARING R. L. S. + +You will see from the enclosed that I have stuck to what I think my dues +pretty tightly in spite of this flourish: these are my words for a poor +ten-pound note! + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, [_Winter_, 1884]. + +MY DEAR LAD,—Here was I in bed; not writing, not hearing, and finding +myself gently and agreeably ill used; and behold I learn you are bad +yourself. Get your wife to send us a word how you are. I am better +decidedly. Bogue got his Christmas card, and behaved well for three days +after. It may interest the cynical to learn that I started my last +hæmorrhage by too sedulous attentions to my dear Bogue. The stick was +broken; and that night Bogue, who was attracted by the extraordinary +aching of his bones, and is always inclined to a serious view of his own +ailments, announced with his customary pomp that he was dying. In this +case, however, it was not the dog that died. (He had tried to bite his +mother’s ankles.) I have written a long and peculiarly solemn paper on +the technical elements of style. It is path-breaking and epoch-making; +but I do not think the public will be readily convoked to its perusal. +Did I tell you that S. C. had risen to the paper on James? At last! O +but I was pleased; he’s (like Johnnie) been lang, lang o’ comin’, but +here he is. He will not object to my future manœuvres in the same field, +as he has to my former. All the family are here; my father better than I +have seen him these two years; my mother the same as ever. I do trust +you are better, and I am yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO H. A. JONES + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, + _Bournemouth_, _Dec._ 30, 1884. + +DEAR SIR,—I am so accustomed to hear nonsense spoken about all the arts, +and the drama in particular, that I cannot refrain from saying ‘Thank +you,’ for your paper. In my answer to Mr. James, in the December +_Longman_, you may see that I have merely touched, I think in a +parenthesis, on the drama; but I believe enough was said to indicate our +agreement in essentials. + +Wishing you power and health to further enunciate and to act upon these +principles, believe me, dear sir, yours truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Branksome Park_, _Bournemouth_, _Jan._ 4, 1885. + +DEAR S. C.,—I am on my feet again, and getting on my boots to do the +_Iron Duke_. Conceive my glee: I have refused the £100, and am to get +some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. ’Tis for Longman’s +_English Worthies_, edited by A. Lang. Aw haw, haw! + +Now, look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or is that a +dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and certainly note pages +on the fly. If you think it a dream, will Bain get me a second-hand +copy, or who would? The sooner, and cheaper, I can get it the better. +If there is anything in your weird library that bears on either the man +or the period, put it in a mortar and fire it here instanter; I shall +catch. I shall want, of course, an infinity of books: among which, any +lives there may be; a life of the Marquis Marmont (the Maréchal), +_Marmont’s Memoirs_, _Grevillè’s Memoirs_, _Peel’s Memoirs_, _Napier_, +that blind man’s history of England you once lent me, Hamley’s +_Waterloo_; can you get me any of these? Thiers, idle Thiers also. Can +you help a man getting into his boots for such a huge campaign? How are +you? A Good New Year to you. I mean to have a good one, but on whose +funds I cannot fancy: not mine leastways, as I am a mere derelict and +drift beam-on to bankruptcy. + +For God’s sake, remember the man who set out for to conquer Arthur +Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty pocket.—Yours ever, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_,] 14_th_ _January_ 1885. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—I am glad you like the changes. I own I was pleased with +my hand’s darg; you may observe, I have corrected several errors which +(you may tell Mr. Dick) he had allowed to pass his eagle eye; I wish +there may be none in mine; at least, the order is better. The second +title, ‘Some new Engineering Questions involved in the M. S. C. Scheme of +last Session of P.’, likes me the best. I think it a very good paper; +and I am vain enough to think I have materially helped to polish the +diamond. I ended by feeling quite proud of the paper, as if it had been +mine; the next time you have as good a one, I will overhaul it for the +wages of feeling as clever as I did when I had managed to understand and +helped to set it clear. I wonder if I anywhere misapprehended you? I +rather think not at the last; at the first shot I know I missed a point +or two. Some of what may appear to you to be wanton changes, a little +study will show to be necessary. + +Yes, Carlyle was ashamed of himself as few men have been; and let all +carpers look at what he did. He prepared all these papers for +publication with his own hand; all his wife’s complaints, all the +evidence of his own misconduct: who else would have done so much? Is +repentance, which God accepts, to have no avail with men? nor even with +the dead? I have heard too much against the thrawn, discomfortable dog: +dead he is, and we may be glad of it; but he was a better man than most +of us, no less patently than he was a worse. To fill the world with +whining is against all my views: I do not like impiety. But—but—there +are two sides to all things, and the old scalded baby had his noble +side.—Ever affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _January_ 1885. + +DEAR S. C.,—I have addressed a letter to the G. O. M., _à propos_ of +Wellington; and I became aware, you will be interested to hear, of an +overwhelming respect for the old gentleman. I can _blaguer_ his +failures; but when you actually address him, and bring the two statures +and records to confrontation, dismay is the result. By mere continuance +of years, he must impose; the man who helped to rule England before I was +conceived, strikes me with a new sense of greatness and antiquity, when I +must actually beard him with the cold forms of correspondence. I shied +at the necessity of calling him plain ‘Sir’! Had he been ‘My lord,’ I +had been happier; no, I am no equalitarian. Honour to whom honour is +due; and if to none, why, then, honour to the old! + +These, O Slade Professor, are my unvarnished sentiments: I was a little +surprised to find them so extreme, and therefore I communicate the fact. + +Belabour thy brains, as to whom it would be well to question. I have a +small space; I wish to make a popular book, nowhere obscure, nowhere, if +it can be helped, unhuman. It seems to me the most hopeful plan to tell +the tale, so far as may be, by anecdote. He did not die till so +recently, there must be hundreds who remember him, and thousands who have +still ungarnered stories. Dear man, to the breach! Up, soldier of the +iron dook, up, Slades, and at ’em! (which, conclusively, he did not say: +the at ’em-ic theory is to be dismissed). You know piles of fellows who +must reek with matter; help! help!—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _February_ 1885. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—You are indeed a backward correspondent, and much may be +said against you. But in this weather, and O dear! in this political +scene of degradation, much must be forgiven. I fear England is dead of +Burgessry, and only walks about galvanised. I do not love to think of my +countrymen these days; nor to remember myself. Why was I silent? I feel +I have no right to blame any one; but I won’t write to the G. O. M. I do +really not see my way to any form of signature, unless ‘your fellow +criminal in the eyes of God,’ which might disquiet the proprieties. + +About your book, I have always said: go on. The drawing of character is +a different thing from publishing the details of a private career. No +one objects to the first, or should object, if his name be not put upon +it; at the other, I draw the line. In a preface, if you chose, you might +distinguish; it is, besides, a thing for which you are eminently well +equipped, and which you would do with taste and incision. I long to see +the book. People like themselves (to explain a little more); no one +likes his life, which is a misbegotten issue, and a tale of failure. To +see these failures either touched upon, or _coasted_, to get the idea of +a spying eye and blabbing tongue about the house, is to lose all privacy +in life. To see that thing, which we do love, our character, set forth, +is ever gratifying. See how my _Talk and Talkers_ went; every one liked +his own portrait, and shrieked about other people’s; so it will be with +yours. If you are the least true to the essential, the sitter will be +pleased; very likely not his friends, and that from _various motives_. + + R. L. S. + +When will your holiday be? I sent your letter to my wife, and forget. +Keep us in mind, and I hope we shall he able to receive you. + + + +TO J. A. SYMONDS + + + _Bournemouth_, _February_ 1885. + +MY DEAR SYMONDS,—Yes, we have both been very neglectful. I had horrid +luck, catching two thundering influenzas in August and November. I +recovered from the last with difficulty, but have come through this +blustering winter with some general success; in the house, up and down. +My wife, however, has been painfully upset by my health. Last year, of +course, was cruelly trying to her nerves; Nice and Hyères are bad +experiences; and though she is not ill, the doctor tells me that +prolonged anxiety may do her a real mischief. + +I feel a little old and fagged, and chary of speech, and not very sure of +spirit in my work; but considering what a year I have passed, and how I +have twice sat on Charon’s pierhead, I am surprising. + +My father has presented us with a very pretty home in this place, into +which we hope to move by May. My _Child’s Verses_ come out next week. +_Otto_ begins to appear in April; _More New Arabian Nights_ as soon as +possible. Moreover, I am neck deep in Wellington; also a story on the +stocks, _Great North Road_. O, I am busy! Lloyd is at college in +Edinburgh. That is, I think, all that can be said by way of news. + +Have you read _Huckleberry Finn_? It contains many excellent things; +above all, the whole story of a healthy boy’s dealings with his +conscience, incredibly well done. + +My own conscience is badly seared; a want of piety; yet I pray for it, +tacitly, every day; believing it, after courage, the only gift worth +having; and its want, in a man of any claims to honour, quite +unpardonable. The tone of your letter seemed to me very sound. In these +dark days of public dishonour, I do not know that one can do better than +carry our private trials piously. What a picture is this of a nation! +No man that I can see, on any side or party, seems to have the least +sense of our ineffable shame: the desertion of the garrisons. I tell my +little parable that Germany took England, and then there was an Indian +Mutiny, and Bismarck said: ‘Quite right: let Delhi and Calcutta and +Bombay fall; and let the women and children be treated Sepoy fashion,’ +and people say, ‘O, but that is very different!’ And then I wish I were +dead. Millais (I hear) was painting Gladstone when the news came of +Gordon’s death; Millais was much affected, and Gladstone said, ‘Why? _It +is the man’s own temerity_!’ Voilà le Bourgeois! le voilà nu! But why +should I blame Gladstone, when I too am a Bourgeois? when I have held my +peace? Why did I hold my peace? Because I am a sceptic: _i.e._ a +Bourgeois. We believe in nothing, Symonds; you don’t, and I don’t; and +these are two reasons, out of a handful of millions, why England stands +before the world dripping with blood and daubed with dishonour. I will +first try to take the beam out of my own eye, trusting that even private +effort somehow betters and braces the general atmosphere. See, for +example, if England has shown (I put it hypothetically) one spark of +manly sensibility, they have been shamed into it by the spectacle of +Gordon. Police-Officer Cole is the only man that I see to admire. I +dedicate my _New Arabs_ to him and Cox, in default of other great public +characters.—Yours ever most affectionately, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _March_ 12, 1885. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I was indeed much exercised how I could be worked into +Gray; and lo! when I saw it, the passage seemed to have been written with +a single eye to elucidate the—worst?—well, not a very good poem of +Gray’s. Your little life is excellent, clean, neat, efficient. I have +read many of your notes, too, with pleasure. Your connection with Gray +was a happy circumstance; it was a suitable conjunction. + +I did not answer your letter from the States, for what was I to say? I +liked getting it and reading it; I was rather flattered that you wrote it +to me; and then I’ll tell you what I did—I put it in the fire. Why? +Well, just because it was very natural and expansive; and thinks I to +myself, if I die one of these fine nights, this is just the letter that +Gosse would not wish to go into the hands of third parties. Was I well +inspired? And I did not answer it because you were in your high places, +sailing with supreme dominion, and seeing life in a particular glory; and +I was peddling in a corner, confined to the house, overwhelmed with +necessary work, which I was not always doing well, and, in the very mild +form in which the disease approaches me, touched with a sort of bustling +cynicism. Why throw cold water? How ape your agreeable frame of mind? +In short, I held my tongue. + +I have now published on 101 small pages _The Complete Proof of Mr. R. L. +Stevenson’s Incapacity to Write Verse_, in a series of graduated examples +with table of contents. I think I shall issue a companion volume of +exercises: ‘Analyse this poem. Collect and comminate the ugly words. +Distinguish and condemn the _chevilles_. State Mr. Stevenson’s faults of +taste in regard to the measure. What reasons can you gather from this +example for your belief that Mr. S. is unable to write any other +measure?’ + +They look ghastly in the cold light of print; but there is something nice +in the little ragged regiment for all; the blackguards seem to me to +smile, to have a kind of childish treble note that sounds in my ears +freshly; not song, if you will, but a child’s voice. + +I was glad you enjoyed your visit to the States. Most Englishmen go +there with a confirmed design of patronage, as they go to France for that +matter; and patronage will not pay. Besides, in this year of—grace, said +I?—of disgrace, who should creep so low as an Englishman? ‘It is not to +be thought of that the flood’—ah, Wordsworth, you would change your note +were you alive to-day! + +I am now a beastly householder, but have not yet entered on my domain. +When I do, the social revolution will probably cast me back upon my dung +heap. There is a person called Hyndman whose eye is on me; his step is +beHynd me as I go. I shall call my house Skerryvore when I get it: +SKERRYVORE: _c’est bon pour la poéshie_. I will conclude with my +favourite sentiment: ‘The world is too much with me.’ + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, + _The Hermit of Skerryvore_. + +Author of ‘John Vane Tempest: a Romance,’ ‘Herbert and Henrietta: or the +Nemesis of Sentiment,’ ‘The Life and Adventures of Colonel Bludyer +Fortescue,’ ‘Happy Homes and Hairy Faces,’ ‘A Pound of Feathers and a +Pound of Lead,’ part author of ‘Minn’s Complete Capricious Correspondent: +a Manual of Natty, Natural, and Knowing Letters,’ and editor of the +‘Poetical Remains of Samuel Burt Crabbe, known as the melodious +Bottle-Holder.’ + + Uniform with the above: + +‘The Life and Remains of the Reverend Jacob Degray Squah,’ author of +‘Heave-yo for the New Jerusalem.’ ‘A Box of Candles; or the Patent +Spiritual Safety Match,’ and ‘A Day with the Heavenly Harriers.’ + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _Bonallie Towers_, _Bournemouth_, _March_ 13, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW,—Your success has been immense. I wish your letter had come +two days ago: _Otto_, alas! has been disposed of a good while ago; but it +was only day before yesterday that I settled the new volume of Arabs. +However, for the future, you and the sons of the deified Scribner are the +men for me. Really they have behaved most handsomely. I cannot lay my +hand on the papers, or I would tell you exactly how it compares with my +English bargain; but it compares well. Ah, if we had that copyright, I +do believe it would go far to make me solvent, ill-health and all. + +I wrote you a letter to the Rembrandt, in which I stated my views about +the dedication in a very brief form. It will give me sincere pleasure, +and will make the second dedication I have received, the other being from +John Addington Symonds. It is a compliment I value much; I don’t know +any that I should prefer. + +I am glad to hear you have windows to do; that is a fine business, I +think; but, alas! the glass is so bad nowadays; realism invading even +that, as well as the huge inferiority of our technical resource +corrupting every tint. Still, anything that keeps a man to decoration +is, in this age, good for the artist’s spirit. + +By the way, have you seen James and me on the novel? James, I think in +the August or September—R. L. S. in the December _Longman_. I own I +think the _école bête_, of which I am the champion, has the whip hand of +the argument; but as James is to make a rejoinder, I must not boast. +Anyway the controversy is amusing to see. I was terribly tied down to +space, which has made the end congested and dull. I shall see if I can +afford to send you the April _Contemporary_—but I dare say you see it +anyway—as it will contain a paper of mine on style, a sort of +continuation of old arguments on art in which you have wagged a most +effective tongue. It is a sort of start upon my Treatise on the Art of +Literature: a small, arid book that shall some day appear. + +With every good wish from me and mine (should I not say ‘she and hers’?) +to you and yours, believe me yours ever, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + _Bournemouth_, _March_ 16, 1885. + +MY DEAR HAMERTON,—Various things have been reminding me of my misconduct: +First, Swan’s application for your address; second, a sight of the sheets +of your _Landscape_ book; and last, your note to Swan, which he was so +kind as to forward. I trust you will never suppose me to be guilty of +anything more serious than an idleness, partially excusable. My +ill-health makes my rate of life heavier than I can well meet, and yet +stops me from earning more. My conscience, sometimes perhaps too easily +stifled, but still (for my time of life and the public manners of the +age) fairly well alive, forces me to perpetual and almost endless +transcriptions. On the back of all this, my correspondence hangs like a +thundercloud; and just when I think I am getting through my troubles, +crack, down goes my health, I have a long, costly sickness, and begin the +world again. It is fortunate for me I have a father, or I should long +ago have died; but the opportunity of the aid makes the necessity none +the more welcome. My father has presented me with a beautiful house +here—or so I believe, for I have not yet seen it, being a cage bird but +for nocturnal sorties in the garden. I hope we shall soon move into it, +and I tell myself that some day perhaps we may have the pleasure of +seeing you as our guest. I trust at least that you will take me as I am, +a thoroughly bad correspondent, and a man, a hater, indeed, of rudeness +in others, but too often rude in all unconsciousness himself; and that +you will never cease to believe the sincere sympathy and admiration that +I feel for you and for your work. + +About the _Landscape_, which I had a glimpse of while a friend of mine +was preparing a review, I was greatly interested, and could write and +wrangle for a year on every page; one passage particularly delighted me, +the part about Ulysses—jolly. Then, you know, that is just what I fear I +have come to think landscape ought to be in literature; so there we +should be at odds. Or perhaps not so much as I suppose, as Montaigne +says it is a pot with two handles, and I own I am wedded to the technical +handle, which (I likewise own and freely) you do well to keep for a +mistress. I should much like to talk with you about some other points; +it is only in talk that one gets to understand. Your delightful +Wordsworth trap I have tried on two hardened Wordsworthians, not that I +am not one myself. By covering up the context, and asking them to guess +what the passage was, both (and both are very clever people, one a +writer, one a painter) pronounced it a guide-book. ‘Do you think it an +unusually good guide-book?’ I asked, and both said, ‘No, not at all!’ +Their grimace was a picture when I showed the original. + +I trust your health and that of Mrs. Hamerton keep better; your last +account was a poor one. I was unable to make out the visit I had hoped, +as (I do not know if you heard of it) I had a very violent and dangerous +hæmorrhage last spring. I am almost glad to have seen death so close +with all my wits about me, and not in the customary lassitude and +disenchantment of disease. Even thus clearly beheld I find him not so +terrible as we suppose. But, indeed, with the passing of years, the +decay of strength, the loss of all my old active and pleasant habits, +there grows more and more upon me that belief in the kindness of this +scheme of things, and the goodness of our veiled God, which is an +excellent and pacifying compensation. I trust, if your health continues +to trouble you, you may find some of the same belief. But perhaps my +fine discovery is a piece of art, and belongs to a character cowardly, +intolerant of certain feelings, and apt to self-deception. I don’t think +so, however; and when I feel what a weak and fallible vessel I was thrust +into this hurly-burly, and with what marvellous kindness the wind has +been tempered to my frailties, I think I should be a strange kind of ass +to feel anything but gratitude. + +I do not know why I should inflict this talk upon you; but when I summon +the rebellous pen, he must go his own way; I am no Michael Scott, to rule +the fiend of correspondence. Most days he will none of me; and when he +comes, it is to rape me where he will.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + _Bournemouth_, _March_ 29, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER,—Yes, I have heard of you and read some of your work; but +I am bound in particular to thank you for the notice of my verses. +‘There,’ I said, throwing it over to the friend who was staying with me, +‘it’s worth writing a book to draw an article like that.’ Had you been +as hard upon me as you were amiable, I try to tell myself I should have +been no blinder to the merits of your notice. For I saw there, to admire +and to be very grateful for, a most sober, agile pen; an enviable touch; +the marks of a reader, such as one imagines for one’s self in dreams, +thoughtful, critical, and kind; and to put the top on this memorial +column, a greater readiness to describe the author criticised than to +display the talents of his censor. + +I am a man _blasé_ to injudicious praise (though I hope some of it may be +judicious too), but I have to thank you for THE BEST CRITICISM I EVER +HAD; and am therefore, dear Mr. Archer, the most grateful critickee now +extant. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—I congratulate you on living in the corner of all London that I +like best. _À propos_, you are very right about my voluntary aversion +from the painful sides of life. My childhood was in reality a very mixed +experience, full of fever, nightmare, insomnia, painful days and +interminable nights; and I can speak with less authority of gardens than +of that other ‘land of counterpane.’ But to what end should we renew +these sorrows? The sufferings of life may be handled by the very +greatest in their hours of insight; it is of its pleasures that our +common poems should be formed; these are the experiences that we should +seek to recall or to provoke; and I say with Thoreau, ‘What right have I +to complain, who have not ceased to wonder?’ and, to add a rider of my +own, who have no remedy to offer. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _June_ 1885.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—You know how much and for how long I have loved, +respected, and admired him; I am only able to feel a little with you. +But I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never knew a better +man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel the loss more greatly +as time goes on. It scarce seems life to me; what must it be to you? +Yet one of the last things that he said to me was, that from all these +sad bereavements of yours he had learned only more than ever to feel the +goodness and what we, in our feebleness, call the support of God; he had +been ripening so much—to other eyes than ours, we must suppose he was +ripe, and try to feel it. I feel it is better not to say much more. It +will be to me a great pride to write a notice of him: the last I can now +do. What more in any way I can do for you, please to think and let me +know. For his sake and for your own, I would not be a useless friend: I +know, you know me a most warm one; please command me or my wife, in any +way. Do not trouble to write to me; Austin, I have no doubt, will do so, +if you are, as I fear you will be, unfit. + +My heart is sore for you. At least you know what you have been to him; +how he cherished and admired you; how he was never so pleased as when he +spoke of you; with what a boy’s love, up to the last, he loved you. This +surely is a consolation. Yours is the cruel part—to survive; you must +try and not grudge to him his better fortune, to go first. It is the sad +part of such relations that one must remain and suffer; I cannot see my +poor Jenkin without you. Nor you indeed without him; but you may try to +rejoice that he is spared that extremity. Perhaps I (as I was so much +his confidant) know even better than you can do what your loss would have +been to him; he never spoke of you but his face changed; it was—you +were—his religion. + +I write by this post to Austin and to the _Academy_.—Yours most +sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, + + + +TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _June_ 1885.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—I should have written sooner, but we are in a +bustle, and I have been very tired, though still well. Your very kind +note was most welcome to me. I shall be very much pleased to have you +call me Louis, as he has now done for so many years. Sixteen, you say? +is it so long? It seems too short now; but of that we cannot judge, and +must not complain. + +I wish that either I or my wife could do anything for you; when we can, +you will, I am sure, command us. + +I trust that my notice gave you as little pain as was possible. I found +I had so much to say, that I preferred to keep it for another place and +make but a note in the _Academy_. To try to draw my friend at greater +length, and say what he was to me and his intimates, what a good +influence in life and what an example, is a desire that grows upon me. +It was strange, as I wrote the note, how his old tests and criticisms +haunted me; and it reminded me afresh with every few words how much I owe +to him. + +I had a note from Henley, very brief and very sad. We none of us yet +feel the loss; but we know what he would have said and wished. + +Do you know that Dew Smith has two photographs of him, neither very bad? +and one giving a lively, though not flattering air of him in +conversation? If you have not got them, would you like me to write to +Dew and ask him to give you proofs? + +I was so pleased that he and my wife made friends; that is a great +pleasure. We found and have preserved one fragment (the head) of the +drawing he made and tore up when he was last here. He had promised to +come and stay with us this summer. May we not hope, at least, some time +soon to have one from you?—Believe me, my dear Mrs. Jenkin, with the most +real sympathy, your sincere friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Dear me, what happiness I owe to both of you! + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _October_ 22, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW,—I trust you are not annoyed with me beyond forgiveness; for +indeed my silence has been devilish prolonged. I can only tell you that +I have been nearly six months (more than six) in a strange condition of +collapse, when it was impossible to do any work, and difficult (more +difficult than you would suppose) to write the merest note. I am now +better, but not yet my own man in the way of brains, and in health only +so-so. I suppose I shall learn (I begin to think I am learning) to fight +this vast, vague feather-bed of an obsession that now overlies and +smothers me; but in the beginnings of these conflicts, the inexperienced +wrestler is always worsted, and I own I have been quite extinct. I wish +you to know, though it can be no excuse, that you are not the only one of +my friends by many whom I have thus neglected; and even now, having come +so very late into the possession of myself, with a substantial capital of +debts, and my work still moving with a desperate slowness—as a child +might fill a sandbag with its little handfuls—and my future deeply +pledged, there is almost a touch of virtue in my borrowing these hours to +write to you. Why I said ‘hours’ I know not; it would look blue for both +of us if I made good the word. + +I was writing your address the other day, ordering a copy of my next, +_Prince Otto_, to go your way. I hope you have not seen it in parts; it +was not meant to be so read; and only my poverty (dishonourably) +consented to the serial evolution. + +I will send you with this a copy of the English edition of the _Child’s +Garden_. I have heard there is some vile rule of the post-office in the +States against inscriptions; so I send herewith a piece of doggerel which +Mr. Bunner may, if he thinks fit, copy off the fly leaf. + +Sargent was down again and painted a portrait of me walking about in my +own dining-room, in my own velveteen jacket, and twisting as I go my own +moustache; at one corner a glimpse of my wife, in an Indian dress, and +seated in a chair that was once my grandfather’s; but since some months +goes by the name of Henry James’s, for it was there the novelist loved to +sit—adds a touch of poesy and comicality. It is, I think, excellent, but +is too eccentric to be exhibited. I am at one extreme corner; my wife, +in this wild dress, and looking like a ghost, is at the extreme other +end; between us an open door exhibits my palatial entrance hall and a +part of my respected staircase. All this is touched in lovely, with that +witty touch of Sargent’s; but, of course, it looks dam queer as a whole. + +Pray let me hear from you, and give me good news of yourself and your +wife, to whom please remember me.—Yours most sincerely, my dear Low, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _Autumn_ 1885.] + +DEAR LAD,—If there was any more praise in what you wrote, I think [the +editor] has done us both a service; some of it stops my throat. What, it +would not have been the same if Dumas or Musset had done it, would it +not? Well, no, I do not think it would, do you know, now; I am really of +opinion it would not; and a dam good job too. Why, think what Musset +would have made of Otto! Think how gallantly Dumas would have carried +his crowd through! And whatever you do, don’t quarrel with —. It gives +me much pleasure to see your work there; I think you do yourself great +justice in that field; and I would let no annoyance, petty or +justifiable, debar me from such a market. I think you do good there. +Whether (considering our intimate relations) you would not do better to +refrain from reviewing me, I will leave to yourself: were it all on my +side, you could foresee my answer; but there is your side also, where you +must be the judge. + +As for the _Saturday_. Otto is no ‘fool,’ the reader is left in no doubt +as to whether or not Seraphina was a Messalina (though much it would +matter, if you come to that); and therefore on both these points the +reviewer has been unjust. Secondly, the romance lies precisely in the +freeing of two spirits from these court intrigues; and here I think the +reviewer showed himself dull. Lastly, if Otto’s speech is offensive to +him, he is one of the large class of unmanly and ungenerous dogs who +arrogate and defile the name of manly. As for the passages quoted, I do +confess that some of them reek Gongorically; they are excessive, but they +are not inelegant after all. However, had he attacked me only there, he +would have scored. + +Your criticism on Gondremark is, I fancy, right. I thought all your +criticisms were indeed; only your praise—chokes me.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _October_ 28, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER,—I have read your paper with my customary admiration; it +is very witty, very adroit; it contains a great deal that is excellently +true (particularly the parts about my stories and the description of me +as an artist in life); but you will not be surprised if I do not think it +altogether just. It seems to me, in particular, that you have wilfully +read all my works in terms of my earliest; my aim, even in style, has +quite changed in the last six or seven years; and this I should have +thought you would have noticed. Again, your first remark upon the +affectation of the italic names; a practice only followed in my two +affected little books of travel, where a typographical _minauderie_ of +the sort appeared to me in character; and what you say of it, then, is +quite just. But why should you forget yourself and use these same +italics as an index to my theology some pages further on? This is +lightness of touch indeed; may I say, it is almost sharpness of practice? + +Excuse these remarks. I have been on the whole much interested, and +sometimes amused. Are you aware that the praiser of this ‘brave +gymnasium’ has not seen a canoe nor taken a long walk since ’79? that he +is rarely out of the house nowadays, and carries his arm in a sling? Can +you imagine that he is a backslidden communist, and is sure he will go to +hell (if there be such an excellent institution) for the luxury in which +he lives? And can you believe that, though it is gaily expressed, the +thought is hag and skeleton in every moment of vacuity or depression? +Can you conceive how profoundly I am irritated by the opposite +affectation to my own, when I see strong men and rich men bleating about +their sorrows and the burthen of life, in a world full of ‘cancerous +paupers,’ and poor sick children, and the fatally bereaved, ay, and down +even to such happy creatures as myself, who has yet been obliged to strip +himself, one after another, of all the pleasures that he had chosen +except smoking (and the days of that I know in my heart ought to be +over), I forgot eating, which I still enjoy, and who sees the circle of +impotence closing very slowly but quite steadily around him? In my view, +one dank, dispirited word is harmful, a crime of _lèse-humanité_, a piece +of acquired evil; every gay, every bright word or picture, like every +pleasant air of music, is a piece of pleasure set afloat; the reader +catches it, and, if he be healthy, goes on his way rejoicing; and it is +the business of art so to send him, as often as possible. + +For what you say, so kindly, so prettily, so precisely, of my style, I +must in particular thank you; though even here, I am vexed you should not +have remarked on my attempted change of manner: seemingly this attempt is +still quite unsuccessful! Well, we shall fight it out on this line if it +takes all summer. + +And now for my last word: Mrs. Stevenson is very anxious that you should +see me, and that she should see you, in the flesh. If you at all share +in these views, I am a fixture. Write or telegraph (giving us time, +however, to telegraph in reply, lest the day be impossible), and come +down here to a bed and a dinner. What do you say, my dear critic? I +shall be truly pleased to see you; and to explain at greater length what +I meant by saying narrative was the most characteristic mood of +literature, on which point I have great hopes I shall persuade you.—Yours +truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—My opinion about Thoreau, and the passage in _The Week_, is +perhaps a fad, but it is sincere and stable. I am still of the same mind +five years later; did you observe that I had said ‘modern’ authors? and +will you observe again that this passage touches the very joint of our +division? It is one that appeals to me, deals with that part of life +that I think the most important, and you, if I gather rightly, so much +less so? You believe in the extreme moment of the facts that humanity +has acquired and is acquiring; I think them of moment, but still or much +less than those inherent or inherited brute principles and laws that sit +upon us (in the character of conscience) as heavy as a shirt of mail, and +that (in the character of the affections and the airy spirit of pleasure) +make all the light of our lives. The house is, indeed, a great thing, +and should be rearranged on sanitary principles; but my heart and all my +interest are with the dweller, that ancient of days and day-old infant +man. + + R. L. S. + +An excellent touch is p. 584. ‘By instinct or design he eschews what +demands constructive patience.’ I believe it is both; my theory is that +literature must always be most at home in treating movement and change; +hence I look for them. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_,] _October_ 28, 1885. + +MY DEAREST FATHER,—Get the November number of _Time_, and you will see a +review of me by a very clever fellow, who is quite furious at bottom +because I am too orthodox, just as Purcell was savage because I am not +orthodox enough. I fall between two stools. It is odd, too, to see how +this man thinks me a full-blooded fox-hunter, and tells me my philosophy +would fail if I lost my health or had to give up exercise! + +An illustrated _Treasure Island_ will be out next month. I have had an +early copy, and the French pictures are admirable. The artist has got +his types up in Hogarth; he is full of fire and spirit, can draw and can +compose, and has understood the book as I meant it, all but one or two +little accidents, such as making the _Hispaniola_ a brig. I would send +you my copy, _but I cannot_; it is my new toy, and I cannot divorce +myself from this enjoyment. + +I am keeping really better, and have been out about every second day, +though the weather is cold and very wild. + +I was delighted to hear you were keeping better; you and Archer would +agree, more shame to you! (Archer is my pessimist critic.) Good-bye to +all of you, with my best love. We had a dreadful overhauling of my +conduct as a son the other night; and my wife stripped me of my illusions +and made me admit I had been a detestable bad one. Of one thing in +particular she convicted me in my own eyes: I mean, a most unkind +reticence, which hung on me then, and I confess still hangs on me now, +when I try to assure you that I do love you.—Ever your bad son, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _October_ 28, 1885. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—At last, my wife being at a concert, and a story +being done, I am at some liberty to write and give you of my views. And +first, many thanks for the works that came to my sickbed. And second, +and more important, as to the _Princess_. {368} Well, I think you are +going to do it this time; I cannot, of course, foresee, but these two +first numbers seem to me picturesque and sound and full of lineament, and +very much a new departure. As for your young lady, she is all there; +yes, sir, you can do low life, I believe. The prison was excellent; it +was of that nature of touch that I sometimes achingly miss from your +former work; with some of the grime, that is, and some of the emphasis of +skeleton there is in nature. I pray you to take grime in a good sense; +it need not be ignoble: dirt may have dignity; in nature it usually has; +and your prison was imposing. + +And now to the main point: why do we not see you? Do not fail us. Make +an alarming sacrifice, and let us see ‘Henry James’s chair’ properly +occupied. I never sit in it myself (though it was my grandfather’s); it +has been consecrated to guests by your approval, and now stands at my +elbow gaping. We have a new room, too, to introduce to you—our last +baby, the drawing-room; it never cries, and has cut its teeth. Likewise, +there is a cat now. It promises to be a monster of laziness and +self-sufficiency. + +Pray see, in the November _Time_ (a dread name for a magazine of light +reading), a very clever fellow, W. Archer, stating his views of me; the +rosy-gilled ‘athletico-æsthete’; and warning me, in a fatherly manner, +that a rheumatic fever would try my philosophy (as indeed it would), and +that my gospel would not do for ‘those who are shut out from the exercise +of any manly virtue save renunciation.’ To those who know that rickety +and cloistered spectre, the real R. L. S., the paper, besides being +clever in itself, presents rare elements of sport. The critical parts +are in particular very bright and neat, and often excellently true. Get +it by all manner of means. + +I hear on all sides I am to be attacked as an immoral writer; this is +painful. Have I at last got, like you, to the pitch of being attacked? +’Tis the consecration I lack—and could do without. Not that Archer’s +paper is an attack, or what either he or I, I believe, would call one; +’tis the attacks on my morality (which I had thought a gem of the first +water) I referred to. + +Now, my dear James, come—come—come. The spirit (that is me) says, Come; +and the bride (and that is my wife) says, Come; and the best thing you +can do for us and yourself and your work is to get up and do so right +away,—Yours affectionately, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_,] _October_ 30, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER.—It is possible my father may be soon down with me; he is +an old man and in bad health and spirits; and I could neither leave him +alone, nor could we talk freely before him. If he should be here when +you offer your visit, you will understand if I have to say no, and put +you off. + +I quite understand your not caring to refer to things of private +knowledge. What still puzzles me is how you (‘in the witness box’—ha! I +like the phrase) should have made your argument actually hinge on a +contention which the facts answered. + +I am pleased to hear of the correctness of my guess. It is then as I +supposed; you are of the school of the generous and not the sullen +pessimists; and I can feel with you. I used myself to rage when I saw +sick folk going by in their Bath-chairs; since I have been sick myself +(and always when I was sick myself), I found life, even in its rough +places, to have a property of easiness. That which we suffer ourselves +has no longer the same air of monstrous injustice and wanton cruelty that +suffering wears when we see it in the case of others. So we begin +gradually to see that things are not black, but have their strange +compensations; and when they draw towards their worst, the idea of death +is like a bed to lie on. I should bear false witness if I did not +declare life happy. And your wonderful statement that happiness tends to +die out and misery to continue, which was what put me on the track of +your frame of mind, is diagnostic of the happy man raging over the misery +of others; it could never be written by the man who had tried what +unhappiness was like. And at any rate, it was a slip of the pen: the +ugliest word that science has to declare is a reserved indifference to +happiness and misery in the individual; it declares no leaning toward the +black, no iniquity on the large scale in fate’s doings, rather a marble +equality, dread not cruel, giving and taking away and reconciling. + +Why have I not written my _Timon_? Well, here is my worst quarrel with +you. You take my young books as my last word. The tendency to try to +say more has passed unperceived (my fault, that). And you make no +allowance for the slowness with which a man finds and tries to learn his +tools. I began with a neat brisk little style, and a sharp little knack +of partial observation; I have tried to expand my means, but still I can +only utter a part of what I wish to say, and am bound to feel; and much +of it will die unspoken. But if I had the pen of Shakespeare, I have no +_Timon_ to give forth. I feel kindly to the powers that be; I marvel +they should use me so well; and when I think of the case of others, I +wonder too, but in another vein, whether they may not, whether they must +not, be like me, still with some compensation, some delight. To have +suffered, nay, to suffer, sets a keen edge on what remains of the +agreeable. This is a great truth, and has to be learned in the +fire.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +We expect you, remember that. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _November_ 1, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER,—You will see that I had already had a sight of your +article and what were my thoughts. + +One thing in your letter puzzles me. Are you, too, not in the +witness-box? And if you are, why take a wilfully false hypothesis? If +you knew I was a chronic invalid, why say that my philosophy was +unsuitable to such a case? My call for facts is not so general as yours, +but an essential fact should not be put the other way about. + +The fact is, consciously or not, you doubt my honesty; you think I am +making faces, and at heart disbelieve my utterances. And this I am +disposed to think must spring from your not having had enough of pain, +sorrow, and trouble in your existence. It is easy to have too much; easy +also or possible to have too little; enough is required that a man may +appreciate what elements of consolation and joy there are in everything +but absolutely over-powering physical pain or disgrace, and how in almost +all circumstances the human soul can play a fair part. You fear life, I +fancy, on the principle of the hand of little employment. But perhaps my +hypothesis is as unlike the truth as the one you chose. Well, if it be +so, if you have had trials, sickness, the approach of death, the +alienation of friends, poverty at the heels, and have not felt your soul +turn round upon these things and spurn them under—you must be very +differently made from me, and I earnestly believe from the majority of +men. But at least you are in the right to wonder and complain. + +To ‘say all’? Stay here. All at once? That would require a word from +the pen of Gargantua. We say each particular thing as it comes up, and +‘with that sort of emphasis that for the time there seems to be no +other.’ Words will not otherwise serve us; no, nor even Shakespeare, who +could not have put _As You Like It_ and _Timon_ into one without ruinous +loss both of emphasis and substance. Is it quite fair then to keep your +face so steadily on my most light-hearted works, and then say I recognise +no evil? Yet in the paper on Burns, for instance, I show myself alive to +some sorts of evil. But then, perhaps, they are not your sorts. + +And again: ‘to say all’? All: yes. Everything: no. The task were +endless, the effect nil. But my all, in such a vast field as this of +life, is what interests me, what stands out, what takes on itself a +presence for my imagination or makes a figure in that little tricky +abbreviation which is the best that my reason can conceive. That I must +treat, or I shall be fooling with my readers. That, and not the all of +some one else. + +And here we come to the division: not only do I believe that literature +should give joy, but I see a universe, I suppose, eternally different +from yours; a solemn, a terrible, but a very joyous and noble universe, +where suffering is not at least wantonly inflicted, though it falls with +dispassionate partiality, but where it may be and generally is nobly +borne; where, above all (this I believe; probably you don’t: I think he +may, with cancer), _any brave man may make_ out a life which shall be +happy for himself, and, by so being, beneficent to those about him. And +if he fails, why should I hear him weeping? I mean if I fail, why should +I weep? Why should _you_ hear _me_? Then to me morals, the conscience, +the affections, and the passions are, I will own frankly and sweepingly, +so infinitely more important than the other parts of life, that I +conceive men rather triflers who become immersed in the latter; and I +will always think the man who keeps his lip stiff, and makes ‘a happy +fireside clime,’ and carries a pleasant face about to friends and +neighbours, infinitely greater (in the abstract) than an atrabilious +Shakespeare or a backbiting Kant or Darwin. No offence to any of these +gentlemen, two of whom probably (one for certain) came up to my standard. + +And now enough said; it were hard if a poor man could not criticise +another without having so much ink shed against him. But I shall still +regret you should have written on an hypothesis you knew to be untenable, +and that you should thus have made your paper, for those who do not know +me, essentially unfair. The rich, fox-hunting squire speaks with one +voice; the sick man of letters with another.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + (_Prometheus-Heine in minimis_). + +_P.S._—Here I go again. To me, the medicine bottles on my chimney and +the blood on my handkerchief are accidents; they do not colour my view of +life, as you would know, I think, if you had experience of sickness; they +do not exist in my prospect; I would as soon drag them under the eyes of +my readers as I would mention a pimple I might chance to have (saving +your presence) on my posteriors. What does it prove? what does it +change? it has not hurt, it has not changed me in any essential part; and +I should think myself a trifler and in bad taste if I introduced the +world to these unimportant privacies. + +But, again, there is this mountain-range between us—_that you do not +believe me_. It is not flattering, but the fault is probably in my +literary art. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _December_ 26, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW,—_Lamia_ has not yet turned up, but your letter came to me +this evening with a scent of the Boulevard Montparnasse that was +irresistible. The sand of Lavenue’s crumbled under my heel; and the +bouquet of the old Fleury came back to me, and I remembered the day when +I found a twenty franc piece under my fetish. Have you that fetish +still? and has it brought you luck? I remembered, too, my first sight of +you in a frock coat and a smoking-cap, when we passed the evening at the +Café de Medicis; and my last when we sat and talked in the Parc Monceau; +and all these things made me feel a little young again, which, to one who +has been mostly in bed for a month, was a vivifying change. + +Yes, you are lucky to have a bag that holds you comfortably. Mine is a +strange contrivance; I don’t die, damme, and I can’t get along on both +feet to save my soul; I am a chronic sickist; and my work cripples along +between bed and the parlour, between the medicine bottle and the cupping +glass. Well, I like my life all the same; and should like it none the +worse if I could have another talk with you, though even my talks now are +measured out to me by the minute hand like poisons in a minim glass. + +A photograph will be taken of my ugly mug and sent to you for ulterior +purposes: I have another thing coming out, which I did not put in the way +of the Scribners, I can scarce tell how; but I was sick and penniless and +rather back on the world, and mismanaged it. I trust they will forgive +me. + +I am sorry to hear of Mrs. Low’s illness, and glad to hear of her +recovery. I will announce the coming _Lamia_ to Bob: he steams away at +literature like smoke. I have a beautiful Bob on my walls, and a good +Sargent, and a delightful Lemon; and your etching now hangs framed in the +dining-room. So the arts surround me.—Yours, + + R. L. S. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{xv} _Vailima Letters_: Methuen and Co., 1895. + +{xxi} Compare _Virginibus Puerisque_: the essay on ‘The English +Admirals.’ + +{xxx} The fragment called _Lay Morals_, at present only printed in the +Edinburgh edition (_Miscellanies_, vol. iv.), contains the pith of his +mental history on these subjects. + +{17} Aikman’s _Annals of the Persecution in Scotland_. + +{24} Thomas Stevenson. + +{56} See Scott himself in the preface to the Author’s edition. + +{67} Compare the paragraph in ‘Ordered South’ describing the state of +mind of the invalid doubtful of recovery, and ending: ‘He will pray for +Medea; when she comes, let here either rejuvenate or slay.’ + +{144} ‘The Story of a Lie.’ + +{149} Engraisser, grow fat. + +{161} Here follows a long calculation of ways and means. + +{185} ‘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 ‘Wandering +Willie’s Tale’ in _Redgauntlet_, borrowed perhaps from _Christ’s Kirk of +the Green_. + +{186} In architecture, a series of piles to defend the pier of a bridge. + +{191} Gentleman’s library. + +{209} The reference is of course to Wordsworth’s _Song at the Feast of +Brougham Castle_. + +{210} At Davos-Platz. + +{223} From Landor’s _Gebir_: the line refers to Napoleon Bonaparte. + +{263} Fair copy of some of the _Child’s Garden_ verses. + +{269} _Silverado Squatters_. + +{289} The well-known Scottish landscape painter, who had been a friend +of Stevenson’s in youth. + +{290} _Croûtes_: crude studies or daubs from nature. + +{303} A favourite Skye terrier. Mr. Stevenson was a great lover of +dogs. + +{318} The essay so called. See _Memories and Portraits_. + +{330} Of Sophocles. + +{337} Cough. + +{338} Loose talk. + +{339} Mr. Charles Morley, at this time manager or assistant-manager of +the _Pall Mall Gazette_. + +{368} _Princess Casamassina_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** + + +******* This file should be named 622-0.txt or 622-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/9/9/9/622 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his Family and Friends - Volume 1 [of 2] + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: August 25, 2019 [eBook #622] +[This file was first posted on June 30, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1906 Methuen and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/cover.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" +title= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1><span class="GutSmall">THE LETTERS OF</span><br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SELECTED AND +EDITED WITH</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">SIDNEY COLVIN</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">VOLUME +I</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +METHUEN AND CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">36 ESSEX STREET</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><i>Seventh +Edition</i></span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Published</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1899</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1899</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>April 1900</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fourth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1900</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fifth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>January 1901</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Sixth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>October 1902</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Seventh Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>December 1906</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the present edition, several +minor errors and misprints have been corrected, and three new +letters have been printed, one addressed to Mr. Austin Dobson +(vol. i. p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page340">340</a></span>), one to Mr. Rudyard Kipling (vol. +ii. p. 215), and one to Mr. George Meredith (vol. ii. p. +302). The two former replace other letters which seemed of +less interest; the last is an addition to the book.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">S. C.</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall"><b>PAGE</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>INTRODUCTION</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagexv">xv</a></span>–xliv</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>I</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH</b><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall"><b>TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Introductory</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p class="gutindent"><span +class="smcap">letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Churchill Babington</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span><b>II</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>STUDENT +DAYS—</b><b><i>continued</i></b><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><b>ORDERED SOUTH</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page92">92</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>III</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR</b><br /> +<span +class="GutSmall"><b>EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page106">106</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. de Mattos</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page116">116</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To A. Patchett Martin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page132">132</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page134">134</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>IV</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT</b><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><b>MONTEREY AND SAN +FRANCISCO</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page151">151</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page160">160</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pageix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ix</span>To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. W. Bamford</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To C. W. Stoddard</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page174">174</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>V</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>ALPINE WINTERS</b><br /> +<b>AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS</b></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To A. G. Dew-Smith</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page185">185</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To C. W. Stoddard</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page192">192</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page195">195</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page197">197</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Horatio F. Brown</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page199">199</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page200">200</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page200">200</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagex"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. x</span>To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page201">201</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page202">202</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Professor Æneas Mackay</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page206">206</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page208">208</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page211">211</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page212">212</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page213">213</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page215">215</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page216">216</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page218">218</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page222">222</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page224">224</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alexander Ireland</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page233">233</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xi</span>To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. T. Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page240">240</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page241">241</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>VI</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>MARSEILLES AND +HYÈRES</b></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Editor of the <i>New York +Tribune</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To R. A. M. Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page252">252</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page253">253</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page254">254</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page254">254</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page256">256</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page257">257</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page261">261</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page262">262</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page263">263</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page265">265</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page266">266</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page267">267</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page268">268</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page269">269</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page270">270</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page271">271</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page272">272</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xii</span>To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page273">273</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page274">274</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page275">275</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page277">277</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page278">278</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page279">279</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page283">283</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page284">284</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page286">286</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To R. A. M. Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page288">288</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page291">291</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page292">292</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page294">294</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page295">295</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page296">296</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Milne</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page297">297</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Miss Ferrier</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page299">299</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page300">300</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page301">301</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page302">302</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page303">303</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page304">304</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page305">305</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. Dick</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page308">308</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Cosmo Monkhouse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page310">310</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page312">312</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Miss Ferrier</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page313">313</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page314">314</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page315">315</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Cosmo Monkhouse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page316">316</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page318">318</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page319">319</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page320">320</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page321">321</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>VII</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH</b></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page328">328</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page328">328</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Rev. Professor Lewis Campbell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page330">330</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Andrew Chatto</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page331">331</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page332">332</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page334">334</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page337">337</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page337">337</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Miss Ferrier</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page338">338</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page339">339</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Austin Dobson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page340">340</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Henry James</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page341">341</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page343">343</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page344">344</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page345">345</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To H. A. Jones</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page346">346</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page346">346</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page347">347</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page348">348</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page349">349</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>To J. A. Symonds</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page350">350</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page352">352</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page354">354</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page356">356</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To William Archer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page358">358</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page359">359</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page360">360</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page361">361</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page363">363</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To William Archer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page364">364</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page367">367</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Henry James</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page368">368</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To William Archer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page369">369</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page371">371</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page374">374</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Frontispiece</i>—PORTRAIT +OF R. L. STEVENSON, <i>æt.</i> 35<br /> +<i>From a photograph by</i> Mr. <span class="smcap">Lloyd +Osbourne</span></p> +<h2><a name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xv</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> 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 the request that it should be +opened after his death. He recovered, as every one knows, +and had strength enough to enjoy six years more of active life +and work in the Pacific Islands. When the end came, and the +paper was opened, it was found to contain, among other things, +the expression of his wish that I should be asked to prepare for +publication ‘a selection of his letters and a sketch of his +life.’ The journal letters written to myself from his +Samoan home, subsequently to the date of the request, offered the +readiest material towards fulfilling promptly a part at least of +the duty thus laid upon me; and a selection from these was +accordingly published in the autumn following his death. <a +name="citationxv"></a><a href="#footnotexv" +class="citation">[xv]</a></p> +<p>The scanty leisure of an official life (chiefly employed as it +was for several years in seeing my friend’s collected and +posthumous works through the press) did not allow me to complete +the remainder of my task without considerable delay. For +one thing, the body of correspondence <a name="pagexvi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xvi</span>which came in from various quarters +turned out much larger than had been anticipated, and the labour +of sifting and arranging it much greater. The author of +<i>Treasure Island</i> and <i>Across the Plains</i> and <i>Weir +of Hermiston</i> 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 even +come to be an accepted view among his friends; but in truth it +was only during one particular period of his life (see below, +vol. i. p. 103) that he at all deserved such a reproach. At +other times, as is now apparent, he had shown a degree of +industry and spirit in letter-writing extraordinary considering +his health and occupations, and especially considering his +declared aversion for the task. His letters, it is true, +were often the most 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 for every one here included some half-a-dozen at least have +had to be rejected.</p> +<p>In considering the scale and plan on which my friend’s +instruction should be carried out, it seemed necessary to take +into account, not his own always modest opinion of himself, but +the place which, as time went on, 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 <a +name="pagexvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xvii</span>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; one especially has struck notes which appeal to +dominant fibres in our Anglo-Saxon stock with irresistible force; +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 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>By virtue, then, of this double appeal of form and matter; by +his especial hold upon the young, in whose spirit so much of his +best work was done; by his undecaying influence on other writers; +by the spell which he still exercises from the grave, and +exercises most strongly on those who are most familiar with the +best company whether of the living or the dead, Stevenson’s +name and memory, so far as can be judged at present, seem +destined not to dwindle, but to grow. The voice of the +<i>advocatus diaboli</i> has been heard against him, as it is +right and proper that it should be heard <a +name="pagexviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xviii</span>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—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 perfectly; 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 Suicide Club, or the airy sentimental comedy of +Providence and the Guitar, or the schoolboy historical inventions +of Dickon Crookback and the old sailor Arblaster, a writer of his +quality cannot help striking notes from the heart of life and the +inwardness <a name="pagexix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xix</span>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, surely, 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> +<blockquote><p>‘He loved of life the myriad sides,<br /> +Pain, prayer, or pleasure, act or sleep,<br /> +As wallowing narwhals love the deep’—</p> +</blockquote> +<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 moods, impressions, experiences or cravings +after experience, pains, pleasures, opinions or conflicts of the +spirit, which in the eagerness of youthful living and thinking +had already <a name="pagexx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xx</span>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 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 of current usages might have been better for him, but +was simply not in his nature. ‘Damp gingerbread +puppets’ were to him the persons who lived and thought and +felt and acted only as was expected of them. ‘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?’ 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 <a +name="pagexxi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxi</span>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; <a name="citationxxi"></a><a +href="#footnotexxi" class="citation">[xxi]</a> but the part was +always for the moment 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 <a name="pagexxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxii</span>strongly personal to himself. He may try his +hand in youth at a Sentimental Journey, 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 the brave 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> 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 poet who has his own outlook on +life, his own special and profitable vein of smiling or satirical +contemplation.</p> +<p><a name="pagexxiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxiii</span>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 happily inventing and +soundly constructing a whole fable comparable to his +unquestionable 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, large, spontaneous breath of creation, +or are but transitorily animated at critical and happy moments by +flashes of spiritual and dramatic insight, aided by the conscious +devices of his singularly adroit and spirited art? This is +a question which no criticism but that of time can solve; it +takes the consenting instinct of generations to feel whether the +creatures of fiction, however powerfully they may strike at +first, are durably and equably, or ephemerally and fitfully, +alive. To contend, as some do, that strong creative +impulse, and so keen an artistic <a name="pagexxiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxiv</span>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 touched with +genius, all charming and stimulating to the literary sense, 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; unsurpassed 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 <a name="pagexxv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxv</span>century, has handled with the most of freshness and +inspiriting power the widest range of established literary +forms—the moral, critical, and personal essay, 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 public regard, the words ‘selection’ and +‘sketch’ have evidently to be given a pretty liberal +interpretation. Readers, it must be supposed, will scarce +be content without both a fairly full biography, and the +opportunity of a fairly ample intercourse with the man as he was +accustomed to reveal himself in writing to his familiars. +As to form—Stevenson’s own words and the nature of +the material alike seem to <a name="pagexxvi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxvi</span>indicate that the <i>Life</i> and +the <i>Letters</i> should be kept separate. There are some +kinds of correspondence which can conveniently be woven into the +body and texture of a biography, though indeed I think it is a +plan to which biographers are much too partial. Nothing, +surely, more checks the flow of a narrative than its interruption +by stationary blocks of correspondence; nothing more disconcerts +the reader than a too frequent or too abrupt alternation of +voices between the subject of a biography speaking in his letters +and the writer of it speaking in his narrative. At least it +is only when letters are occupied, as Macaulay’s for +instance were, almost entirely with facts and events, that they +can without difficulty be handled in this way. But events +and facts, ‘sordid facts,’ as he called them, were +not very often suffered to intrude into Stevenson’s +correspondence. ‘I deny,’ he writes, +‘that letters should contain news (I mean mine; those of +other people should). But mine should contain appropriate +sentiments and humorous nonsense, or nonsense without the +humour.’ Business letters, letters of information, +and letters of courtesy he had sometimes to write: but when he +wrote best was under the influence of the affection or +impression, or the mere whim or mood, 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><a name="pagexxvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxvii</span>With a letter-writer of this character, as it seems +to me, a judicious reader desires to be left as much alone as +possible. What he wants is to relish the correspondence by +itself, or with only just so much in the way of notes and +introductions as may serve to make allusions and situations +clear. Two volumes, then, of letters so edited, to be +preceded by a separate introductory volume of narrative and +critical memoir, or <i>étude</i>—such was to be the +memorial to my friend which I had planned, and hoped by this time +to have ready. Unfortunately, the needful leisure has +hitherto failed me, and might fail me for some time yet, to +complete the separate volume of biography. That is now, at +the wish of the family, to be undertaken by Stevenson’s +cousin and my friend, Mr. Graham Balfour. Meanwhile the +<i>Letters</i>, with introductions and notes somewhat extended +from the original plan, are herewith presented as a substantive +work by themselves.</p> +<p>The book will enable those who know and love their Stevenson +already to know him more intimately, and, as I hope, to love him +more. It contains, certainly, much that is most essentially +characteristic of the man. To some, perhaps, that very lack +of art as a correspondent of which we have found him above +accusing himself may give the reading an added charm and +flavour. What he could do as an artist we know—what a +telling power and heightened thrill he could give to all his +effects, in so many different modes of expression and +composition, by calculated skill and the deliberate exercise of a +perfectly trained faculty. This is the quality which nobody +<a name="pagexxviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxviii</span>denies him, and which so deeply impressed his +fellow-craftsmen of all kinds. I remember the late 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.’ Now 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 will write +with the most distinguished elegance on one day, with simple good +sense and good feeling on a second, with flat triviality on +another, and with the most slashing, often ultra-colloquial, +vehemence on a fourth, or will vary through all these moods and +more in one and the same letter. 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. Passages or +phrases of the craziest schoolboy or seafaring slang come +tumbling after and capping others of classical <a +name="pagexxix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxix</span>cadence +and purity, of poetical and heartfelt eloquence. By<span +class="smcap"> </span>this medley of moods and manners, +Stevenson’s letters at their best—the pick, let us +say, of those in the following volumes which were written from +Hyères or Bournemouth—come nearer than anything else +to the full-blooded charm and variety of his conversation.</p> +<p>Nearer, yet not quite near; for it was in company only that +this genial spirit rose to his very best. Those whom his +writings charm or impress, but who never knew him, can but +imagine how doubly they would have been charmed and impressed by +his presence. Few men probably, certainly none that I have +ever seen or read of, have had about them such a richness and +variety of human nature; and few can ever have been better gifted +than 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—the poet +and artist, the moralist and preacher, the humourist and jester, +the man of great heart and tender conscience, the man of eager +appetite and curiosity, the Bohemian, impatient of restraints and +shams, the adventurer and lover of travel and of action: +characters, several of them, not rare separately, especially +among his Scottish fellow-countrymen, but rare indeed to be found +united, and each in such fulness and intensity, within the bounds +of a single personality.</p> +<p>Before all things Stevenson was a born poet, to whom the world +was full of enchantment and of latent romance, <a +name="pagexxx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxx</span>only +waiting to take shape and substance in the forms art. It +was his birthright—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘to +hear<br /> +The great bell beating far and near—<br /> +The odd, unknown, enchanted gong<br /> +That on the road hales men along,<br /> +That from the mountain calls afar,<br /> +That lures the vessel from a star,<br /> +And with a still, aerial sound<br /> +Makes all the earth enchanted ground.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>At the same time, he was not less a born preacher and moralist +after his fashion. A true son of the Covenanters, he had +about him 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 youth his sense of social injustice and the +inequalities of human opportunity made 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. <a +name="citationxxx"></a><a href="#footnotexxx" +class="citation">[xxx]</a> <a name="pagexxxi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxxi</span>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 poet +and 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>In another aspect of his many-sided being Stevenson was not +less a born adventurer and practical experimentalist in +life. Many poets are content to dream, and many, perhaps +most, moralists to preach; but 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 even 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 loved to find himself in +difficult social passes and ethical dilemmas for the sake of +trying to behave in them to the utmost <a +name="pagexxxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxii</span>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 St. 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.’ In so +frail a tabernacle was it that the aspirations of the artist, the +unconventional moralist, the lover of all experience, and the +lover of daring action had to learn to reconcile themselves as +best they might. Frail as it was, it contained withal a +strong animal nature, and he was as much exposed to the storms +and solicitations of sense as to the cravings and questionings of +the spirit. 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 +perfectly warm, loyal, and tender 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 <a name="pagexxxiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxiii</span>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>To take this multiple personality from another point of view, +it was part of his genius 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 +had to say with St. Augustine, ‘Behold! my childhood is +dead, but I am alive.’ The child, as his <i>Garden of +Verses</i> vividly attests, and as will be seen by abundant +evidence in the course of the following pages, 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>; with all boys +that he met, provided they were really boys and not prigs nor +puppies, he was instantly at home; and the ideal of a career +which he most inwardly and longingly cherished, the ideals of +practical adventure and romance, of desirable predicaments and +gratifying modes of escape from them, were from first to last +those of a boy. At the same time, even when I first <a +name="pagexxxiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxiv</span>knew +him, there were about him occasional traits and glimpses of old +sagacity, of premature life-wisdom and experience, such as find +expression, for instance, in the essay <i>Virginibus +Puerisque</i>, among other matter more according with his then +age of twenty-six.</p> +<p>Again, it is said that in every poet there must be something +of the woman—the receptivity, the emotional nature. +If to be impressionable in the extreme, 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 +<i>ἀρτίδακρυς</i>, +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 all his habits and instincts he was the least +effeminate of men; and effeminacy, or aught approaching +sexlessness, was perhaps the only quality in man with which he +had no patience. In his gentle and complying nature there +were strains of iron tenacity and will. 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 cheerful self-discipline +and 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. His +great countryman Scott, as this book will prove, was not more +manfully free from artistic jealousy or the <a +name="pagexxxv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxv</span>least +shade of irritability under criticism, or more modestly and +unfeignedly inclined to exaggerate the qualities of other +people’s work and to underrate those of his own. His +severest critic was always himself; the next most severe, those +of his own household and intimacy, whose love made them jealous +lest he should fall short of his best; for he lived in an +atmosphere of love, indeed, but not of flattery. 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. +Nor is any such want to be found in the practice which he founded +on or combined with it; in his invincible gaiety and sweetness +under sufferings and deprivations the most galling to him; in the +temper which made his presence in health or sickness a perpetual +sunshine to those about him. Take the kind of maxims of +life which he was accustomed to forge for himself and to act +by:—‘Acts may be forgiven; not <a +name="pagexxxvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxvi</span>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.’ ‘Nullity wanted nothing; so he supposed +he wanted advice.’ ‘Evil was called Youth till +he was old, and then he was called Habit.’ +‘Fear kept the house; and still he must pay +taxes.’ ‘Shame had a fine bed, but where was +slumber? Once he was in jail he slept.’ With +this moralist maxims meant actions; 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 perfectly freakish, not perfectly human, 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. In the streets of Edinburgh he +had certainly been known for queer pranks and mystifications in +youth; and up to middle life there seemed <a +name="pagexxxvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxvii</span>to +some of his friends to be much, if not of the Puck, at least of +the Ariel, about him. 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 talk, as I have said, that all the many lights +and colours of this richly compounded spirit could be seen in +full play. He would begin no matter how—in early days +often with a jest at his own absurd garments, or with the +recitation, in his vibrating voice and full Scotch accent, of +some snatch of poetry that was haunting him, or with a rhapsody +of analytic delight over some minute accident of beauty or +expressiveness that had struck his observation, and would have +escaped that of everybody else, 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, +differentiated, and launched on their imaginary careers; a +hundred ingenious problems of conduct and cases of honour would +be set and solved, in a manner often quite opposed to +conventional precept; romantic voyages would be planned and +followed out in vision, with a thousand incidents, to all the +corners <a name="pagexxxviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxviii</span>of our own planet and of others; the possibilities +of life and art would be illuminated with glancing search-lights +of bewildering range and penetration, the most sober argument +alternating with the maddest freaks of fancy, high poetic +eloquence 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 +dominate the talk or absorb it; rather he helped every one about +him to discover and to exercise unexpected powers of their +own. The point could hardly be better brought out than it +is in a fragment which I borrow from Mr. Henley of an unpublished +character-sketch of his friend: ‘I leave his praise in this +direction (the telling of Scottish vernacular stories) to +others. It is more to my purpose to note that he will +discourse with you of morals, music, marbles, men, manners, +metaphysics, medicine, mangold-wurzel—<i>que +scays-je</i>?—with equal insight into essentials and equal +pregnancy and felicity of utterance; and that he will <a +name="pagexxxix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxix</span>stop +with you to make mud pies in the first gutter, range in your +company whatever heights of thought and feeling you have found +accessible, and end by guiding you to altitudes far nearer the +stars than you have ever dreamed of footing it; and that at the +last he makes you wonder which to admire the more—his easy +familiarity with the Eternal Veracities or the brilliant flashes +of imbecility with which his excursions into the Infinite are +sometimes diversified. He radiates talk, as the sun does +light and heat; and after an evening—or a week—with +him, you come forth with a sense of satisfaction in your own +capacity which somehow proves superior even to the inevitable +conclusion that your brilliance was but the reflection of his +own, and that all the while you were only playing the part of +Rubinstein’s piano or Sarasate’s violin.’</p> +<p>All this the reader should imagine as helped by the most +speaking of presences: a steady, penetrating fire in the wide-set +eyes, a compelling power and sweetness 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. When I first knew him he was passing through a +period of neatness between two of Bohemian carelessness as to +dress; so that the effect of his charm was immediate. At +other times of his youth there was something for strangers, and +even for friends, to get over in <a name="pagexl"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xl</span>the odd garments which 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. For the rest, his human charm was the same for +all kinds of people, without the least 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 common seaman, the shepherd, the street +arab, or the tramp. Even in the imposed silence <a +name="pagexli"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xli</span>and +restraint of extreme sickness the magnetic power and attraction +of the man made itself felt, and there seemed to be more vitality +and fire 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 is 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 never be taken down, and has left +only an ineffaceable impression in the memory of his +friends. The letters, it should be added, do not represent +him at all fully until about the thirtieth year of his age, the +beginning of the settled and married period of his life. +From then onwards, and especially from the beginning of Part +<span class="GutSmall">VI</span>. (the Hyères period), +they present a pretty full and complete autobiography, if not of +doings, at any rate of moods and feelings. In the earlier +periods, his correspondence for the most part expresses his real +self either too little or else one-sidedly. I have omitted +very many letters of his boyish and student days as being too +immature or uninteresting; and many of the confidences and +confessions of his later youth, though they are those of a +beautiful spirit, whether as too intimate, or as giving a +disproportionate prominence to passing troubles. When he is +found in these days writing in a melancholy or minor key, it must +be remembered that at the same moment, in direct intercourse with +any friend, his spirits would instantly rise, and he would be +found the gayest of laughing companions. Very many letters +or snatches <a name="pagexlii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xlii</span>of letters of nearly all dates to his familiars have +also been omitted as not intelligible without a knowledge of the +current jests, codes, and catchwords of conversation between him +and them. At one very interesting period of his life, from +about his twenty-fifth to his twenty-ninth year, he disused the +habit of letter-writing almost entirely.</p> +<p>In choosing from among what remained 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 next to nothing had to be suppressed from fear +of giving pain. 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 <a name="pagexliii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xliii</span>arose from the publication, +without permission, of one of his letters written on his first +Pacific voyage (see below, vol. ii. p. 121).</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 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 a proportionate picture of the man, so 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 ‘Ordered South,’ 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 quite left out. <a +name="pagexliv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xliv</span>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 very greatly cut down +such bulletins, but could not manage to omit them +altogether. Generally speaking, I have used the editorial +privilege of omission without scruple where I thought it +desirable. And in regard to the text, I have not held +myself bound to reproduce all the author’s minor +eccentricities of spelling and the like. As all his friends +are aware, to spell in a quite accurate and grown-up manner was a +thing which this master of English letters was never able to +learn; but to reproduce such trivial slips in print is, I think, +to distract the reader’s attention from the main +matter. A normal orthography has therefore been adopted +throughout.</p> +<p>Lastly, I have to express my thanks to my friend Mr. George +Smith, proprietor of the <i>Dictionary of National Biography</i>, +for permission to reprint in this and in following sectional +introductions a few paragraphs from that work.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">S. C.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 1899.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>I<br /> +STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1868–1873</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>INTRODUCTION.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">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 few +worth giving by way of an opening chapter to the present +book. Among them are interspersed one or two of a different +character addressed to other correspondents.</p> +<p>But, first, it is desirable that readers not acquainted with +the circumstances and conditions of Stevenson’s parentage +and early life should be here, as briefly as possible, informed +of them. On both sides of the house he came of capable and +cultivated stock. His grandfather was Robert Stevenson, +civil 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 <a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>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 singularly interesting +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 ‘The +Manse’) 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 +may have inherited from her some of his constitutional <a +name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>weakness as +well as of his social and intellectual vivacity and his taste for +letters. Robert Louis (baptized Robert Lewis Balfour) +Stevenson was born on November 13, 1850, at 8 Howard Place, +Edinburgh, and was the only child of his parents. His +health was infirm from the first, and he was with difficulty kept +alive by the combined care of a capable and watchful mother and a +perfectly 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. In +January 1853 his parents moved to 1 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 +his time was also spent in the manse of Colinton on the Water of +Leith, the home of his maternal grandfather. Of this place +his childish recollections were happy and idyllic, while those of +city life were coloured rather by impressions of sickness, fever, +and nocturnal terrors. If, however, he suffered much as a +child from the distresses, he also enjoyed to the full the +pleasures, of imagination. Illness confined him much within +the house, but imagination kept him always content and +busy. In the days of the Crimean war some one gave the +child a cheap toy sword; and when his father depreciated it, he +said, ‘I tell you, the sword is of gold, and the sheath of +silver, and the boy is very well off and quite +contented.’ As disabilities closed in on him in after +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>life, he +would never grumble at any gift, however niggardly, of fortune, +and the anecdote is as characteristic of the man as of the +child. He was eager and full of invention in every kind of +play, whether solitary or sociable, and seems to have been +treated as something of a small, sickly prince among a whole +cousinhood of playmates of both the Balfour and the Stevenson +connections. He was also a greedy reader, or rather +listener to reading; for it was not until his eighth year that he +began to read easily or habitually to himself. He has +recorded how his first conscious impression of pleasure from the +sound and cadence of words was received from certain passages in +M‘Cheyne’s hymns as recited to him by his +nurse. Bible stories, the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, +and Mayne Reid’s tales were especially, and it would seem +equally, his delight. He began early to take pleasure in +attempts at composition of his own. A history of Moses, +dictated in his sixth year, and an account of travels in Perth, +in his ninth, are still extant. 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 intervals for some time +after the autumn of 1861) the Edinburgh Academy. One of his +tutors at the former school writes: ‘He was the most +delightful boy I ever knew; full of fun, full of tender feeling, +ready for his lessons, ready for a story, ready for +fun.’ From very early days, both as child and boy, he +must have had something of that power to charm which +distinguished him above other men in after life. ‘I +loike that bo-o-o-o-y,’ a heavy Dutchman <a +name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>was heard +saying to himself over and over again, whom at the age of about +thirteen he had held in amused conversation during a whole +passage from Ostend. The same quality, with the signs which +he always showed of quick natural intelligence when he chose to +learn, must have helped to spare him many punishments from +teachers which he earned by persistent and ingenious +truantry. ‘I think,’ remarks his mother, +‘they liked talking to him better than teaching +him.’</p> +<p>For a few months in the autumn of 1863, when his parents had +been ordered to winter at 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 that day forward he never ceased to love, and +for which the longing, amid the gloom of Edinburgh winters, often +afterwards gripped him by the heart.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Spring Grove School</i>, +12<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1863.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>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’ll est possible. I hope you will +find your 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.</p> +<p>Do take me with you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">2 <i>Sulyarde Terrace</i>, +<i>Torquay</i>, <i>Thursday</i> (<i>April</i> 1866).</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wick</i>, <i>Friday</i>, +<i>September</i> 11, 1868.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—. . . Wick +lies at the end or elbow of an open triangular bay, hemmed on +either side 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 <a name="page16"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 16</span>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 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 <a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wick</i>, September 5, +1868. <i>Monday</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MAMMA</span>,—This +morning I got a delightful haul: your letter of the fourth +(surely mis-dated); Papa’s of same day; Virgil’s +<i>Bucolics</i>, very thankfully received; and Aikman’s +<i>Annals</i>, <a name="citation17"></a><a href="#footnote17" +class="citation">[17]</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><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>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> +<p class="poetry">‘Carve or discourse; do not a famine +fear.<br /> +Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.’</p> +<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> +<p class="poetry">‘Is it not verse except enchanted +groves<br /> +And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?<br /> +Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves?<br /> +<i>Must all be veiled</i>, <i>while he that reads divines</i><br +/> +<i>Catching the sense at two removes</i>?’</p> +<p>You see, ‘except’ was used for +‘unless’ before 1630.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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>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="GutSmall">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. <a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span>‘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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wick</i>, <i>September</i> +1868. <i>Saturday</i>, 10 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span></p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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> <a name="page20"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 20</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pulteney</i>, <i>Wick</i>, +<i>Sunday</i>, <i>September</i> 1868.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>Last +week has been a blank one: always too much sea.</p> +<p>I enjoyed myself very much last night at the R.’s. +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 Cummie 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 M— if +he’s disengaged, to the R.’s if not.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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>Seven <span class="GutSmall">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 R., amusing, long-winded, +in many points like papa; mère R., nice, delicate, likes +hymns, knew Aunt Margaret (’t’ould man knew Uncle +Alan); fille R., nommée 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 R., +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 <a +name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>doesn’t +mean no night: we’ll be so glad to see you.’ +<i>Cest 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. S. 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. S. 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 style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p22b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Diagram" +title= +"Diagram" + src="images/p22s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>C D is the new pier.</p> +<p>A the schooner ashore. B the salmon house.</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 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> +<p>Some of the waves were twenty feet high. The spray <a +name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>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> +<p class="poetry">‘But yet the Lord that is on high<br /> + Is more of might by far<br /> +Than noise of many waters is<br /> + Or great sea-billows are.’</p> +<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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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, <i>on 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 spales 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><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>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="citation24"></a><a href="#footnote24" +class="citation">[24]</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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Churchill babington</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston Cottage</i>, +<i>Lothianburn</i>, <i>Summer</i> 1871.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MAUD</span>,—If you have +forgotten the hand-writing—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 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 +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>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, 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 <a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">1871?</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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. 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><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Louis</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Dunblane</i>, <i>Friday</i>, +5<i>th</i> <i>March</i> 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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, +<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 <a +name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>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</i>. <i>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 lifting 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 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 <a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Dunblane</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +9<i>th</i> <i>April</i> 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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</i>: <i>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 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 <a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Brussels</i>, <i>Thursday</i>, +25<i>th July</i> 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>deserved, in +compensation for having to sleep on 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</i> <i>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 <a name="page32"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 32</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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—The snake was about a yard long, but +harmless, and now, he says, quite tame.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Landsberg</i>, +<i>Frankfurt</i>, <i>Monday</i>, 29<i>th</i> <i>July</i> +1872.</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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 photographs, etc., Marie and I +talking, and the others looking on with evident delight at having +such a linguist in the family. <a name="page33"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 33</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Landsberg</i>, +<i>Thursday</i>, 1<i>st</i> <i>August</i> 1872.</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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 got into conversation; and was astonished when the landlady, +having asked whether I were an Englishman, <a +name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>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</i>, <i>der Herr +Doctor</i>,’ and was answered by another with +‘<i>Yaw</i>, <i>yaw</i>, <i>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 +rein</i>’ (clean), said one; and they all nodded their <a +name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>heads +together like as many mandarins, and repeated <i>rein</i>, <i>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 will make its way out of whatsoever corner of patois +it found its birth in.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Meitz Herz ist im Hochland</i>, +<i>mean Herz ist nicht hier</i>,<br /> +<i>Mein Herz ist im Hochland im grünen Revier</i>.<br /> +<i>Im grünen Reviere zu jagen das Reh</i>;<br /> +<i>Mein Herz ist im Hochland</i>, <i>wo immer ich +geh</i>.’</p> +<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 to <a name="page36"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 36</span>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> +<p><i>Friday</i>, <i>August</i> 2, 1872.—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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Frankfurt</i>, <i>Rosengasse</i> +13, <i>August</i> 4, 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>saying 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</i>,—<i>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 an <a +name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">13 <i>Rosengasse</i>, +<i>Frankfurt</i>, <i>Tuesday Morning</i>, <i>August</i> 1872.</p> +<p>. . . Last 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 <a +name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>the +<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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span><br /> +(<i>Rentier</i>).</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span><span +class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>February</i> 2, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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>What is my life to be at this rate? What, you +rascal? <a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>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 a 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>II<br +/> +STUDENT DAYS—<i>Continued</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ORDERED SOUTH</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SEPTEMBER 1873-JULY 1875</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Cockfield Rectory</i>, +<i>Sudbury</i>, <i>Suffolk</i>,<br /> +<i>Tuesday</i>, <i>July</i> 28, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>,<br /> +<i>Saturday</i>, <i>September</i> 6, 1873.</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">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</i> <i>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 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 +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>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> +<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 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 <a +name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>,<br /> +<i>Friday</i>, <i>September</i> 12, 1873.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">was</span> over last night, +contrary to my own wish, in Leven, Fife; and this morning I had a +conversation of <a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>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 tumbledown 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="GutSmall">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 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 <a name="page53"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 53</span>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 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</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 well? However, it shall go to +you, for the reasons given above.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +<i>September</i> 16, 1873.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">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! <a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>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 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><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Dumfries</i>, <i>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 +starlight—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 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</i>, <i>O Wunder</i>, <i>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 <a +name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>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="citation56"></a><a href="#footnote56" +class="citation">[56]</a> We went up the stream a little +further to where two Covenanters lie buried in an oakwood; 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> +<p class="poetry">‘We died, their furious rage to stay,<br +/> +Near to the kirk of Iron-gray.’</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><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span><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.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Saturday</i>, +<i>October</i> 4, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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 <a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>8 <i>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 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 <a +name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>wrote them +(and it seems as if this Logan had) they are lovely—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What time the pea puts on the bloom,<br +/> + Thou fliest the vocal vale,<br /> +An annual guest, in other lands<br /> + Another spring to hail.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,<br /> + Thy sky is ever clear;<br /> +Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,<br /> + No winter in thy year.</p> +<p class="poetry">O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!<br /> + We’d make on joyful wing<br /> +Our annual visit o’er the globe,<br /> + Companions of the spring.’</p> +<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 rewriting and bettering, +and surely that humble quality should get me on a little.</p> +<p><i>Monday</i>, <i>October</i> 6.—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 <a name="page60"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 60</span>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 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Tuesday</i>, +<i>October</i> 14, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—My head and eyes both gave in this +morning, <a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>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><span class="GutSmall">II</span>.—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, and to quote my book, ‘<i>sinon +blanches</i>, <i>du moins grises</i>’; and so I must go to +bed and faithfully, hoggishly slumber.—Your faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page63"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 63</span><i>Mentone</i>, <i>November</i> 13, +1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—The +<i>Place</i> is not where I thought; it is about where the old +Post Office was. The Hotel de Londres is no more an +hotel. I have found a charming room in the Hotel 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 St. 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 fluid? They are displaced and +altered in ten years so that one has difficulty, even <a +name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Mentone</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, +<i>November</i> 1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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 +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>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 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 <a +name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>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 man of seventy: O Medea, kill me, or make me young again! <a +name="citation67"></a><a href="#footnote67" +class="citation">[67]</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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page68"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 68</span><i>Hotel Mirabeau</i>, +<i>Mentone</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>January</i> 4, 1874.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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 <a name="page69"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 69</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Mentone</i>, <i>January</i> 7, +1874.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>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</i>, <i>Mädchen</i>, +<i>Mädchen</i>, <i>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 +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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Saturday</i>, 10<i>th</i> <i>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, <a name="page71"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 71</span>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; he has left clothes in pawn to +me.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Mentone</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +13<i>th</i> <i>January</i> 1874.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">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 <a +name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>could land +for a little on the slope of the orchestra, 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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>, 10.30.—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 <a +name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>from +pain—all that one has to do is to start ‘Malbrook +s’en va-t-en guerre.’ She cannot resist the +attraction; she is drawn through her sobs into the air; and in a +moment there is Nelly 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Mentone</i>, <i>January</i> +1874.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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 <a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>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 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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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</i>, +<i>madame</i>, <i>le menu</i>. <i>Comment le +trouvez-vous</i>? <i>Il y a</i> <i>de la bonne viando</i>, +<i>si on parvient à la cuire convenablement</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page75"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 75</span>[<i>Mentone</i>, <i>March</i> 28, +1874.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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, 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston</i>], <i>May</i> 1874, +<i>Monday</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> are now at Swanston Cottage, +Lothianburn, Edinburgh. The garden is but little clothed +yet, for, you <a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 <a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>in +the open air.’ And much more to the like +effect. It is very gratifying.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Swanston</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, +<i>May</i> 1874.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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 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>Saturday</i>.—I have received such a nice long letter +(four sides) from Leslie Stephen to-day about my Victor +Hugo. 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, +partly, perhaps, because I have just finished some of the deedest +rubbish about Lord Lytton’s fables 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><i>Tuesday</i>.—Another 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 +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>object of +my firm adherence. I pass his nest every day, and if you +saw how he files 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 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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 <i>Magazine</i> 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 <a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>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.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Train between Edinburgh and +Chester</i>, <i>August</i> 8, 1874.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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>On the way, to-day, I passed through my dear Cumberland +country. Nowhere to as great a degree can one find <a +name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Barmouth</i>, <i>August</i> 9<i>th</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 quite make +you laugh at the time, but was somehow laughable to +recollect. Moreover, he had so far a just imagination, <a +name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>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 litterature +(which word, note here, I do not spell correctly). +Good-night, and here’s the verger’s health!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Swanston</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, +[<i>Autumn</i>] 1874.</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> been hard at work all +yesterday, and besides had to write a long letter to Bob, so I +found no time until <a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>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 <i>is</i> +a 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 John Knox 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 <a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>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 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 maccaroni with oil: <i>do</i>, +<i>please</i>. It’s <i>beastly</i> with +butter.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>December</i> +23, 1874.</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><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 <a +name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Road</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>January</i> 1875].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +worked too hard; I have given myself one day of rest, and that +was not enough; <a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>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="GutSmall">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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Tuesday</i> +[<i>February</i> 1875].</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">got</span> your nice long gossiping +letter to-day—I mean by that that there was more news in it +than usual—and <a name="page86"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 86</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 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, <a +name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>and played +dominoes on 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>February</i> 8, 1875.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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</i>, <i>nom de nom de nom</i>! +But it’s a long look forward.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Barbizon</i>, <i>April</i> +1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Sunday</i> [<i>April</i> 1875].</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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. <a +name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>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 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 <a +name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>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 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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Monday</i>.—I have written nothing all morning; I +cannot settle to it. Yes—I <i>will</i> though.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 <a +name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +<i>April</i> 1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I have +been so busy, away to Bridge Of Allan with my father first, and +then with Simpson and <a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span>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>What do you think of Henley’s hospital verses? +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 +coamplicated.’—Ever your faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Saturday</i>, +<i>April</i> 1875.]</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> getting on with my rehearsals, +but I find the part very hard. I rehearsed yesterday from a +quarter to seven, <a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 one; <i>mail 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="GutSmall">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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: right">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 +<i>Cornhill</i>. He is out of hospital now, and dressed, +but still not too much to brag of in health, poor fellow, I am +afraid.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 <a +name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</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.</p> +<p>I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new +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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>June</i> +1875.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Simply</span> a scratch. All right, +jolly, well, and through with the difficulty. My father +pleased about the Burns. 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 style="text-align: right">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page96"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 96</span><i>Swanston</i>. <i>End of +June</i>, 1875.</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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Saturday</i>—<i>no</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, +12.45.—Just been—not grinding, alas!—I +couldn’t—but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. 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 +Fontainebleau 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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<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 grave-stones. 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>III<br +/> +ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR<br /> +<span +class="GutSmall">EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU</span><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall">JULY 1875-JULY 1879</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chez Siron</i>, <i>Barbizon</i>, +<i>Seine et Marne</i>, <i>August</i> 1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page105"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 105</span><i>Château Renard</i>, +<i>Loiret</i>, <i>August</i> 1875.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">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> +<p class="poetry">Far have you come, my lady, from the town,<br +/> +And far from all your sorrows, if you please,<br /> +To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas,<br /> +And in green meadows lay your body down.</p> +<p class="poetry">To find your pale face grow from pale to +brown,<br /> +Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees;<br /> +Far have you come, my lady, from the town,<br /> +And far from all your sorrows, if you please.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here in this seaboard land of old renown,<br /> +In meadow grass go wading to the knees;<br /> +Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease;<br /> +There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;<br /> +Far have you come, my lady, from the town.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Nous n’irons plus au +bois</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll walk the woods no more,<br /> +But stay beside the fire,<br /> +To weep for old desire<br /> +And things that are no more.<br /> + <a name="page106"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 106</span>The woods are spoiled and hoar,<br +/> +The ways are full of mire;<br /> +We’ll walk the woods no more,<br /> +But stay beside the fire.<br /> + We loved, in days of yore,<br /> +Love, laughter, and the lyre.<br /> +Ah God, but death is dire,<br /> +And death is at the door—<br /> +We’ll walk the woods no more.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, [<i>Autumn</i>] +1875.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page107"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 107</span>to write a book about it. +<i>Ramsay</i>, <i>Fergusson</i>, <i>and Burns</i>: <i>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) <i>by Robert Louis Stevenson</i>, +<i>Advocate</i>. 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 <i>Burns</i> 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); 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 +500,00 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 +name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>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 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 Bosselin</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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>October</i> +1875.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Noo</span> lyart leaves +blaw ower the green,<br /> +Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean,<br /> +An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’,<br /> + To pass the winter.<br /> +Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in,<br /> + An’ snaws ahint her.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve seen’s hae days to fricht us +a’,<br /> +The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw,<br /> +The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw,<br /> + An’ +half-congealin’,<br /> +The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw<br /> + Frae blae Brunteelan’.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve seen’s been unco sweir to +sally,<br /> +And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally,<br /> +Seen’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally<br /> + For near a minute—<br /> +Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley,<br /> + The deil was in it!—</p> +<p class="poetry">Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate,<br +/> +In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t!<br /> +The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate,<br /> + Wi’ cauld an’ weet,<br +/> +An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late,<br /> + Bicker oor feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">And at the Court, tae, aft I saw<br /> +Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa<br /> +Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’<br /> + In weeg an’ goon,<br /> +To crack o’ what ye wull but Law<br /> + The hale forenoon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>That muckle ha,’ maist like a kirk,<br /> +I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk<br /> +Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk<br /> + Like ghaists frae Hell,<br /> +But whether Christian ghaist or Turk<br /> + Deil ane could tell.</p> +<p class="poetry">The three fires lunted in the gloom,<br /> +The wind blew like the blast o’ doom,<br /> +The rain upo’ the roof abune<br /> + Played Peter Dick—<br /> +Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room<br /> + Your teeth to pick!</p> +<p class="poetry">But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you,<br /> +The ling-lang lanely winter through,<br /> +Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true<br /> + To lore Horatian,<br /> +We aye the ither bottle drew<br /> + To inclination.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae let us in the comin’ days<br /> +Stand sicker on our auncient ways—<br /> +The strauchtest road in a’ the maze<br /> + Since Eve ate apples;<br /> +An’ let the winter weet our cla’es—<br /> + We’ll weet oor +thrapples.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Autumn</i> +1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 spare it, +but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow <a +name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>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,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Along with this, I send you some P.P.P’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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>November</i> +12, 1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—Since I +got your letter I have been able to do a little more work, and I +have been much <a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>better contented with myself; but I can’t get +away, that is absolutely prevented by the state of my purse and +my 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 <i>un</i>happy 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. de Mattos</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>January</i> +1876.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR KATHARINE</span>,—The +prisoner reserved his defence. He has been seedy, however; +principally sick <a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>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> +<p class="poetry"><i>Grossir la pâte universelle</i><br /> +<i>Faite des formes que Dieu fond</i>.</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 style="text-align: right">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 <a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>January</i> +1876.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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 boss</i>, <i>hélas</i>!</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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>February</i> +1876.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +COLVIN</span>,—1<i>st</i>. I have sent +‘Fontainebleau’ 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 the +illustration of the English language, I feel as if my poverty +were going to consent.</p> +<p>2<i>nd</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 ‘Charles of Orleans’ 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 ‘Fontainebleau’! His +head must be turned.</p> +<p>3<i>rd</i>. If ever you do come across my +‘Spring’ (I beg your pardon for referring to it +again, but I don’t want you to forget) send it off at +once.</p> +<p>4<i>th</i>. I went to Ayr, Maybole, Girvan, Ballantrae, +Stranraer, Glenluce, and Wigton. I shall make an article of +it some day soon, ‘A Winter’s Walk in Carrick and +Galloway.’ I had a good time.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston Cottage</i>, +<i>Lothianburn</i>, <i>July</i> 1876.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> I am, here, and very well +too. I am glad you liked ‘Walking Tours’; I +like it, too; I think it’s prose; <a +name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>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 +‘Forest Notes,’ 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 <i>Cornhill</i> pages have already +coulé’d from under my facile plume—no, I mean +eleven, fifteen of <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>.—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; if you see him, inquire about my +‘Burns.’ 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 <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>.; I can’t +complain.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston Cottage</i>, +<i>Lothianburn</i>, <i>July</i> 1876.]</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">have</span> 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>, etc., also +<i>Boswell</i> daily by way of a Bible; I mean to read +<i>Boswell</i> 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 <i>Cornhill</i> called <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>. +‘Charles of Orleans’ is again laid aside, but in a +good state of furtherance this time. A paper called +‘A Defence of Idlers’ (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 as I say, I take lots +of exercise, and I’m as brown a berry.</p> +<p><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>This +is the first letter I’ve written for—O I don’t +know how long.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>July</i> 30<i>th</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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> is in August +<i>Cornhill</i>. ‘Charles of Orleans’ is +finished, and sent to Stephen; ‘Idlers’ ditto, and +sent to Grove; but I’ve no word of either. So +I’ve not been idle.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chauny</i>, <i>Aisne</i> +[<i>September</i> 1876].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 me under a fallen <a name="page118"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 118</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>May</i> 1877.</p> +<p>. . . A <span class="smcap">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 ready: ‘An Apology for Idlers’ is in proof for +the <i>Cornhill</i>. 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="smcap">The Hair +Trunk</span>; <span class="smcap">or</span>, <span +class="smcap">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 who +are—well, I can’t explain about the trunk—it +would take too long—but the trunk is the fun of +it—everybody <a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>August</i> +1877.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <i>Cornhill</i> 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><i>Temple Bar</i> appears to like my ‘Villon,’ 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, ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s +Mousetrap’: 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 ‘Villon’ is out this month; I should so much +like to know what you think of it. Stephen has written to +me apropos of ‘Idlers,’ 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Penzance</i>, <i>August</i> +1877.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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, ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s +Mousetrap,’ with which I shall try <i>Temple Bar</i>; +another story, in the clouds, ‘The Stepfather’s +Story,’ 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 the +‘Two St. Michael’s Mounts,’ historical and +picturesque; perhaps if it didn’t come too long, I might +throw in the ‘Bass Rock,’ and call it ‘Three +Sea Fortalices,’ 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. ‘Will o’ the Mill’ 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 income anyway. I am glad you liked +‘Villon’; some of it was not as good as it ought to +be, but on the whole it seems pretty vivid, and the features <a +name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>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 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Patchett Martin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[1877.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 not indeed +imagine they were read, and (I suppose I may say) enjoyed right +round upon the other side of the <a name="page122"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 122</span>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 +‘Such is Life,’ 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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Patchett Martin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>December</i> 1877].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 +<i>Cornhill</i> 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 all my +possessions, or near about, and quite lost all my wits. I +wish I could lay my hands on the numbers of the <a +name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span><i>Review</i>, 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 ‘Noll and +Nell,’ 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 <i>Review</i>—the Sonnet to England.</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 +Mowbray—nothing, nothing could be better! You will +bless me when you read it for this recommendation; but, indeed, I +can do nothing but recommend Clarissa. I am like that +Frenchman of the <a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>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</i>, <i>Woman</i>, <i>and</i> ‘<i>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 +<i>Cornhill</i>: a story called ‘The Sire de +Malétroit’s Door’ in <i>Temple Bar</i>; and a +series of articles on Edinburgh in the <i>Portfolio</i>; but I +don’t know if these last fly all the way to +Melbourne.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page125"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 125</span><i>Hôtel des Etrangers</i>, +<i>Dieppe</i>, <i>January</i> 1, 1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Paris</i>, <i>January or +February</i> 1878.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 +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><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Paris</i>, 44 <i>Bd. +Haussmann</i>, <i>Friday</i>, <i>February</i> 21, 1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel du Val de Grâce</i>, +<i>Rue St. Jacques</i>,<br /> +<i>Paris</i>, <i>Sunday</i> [<i>June</i> 1878].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—About +criticisms, I was more surprised at the tone of the critics than +I suppose any one else. And the effect it has produced in +me is one of <a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monastier</i>, <i>September</i> +1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 very well known here now; indeed, quite a +feature of the place.—Your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">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> +<h3><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monastier</i>, <i>September</i> +1878.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope to +leave Monastier this day (Saturday) week; thenceforward Poste +Restante, Alais, Gard, is my address. ‘Travels with a +Donkey in the French Highlands.’ 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, <i>a +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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monastier</i>, <i>at +Morel’s</i> [<i>September</i> 1878].<br /> +Lud knows about date, <i>vide</i> postmark.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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, <a +name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>Alais, +Gard. Give my servilities to the family. Health bad; +spirits, I think, looking up.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>October</i> 1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I have +seen Hamerton; he was very kind, all his family seemed pleased to +see an <i>Inland Voyage</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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page130"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 130</span>[<i>Trinity College</i>, +<i>Cambridge</i>, <i>Autumn</i> 1878.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>April</i> 16, 1879].<br /> +<i>Pool of Siloam</i>, <i>by El Dorado</i>,<br /> +<i>Delectable Mountains</i>, <i>Arcadia</i></p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Herewith of +the dibbs—a homely 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 <a name="page131"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 131</span>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 +Kubla Khan, 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 <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—<a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>April</i> 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Heavens! +have I done the like? ‘Clarify and strain,’ +indeed? ‘Make it like Marvell,’ no <a +name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>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 +sun, 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> +<p class="poetry">O Henley, in my hours of ease<br /> +You may say anything you please,<br /> +But when I join the Muse’s revel,<br /> +Begad, I wish you at the devil!<br /> +In vain my verse I plane and bevel,<br /> +Like Banville’s rhyming devotees;<br /> +In vain by many an artful swivel<br /> +Lug in my meaning by degrees;<br /> +I’m sure to hear my Henley cavil;<br /> +And grovelling prostrate on my knees,<br /> +Devote his body to the seas,<br /> +His correspondence to the devil!</p> +<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 ‘What was on the +Slate,’ which, under a new 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 <a +name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Swanston</i>, <i>Lothianburn</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>July</i> 24, 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have +greatly enjoyed your articles 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><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>Chapters <span class="GutSmall">VIII</span>. and <span +class="GutSmall">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 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 ‘Twa +Dogs’ and his ‘Address to the Unco Guid.’ +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 ‘Twa Dogs.’ Even a common +Englishman may have a glimpse, as it were from Pisgah, of its +extraordinary merits.</p> +<p>‘<i>English</i>, <i>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>July</i> 28, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am just +in the middle of your Rembrandt. 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; 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 off 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 Burns; 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, who 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>July</i> 29, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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,’ <a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>IV<br /> +THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JULY 1879-JULY 1880</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>On board ss.</i> +‘<i>Devonia</i>,’ <i>an hour or two out of New +York</i><br /> +[<i>August</i> 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +finished my story. <a name="citation144"></a><a +href="#footnote144" class="citation">[144]</a> The +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 style="text-align: right">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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>In the Emigrant Train from New +York to San Francisco</i>,<br /> +<i>August</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am in the +cars between Pittsburgh and Chicago, just now bowling through +Ohio. I am <a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>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> +<p class="poetry">Of where or how, I nothing know;<br /> + And why, I do not care;<br /> + Enough if, even so,<br /> +My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go<br /> +By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair,<br /> +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> +<p class="poetry">I think, I hope, I dream no more<br /> + The dreams of otherwhere,<br /> +The cherished thoughts of yore;<br /> +I have been changed from what I was before;<br /> +And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air<br /> +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unweary God me yet shall bring<br /> + To lands of brighter air,<br /> + Where I, now half a king,<br /> +Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing,<br /> +And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear<br /> +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> +<p><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Crossing Nebraska</i> +[<i>Saturday</i>, <i>August</i> 23, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>to be an emigrant, as 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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Coast Line Mountains</i>, +<i>California</i>, <i>September</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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, <a +name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>and a +captain from the Mexican war; the other a pilgrim, and one who +was out with the bear flag and under Fremont 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>Ditto Co.</i>, +<i>California</i>, 21<i>st</i> <i>October</i> [1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 Experience </i><a name="page149"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 149</span><i>of Arizona Breckonridge</i> or +<i>A Vendetta in the West</i>, or a combination of the two. +The scene from Chapter <span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +<i>September</i> 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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="citation149"></a><a +href="#footnote149" class="citation">[149]</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 ‘The Lie,’ 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>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 <a name="page150"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 150</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>Monterey +Co.</i>, <i>California</i>, 8<i>th</i> <i>October</i> 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 frontiers-man, 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>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 ‘Burns’ in the +<i>Cornhill</i>, and <a name="page151"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 151</span>for my ‘Story of a Lie’ +in Paul’s withered babe, the <i>New Quarterly</i>. +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 apparition, 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 left all +alone, perhaps till Christmas. Then you may hope for +correspondence—and may not I?—Your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +<i>October</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page152"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 152</span>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 <span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>. 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +<i>October</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <i>Cornhill</i> and the <i>New Quarterly</i>, 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.; (2) a +paper with the announcement of second edition; and (3) the +announcement of the essays in <i>Athenæum</i>. 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 a <i>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? <a +name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>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 +burthen 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 <i>Spectator</i> +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 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 <a +name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>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 +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. Burns, 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 <a name="page155"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 155</span>must keep it or get it published in +the <i>Monterey Californian</i>. Some of these days I shall +send an exemplaire of that paper; it is huge.—Ever your +affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i> +[<i>November</i> 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 +aright, come—view it by the pale moonlight. But <a +name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +15<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<p>I try it again by daylight. Once more in bed however; +for to-day it is <i>mucho frio</i>, as 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 +<i>Cornhill</i>; ah, if I thought that I could get eight guineas +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>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 Hadsel’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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monterey</i>, <i>December</i> +1879.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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 things +remember: I must keep a royalty; and, second, I must have all my +books advertised, in the French manner, <a +name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>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 A. E. 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 Burns! 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 <i>Monterey Californian</i>, 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. +Dos Reales; deux réaux; 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>Monterey +Co.</i>, <i>California</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 8, 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 +verse. I like none of it, except some of my own. (I +look back on that sentence with pleasure; it comes from an <a +name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>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 sins a part of the +<i>Inland Voyage</i> into Latin elegiacs; and <a +name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>‘Too young to be our child’: blooming good.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i> [<i>December</i> 26, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page161"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 161</span>restaurant waiters. This is +not a gay way to pass Christmas, is it? and I must own the guts +are a little knocked 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="citation161"></a><a href="#footnote161" +class="citation">[161]</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>, +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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i> [<i>January</i> 10, 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 waxcloth, 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 beam, and that blows of the same emphasis in other +parts of his room might knock the <a name="page163"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 163</span>entire shanty into hell. +Thenceforth, for from three to four hours, he is engaged darkly +with an inkbottle. 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 to the worth of fivepence in coffee and +roll. The <a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, <i>Jan.</i> 26, ’80</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I have to +drop from a 50 cent. to a 25 cent. dinner; to-day begins my +fall. That brings <a name="page165"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 165</span>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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, <i>California</i> [<i>January</i> 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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 <a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>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</i>: <i>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 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><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, <i>Cal.</i>, <i>February</i> 1880.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 +<i>Essays</i>. 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) <i>Plays</i>. I did +not understand you meant to try the draft. I shall make you +a full scenario as 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 </i><a +name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span><i>Greenwood State</i>: <i>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 Z. +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—Benjamin Franklin, Thoughts on Literature as an Art, +Dialogue on Character and Destiny between two Puppets, The Human +Compromise; 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, [<i>March</i> 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>San Francisco</i>, <i>Cal.</i>, +<i>April</i> 16 [1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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; <a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span>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 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 +pinewoods, 3000 feet, sir, from the disputatious sea.—I am, +dear Weg, most truly yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. W. Bamford</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>April</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>your +responsibility added to my own, and seek in the future to make a +better profit of the life you have renewed me.—I am, my +dear sir, gratefully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>April</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 H. James’s <i>Hawthorne</i>, for my <i>Burns</i>, +etc.; and now, to make matters worse, pending your +<i>Centuries</i>, 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 Burns; +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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>April</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—My dear +people telegraphed me in these words: ‘Count on 250 pounds +annually.’ You <a name="page172"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 172</span>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 changed. God only knows how much +courage and suffering is buried in that <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. 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 <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>., 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>May</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page173"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 173</span>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 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 ‘Al Monte!’ 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.</p> +<p>I to the hills.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to C. W. Stoddard</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>East Oakland</i>, <i>Cal.</i>, +<i>May</i> 1880.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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, <a +name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>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 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>May</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—It is a +long while since I have heard from you; nearly a month, I +believe; and I begin <a name="page175"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 175</span>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 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 style="text-align: right"><i>Calistoga</i>, <i>Napa +County</i>, <i>California</i>.</p> +<p>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><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span>Received James’s <i>Hawthorne</i>, on which I +meditate a blast, Miss Bird, Dixon’s <i>Penn</i>, a +<i>wrong Cornhill</i> (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 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</i>, <i>delectati re sua familiari</i>. +<i>His idem propositum fuit quod regibus</i>, <i>ut ne qua re +egerent</i>, <i>ne cui parerent</i>, <i>libertate uterentur</i>; +<i>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>V<br +/> +ALPINE WINTERS<br /> +AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUGUST 1880–OCTOBER 1882</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span><span class="smcap">to A. G. Dew-Smith</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>November</i> 1880.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Figure me to yourself, I pray—<br /> + A man of my peculiar cut—<br /> +Apart from dancing and deray, <a name="citation185"></a><a +href="#footnote185" class="citation">[185]</a><br /> + Into an Alpine valley shut;</p> +<p class="poetry">Shut in a kind of damned Hotel,<br /> + Discountenanced by God and man;<br /> +The food?—Sir, you would do as well<br /> + To cram your belly full of bran.</p> +<p class="poetry">The company? Alas, the day<br /> + That I should dwell with such a crew,<br /> +With devil anything to say,<br /> + Nor any one to say it to!</p> +<p class="poetry">The place? Although they call it +Platz,<br /> + I will be bold and state my view;<br /> +It’s not a place at all—and that’s<br /> + The bottom verity, my Dew.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are, as I will not deny,<br /> + Innumerable inns; a road;<br /> +Several Alps indifferent high;<br /> + The snow’s inviolable abode;</p> +<p class="poetry">Eleven English parsons, all<br /> + Entirely inoffensive; four<br /> +True human beings—what I call<br /> + Human—the deuce a cipher more;</p> +<p class="poetry">A climate of surprising worth;<br /> + Innumerable dogs that bark;<br /> +Some air, some weather, and some earth;<br /> + A native race—God save the mark!—</p> +<p class="poetry">A race that works, yet cannot work,<br /> + Yodels, but cannot yodel right,<br /> +Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk,<br /> + I vow that I could wholly smite.</p> +<p class="poetry">A river that from morn to night<br /> + Down all the valley plays the fool;<br /> +Not once she pauses in her flight,<br /> + Nor knows the comfort of a pool;</p> +<p class="poetry">But still keeps up, by straight or bend,<br /> + The selfsame pace she hath begun—<br /> +Still hurry, hurry, to the end—<br /> + Good God, is that the way to run?</p> +<p class="poetry">If I a river were, I hope<br /> + That I should better realise<br /> +The opportunities and scope<br /> + Of that romantic enterprise.</p> +<p class="poetry">I should not ape the merely strange,<br /> + But aim besides at the divine;<br /> +And continuity and change<br /> + I still should labour to combine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here should I gallop down the race,<br /> + Here charge the sterling <a +name="citation186"></a><a href="#footnote186" +class="citation">[186]</a> like a bull;<br /> +There, as a man might wipe his face,<br /> + Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool.</p> +<p class="poetry">But what, my Dew, in idle mood,<br /> + What prate I, minding not my debt?<br /> +What do I talk of bad or good?<br /> + The best is still a cigarette.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>Me whether evil fate assault,<br /> + Or smiling providences crown—<br /> +Whether on high the eternal vault<br /> + Be blue, or crash with thunder down—</p> +<p class="poetry">I judge the best, whate’er befall,<br /> + Is still to sit on one’s behind,<br /> +And, having duly moistened all,<br /> + Smoke with an unperturbèd mind.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>], +<i>Davos</i>, <i>December</i> 12 [1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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> +<p style="text-align: center">I. <span class="smcap">Thirty +Years’ Interval</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) Rob Roy.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Independent Companies: the +Watches.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) Story of Lady Grange.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: +Wade and</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Burt.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II. <span class="smcap">The Heroic +Age</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) Flora Macdonald.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The Forfeited Estates; including +Hereditary Jurisdictions; and the admirable conduct of the +tenants.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page188"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 188</span>III. <span class="smcap">Literature +Here Intervenes</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) The Ossianic Controversy.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) Boswell and Johnson.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV. <span +class="smcap">Economy</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) Highland Economics.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Reinstatement of the +Proprietors.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The Evictions.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) Emigration.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Present State.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V. <span +class="smcap">Religion</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and +Soc. Prop. Christ. Knowledge.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Men.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The Disruption.</p> +<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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, <i>Davos +Platz</i> [<i>Dec.</i> 6, 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I have many +letters that I ought to write in preference to this; but a duty +to letters and to <a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>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, and another about +either Charles or 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>], +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 19, 1880.</p> +<p>This letter is a report of a long sederunt, also steterunt in +small committee at Davos Platz, Dec. 15, 1880.</p> +<p>Its results are unhesitatingly shot at your head.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>and sense. And it’s one of our few English +blood-boilers.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) Byron: if anything: +<i>Prometheus</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(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 class="gutindent">(4) Herrick. <i>Meddowes</i> and +<i>Come</i>, <i>my Corinna</i>. After that <i>Mr. +Wickes</i>: two any way.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Leave out stanza 3rd of Congreve’s +thing, like a dear; we can’t stand the ‘sigh’ +nor the ‘peruke.’</p> +<p class="gutindent">(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 class="gutindent">(7) Is the <i>Royal George</i> an ode, or +only an elegy? It’s so good.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(8) We leave Campbell to you.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(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 class="gutindent">(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 class="gutindent">(11) Right with Collins.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(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 class="gutindent">(13) Whatever you do, you’ll give us +the Greek Vase.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(14) Do you like Jonson’s +‘loathèd 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Warren +Stoddard</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, <i>Davos +Platz</i>, <i>Switzerland</i> [<i>December</i> 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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="citation191"></a><a href="#footnote191" +class="citation">[191]</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 <a name="page192"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 192</span>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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 21, 1880. +<i>Davos</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 then; +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 <a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>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 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</i> +<i>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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, Christmas 1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks for +yours; I waited, as 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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Christmas Sermon</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>December</i> 26, 1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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 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 <a name="page196"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 196</span>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 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 <a name="page197"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 197</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Spring</i> 1881.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page198"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 198</span>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</i>; +<i>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> +<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! 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 <a +name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>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 style="text-align: right">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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Horatio F. Brown</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Davos</i>, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span><span class="smcap">to Horatio F. Brown</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Davos</i>, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Horatio F. Brown</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Spring</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BROWN</span>,—Nine years +I have conded them.</p> +<p class="poetry">Brave lads in olden musical centuries<br /> +Sang, night by night, adorable choruses,<br /> + Sat late by alehouse doors in +April<br /> + Chaunting in joy as the moon was +rising:</p> +<p class="poetry">Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises,<br /> +Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables;<br /> + Spring scents inspired, old wine +diluted;<br /> + Love and Apollo were there to +chorus.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now these, the songs, remain to eternity,<br /> +Those, only those, the bountiful choristers<br /> + Gone—those are gone, those +unremembered<br /> + Sleep and are silent in earth for +ever.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>So man himself appears and evanishes,<br /> +So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at<br /> + Some green-embowered house, play +their music,<br /> + Play and are gone on the windy +highway;</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the +memory<br /> +Long after they departed eternally,<br /> + Forth-faring tow’rd far +mountain summits,<br /> + Cities of men on the sounding +Ocean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth sang the song in years immemorial;<br /> +Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful;<br /> + Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in +springtime<br /> + Heard and were pleased by the +voice of singing;</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth goes, and leaves behind him a +prodigy—<br /> +Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian<br /> + Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven +highways,<br /> + Dear to me here in my Alpine +exile.</p> +<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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Monte Generoso in May; here, I think, till the end of April; +write again, to prove you are forgiving.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel du Pavillon Henry +IV.</i>,<br /> +<i>St. Germain-en-Laye</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>May</i> 1<i>st</i>, +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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</i> and <i>Garter</i> (they call <a +name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Perthshire</i>, +<i>June</i> 6, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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, <a +name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>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 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 <a name="page204"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 204</span>aught for me, or if you will but +try, count on my undying gratitude. Lang’s +‘Library’ is very pleasant reading.</p> +<p>My book will reach you soon, for I write about it +to-day—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Perthshire</i>, <i>June</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—<i>The +Black Man and Other Tales</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Black Man:</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">I</span>. Thrawn +Janet.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">II</span>. The Devil +on Cramond Sands.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Shadow on the Bed.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Body Snatchers.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Case Bottle.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The King’s Horn.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Actor’s Wife.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Wreck of the <i>Susanna</i>.</p> +<p>This is the new work on which I am engaged with Fanny; they +are all supernatural. ‘Thrawn Janet’ 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 <a +name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>tales are +all ghastly. ‘Thrawn Janet’ frightened me to +death. There will maybe be another—‘The Dead +Man’s A Letter.’ I believe I shall recover; and +I am, in this blessed hope, yours exuberantly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Professor Æneas +Mackay</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, <i>June</i> 21, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Professor Æneas +Mackay</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Perthshire</i> [<i>June</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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; <a +name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>they are +partly pleasant, and partly honourable to you. And I think +one may say that every man who publicly 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 Constitutional 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>June</i> 24, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i> [<i>July</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>patronised +by the royalty of the Sister Kingdoms—Victoria and the +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</i>? <i>Viens</i>.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i> [<i>July</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a +name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</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="citation209"></a><a href="#footnote209" +class="citation">[209]</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: 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, [<i>July</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I do +believe I am better, mind and body; I am tired just now, for I +have just been up <a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>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, ‘Thrawn +Janet,’ all in Scotch, is accepted by Stephen; my second, +‘The Body Snatchers,’ is laid aside in a justifiable +disgust, the tale being horrid; my third, ‘The Merry +Men,’ 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, ‘The Shadow on the +Bed,’ 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="citation210"></a><a href="#footnote210" +class="citation">[210]</a> after all; but O! to go back to that +place, it seems cruel. I have 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 style="text-align: right">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 <a +name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>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>‘The Merry Men’</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">Chap. <span +class="GutSmall">I</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Eilean Aros.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Tip</p> +<p>Top</p> +<p>Tale.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>What the Wreck had brought to Aros.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Past and Present in Sandag Bay.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Gale.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Man out of the Sea.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>July</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 ‘The Merry +Men,’ my favourite work. It is a fantastic sonata +about the sea and wrecks. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">I</span>. ‘Eilean Aros’—the +island, the roost, the ‘merry men,’ the three people +there living—sea superstitions. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>. ‘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 <span class="GutSmall">III</span>. ‘Past and +Present in Sandag Bay’—the new wreck and the +old—so old—the Armada treasure-ship, Santma +Trinid—the grave in the heather—strangers +there. Chapter <span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. ‘The +Gale’—the doomed ship—the storm—the +drunken madman on the head—cries in the night. +Chapter <span class="GutSmall">V</span>. ‘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 <a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>lang syne; the Ross of Grisapol is the Ross of Mull; +Ben Ryan, Ben More. I have written to the middle of Chapter +<span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. 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 +<i>torso</i>. 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>The following names have been invented for Wogg by his dear +papa:—</p> +<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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>if you +please</i>, [<i>August</i>] 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—To answer a +point or two. First, the Spanish ship was sloop-rigged and +clumsy, because she <a name="page213"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 213</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>August</i> +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This is +the first letter I have written this good while. I have had +a brutal cold, not <a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>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> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Monday</i>, <i>August</i> (2<i>nd</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, 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 <a +name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>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 snake a good volume. We have +now</p> +<p class="gutindent">Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof +to-day.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny’s +copying).</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Merry Men (scrolled).</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Body Snatchers (scrolled).</p> +<p><i>In germis</i></p> +<p class="gutindent">The Travelling Companion.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Torn Surplice (<i>not final +title</i>).</p> +<p>Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i>, <i>Castleton of +Braemar</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>August</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—I should long +ago have written to thank you for your kind and frank letter; but +in my 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 <a +name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>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 is, as I dare +say you know, the very ‘wale’ of Scotland—bar +Tummelside.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i>, <i>Castleton of +Braemar</i>, <i>August</i> 1881.</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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 <a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>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 I +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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i> (<i>late the late +Miss M’Gregor’s</i>),<br /> +<i>Castleton of Braemar</i>, <i>August</i> 10, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</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 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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i>, <i>Castleton of +Braemar</i>, <i>August</i> 19, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Braemar</i>], <i>August</i> 19, +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Braemar</i> [<i>August</i> 25, +1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 <a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>than in any amount of crawlers: now, see here, +‘The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Story for +Boys.’</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 <i>Admiral Benbow</i> +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 parient have to be +consulted.</p> +<p>And now look here—this is next day—and three +chapters are written and read. (Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">I</span>. The Old Sea-dog at the <i>Admiral +Benbow</i>. Chapter <span class="GutSmall">II</span>. Black +Dog appears and disappears. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">III</span>. 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 ‘The Sea +Cook’s’ 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 <a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>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 the ‘Sea +Cook’ 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 <span +class="GutSmall">III</span>. I believe; no writing, just drive +along as the words come and the pen will scratch!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.<br /> +Author of <i>Boys’ Stories</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Braemar</i>, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—My +father has gone, but I think 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 ‘The Sea-Cook,’ 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><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Braemar</i>, <i>September</i> +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 +‘The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Tale of the +Buccaneers,’ in <i>Young Folks</i>. (The terms are +£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 <i>Young +Folks</i>, I’ll try Routledge or some one. I feel +pretty sure the ‘Sea Cook’ 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. <a +name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>‘He +shall o’er Europe, shall o’er earth extend.’ <a +name="citation223"></a><a href="#footnote223" +class="citation">[223]</a> He is now extending over +adjacent parts of Scotland.</p> +<p>I propose to follow up the ‘Sea Cook’ at proper +intervals by ‘Jerry Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath’ +(which or its site I must visit), ‘The Leading Light: A +Tale of the Coast,’ ‘The Squaw Men: or the Wild +West,’ and other instructive and entertaining work. +‘Jerry Abershaw’ 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 the ‘Sea +Cook.’</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. +The ‘Sea Cook’ 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. 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 the ‘Sea Cook’; but, Lord, +it’s a little fruitier than the <i>Pirate</i> by +Cap’n. Marryat.</p> +<p>Since this was written ‘The Cook’ is in his +nineteenth chapter. Yo-heave ho!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page224"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 224</span>[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Autumn</i> 1881.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—It +occurred to me last night in bed that I could write</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">The Murder of Red +Colin,</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">A Story of the +Forfeited Estates.</p> +<p>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 <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i>.</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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Châlet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Autumn</i> [1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON</span>,—My +conscience has long been smiting me, till it became nearly +chronic. My <a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>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 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, <a +name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>], +<i>Davos</i>, <i>December</i> 5, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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 +<a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>that we +followed along George Street? Granton? the blight at Bonny +mainhead? the compass near the sign of the <i>Twinkling Eye</i>? +the night I lay on the pavement in misery?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +swear it by the eternal sky<br /> +Johnson—nor Thomson—ne’er shall die!</p> +<p>Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet Buol</i>, +<i>Davos-Platz</i>, <i>December</i> 26, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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. 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>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 rheumatic; and Fanny better than +her ordinary.</p> +<p><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +228</span>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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos-Platz</i>, <i>February</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>], 22<i>nd</i> <i>February</i> ’82.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>In an +article which will appear sometime in the <i>Cornhill</i>, +‘Talk and Talkers,’ 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos-Platz</i>, <i>February</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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, ‘A Gossip on +Romance,’ <a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>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 Romance, 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—. . . Last +night we had a dinner-party, consisting of the John Addington, +curry, onions (lovely 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? <a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>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 +over-done, 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>, Jones’s +<i>First</i> <i>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 +Solomon Crabb! 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 <a +name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>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</i>, <i>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 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 +<a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>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> +<p class="poetry">Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin +crack—<br /> +This here’s a dream, return and study <span +class="smcap">Black</span>!</p> +<p>—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alexander Ireland</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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 <a +name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>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 +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><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</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> +<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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 23, +1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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> +<p style="text-align: center">BLACK CANYON.</p> +<p>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="GutSmall">WASTE</span>, so aptly rendered by the +hartis.</p> +<p>I would send you the book; but I declare I’m +ruined. <a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span>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 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 style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Châlet Buol</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>April</i> 1, 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—A good +day to date this letter, which is in fact a confession of +incapacity. During my <a name="page237"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 237</span>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; 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 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 +<i>Cornhill</i> 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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>April</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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 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> +<p class="gutindent">W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley].</p> +<p class="gutindent">S. C. [Sidney Colvin].</p> +<p class="gutindent">T. S. [Thomas Stevenson].</p> +<p class="gutindent">Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson].</p> +<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 sometime—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. +<a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>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 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</i> <i>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 style="text-align: right">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> +<h3><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. T. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>April</i> 9, 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Herewith +please find belated birthday present. Fanny has +another.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Cockshot = Jenkin.</p> +</td> +<td><p>But</p> +<p>pray</p> +<p>regard</p> +<p>these</p> +<p>as</p> +<p>secrets.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Jack = Bob.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Burly = Henley.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Athelred = Simpson.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Opalstein = Symonds.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Purcel = Gosse.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </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 </i><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span><i>Voyage</i> size, <i>The Silverado Squatters</i>, and +over and above that upwards of ninety (90) <i>Cornhill</i> pages +of magazine work. No man can say I have been +idle.—Your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>] <i>Sunday</i> +[<i>June</i> 1882].</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">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 yesterdays—1 ++ 4 + 7½ = 12½ hours and being (9 <span +class="GutSmall">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="smcap">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 <a +name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>travels: +<i>Personal Adventures in Peeblesshire</i>. <i>Je la trouve +méchante</i>.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">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> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Stobo Manse</i>, +<i>Peeblesshire</i> [<i>July</i> 1882].</p> +<p class="poetry">I would shoot you, but I have no bow:<br /> +The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo.<br /> +As Gallic Kids complain of ‘Bobo,’<br /> +I mourn for your mistake of Stobo.</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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page243"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 243</span>[<i>Stobo Manse</i>, <i>July</i> +1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">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>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 <a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +244</span>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 +æsth<i>a</i>tic,’ 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 style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h2><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +245</span>VI<br /> +MARSEILLES AND HYÈRES,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OCTOBER 1882-AUGUST 1884</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span><span class="smcap">to the Editor of the</span> +‘<span class="smcap">New York Tribune</span>’</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Terminus Hotel</i>, +<i>Marseilles</i>, <i>October</i> 16, 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">SIR</span>,—It has come to my +ears that you have lent the authority of your columns to an +error.</p> +<p>More than half in pleasantry—and I now think the +pleasantry ill-judged—I complained in a note to my <i>New +Arabian Nights</i> that some one, who shall remain nameless for +me, had borrowed the idea of a story from one of mine. As +if I had not borrowed the ideas of the half of my own! As +if any one who had written a story ill had a right to complain of +any other who should have written it better! I am indeed +thoroughly ashamed of the note, and of the principle which it +implies.</p> +<p>But it is no mere abstract penitence which leads me to beg a +corner of your paper—it is the desire to defend the honour +of a man of letters equally known in America and England, of a +man who could afford to lend to me and yet be none the poorer; +and who, if he would so far condescend, has my free permission to +borrow from me all that he can find worth borrowing.</p> +<p><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +252</span>Indeed, sir, I am doubly surprised at your +correspondent’s error. That James Payn should have +borrowed from me is already a strange conception. The +author of <i>Lost Sir Massingberd</i> and <i>By Proxy</i> may be +trusted to invent his own stories. The author of <i>A Grape +from a Thorn</i> knows enough, in his own right, of the humorous +and pathetic sides of human nature.</p> +<p>But what is far more monstrous—what argues total +ignorance of the man in question—is the idea that James +Payn could ever have transgressed the limits of professional +propriety. I may tell his thousands of readers on your side +of the Atlantic that there breathes no man of letters more +inspired by kindness and generosity to his brethren of the +profession, and, to put an end to any possibility of error, I may +be allowed to add that I often have recourse, and that I had +recourse once more but a few weeks ago, to the valuable practical +help which he makes it his pleasure to extend to younger men.</p> +<p>I send a duplicate of this letter to a London weekly; for the +mistake, first set forth in your columns, has already reached +England, and my wanderings have made me perhaps last of the +persons interested to hear a word of it.—I am, etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Terminus Hotel</i>, +<i>Marseille</i>, <i>Saturday</i> (<i>October</i> 1882).</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—We have found +a house!—at Saint Marcel, Banlieue de Marseille. In a +lovely valley between hills part wooded, part white cliffs; a +house of a dining-room, of a fine salon—one side lined with +a long divan—three good bedrooms (two of them with +dressing-rooms), three small rooms (chambers of <i>bonne</i> and +sich), a large kitchen, a lumber room, many cupboards, a back +court, a large, large olive yard, cultivated by a resident +<i>paysan</i>, a well, <a name="page253"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 253</span>a berceau, a good deal of rockery, a +little pine shrubbery, a railway station in front, two lines of +omnibus to Marseille.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">£48 per annum.</p> +<p>It is called Campagne Defli! query Campagne Debug? The +Campagne Demosquito goes on here nightly, and is very +deadly. Ere we can get installed, we shall be beggared to +the door, I see.</p> +<p>I vote for separations; F.’s arrival here, after our +separation, was better fun to me than being married was by +far. A separation completed is a most valuable property; +worth piles.—Ever your affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Terminus Hotel</i>, +<i>Marseille</i>, <i>le</i> 17<i>th</i> <i>October</i> 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—. We +grow, every time we see it, more delighted with our house. +It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a lovely spot, among +lovely wooded and cliffy hills—most mountainous in +line—far lovelier, to my eyes, than any Alps. To-day +we have been out inventorying; and though a mistral blew, it was +delightful in an open cab, and our house with the windows open +was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear there are +fleas—it is called Campagne Defli—and I look forward +to tons of insecticide being employed.</p> +<p>I have had to write a letter to the <i>New York Tribune</i> +and the <i>Athenæum</i>. Payn was accused of stealing +my stories! I think I have put things handsomely for +him.</p> +<p>Just got a servant! ! !—Ever affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Our servant is a Muckle Hash of a Weedy!</p> +<h3><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +254</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Campagne Defli</i>, <i>St. +Marcel</i>,<br /> +<i>Banlieue de Marseille</i>, <i>November</i> 13, 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Your +delightful letters duly arrived this morning. They were the +only good feature of the day, which was not a success. +Fanny was in bed—she begged I would not split upon her, she +felt so guilty; but as I believe she is better this evening, and +has a good chance to be right again in a day or two, I will +disregard her orders. I do not go back, but do not go +forward—or not much. It is, in one way, +miserable—for I can do no work; a very little wood-cutting, +the newspapers, and a note about every two days to write, +completely exhausts my surplus energy; even Patience I have to +cultivate with parsimony. I see, if I could only get to +work, that we could live here with comfort, almost with +luxury. Even as it is, we should be able to get through a +considerable time of idleness. I like the place immensely, +though I have seen so little of it—I have only been once +outside the gate since I was here! It puts me in mind of a +summer at Prestonpans and a sickly child you once told me of.</p> +<p>Thirty-two years now finished! My twenty-ninth was in +San Francisco, I remember—rather a bleak birthday. +The twenty-eighth was not much better; but the rest have been +usually pleasant days in pleasant circumstances.</p> +<p>Love to you and to my father and to Cummy.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">From me and Fanny and Wogg.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page255"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 255</span><i>Grand Hotel</i>, <i>Nice</i>, +12<i>th</i> <i>January</i> ’83.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Thanks for +your good letter. It is true, man, God’s trüth, +what ye say about the body Stevison. The deil himsel, +it’s my belief, couldnae get the soul harled oot o’ +the creature’s wame, or he had seen the hinder end o’ +they proofs. Ye crack o’ Mæcenas, he’s +naebody by you! He gied the lad Horace a rax forrit by all +accounts; but he never gied him proofs like yon. Horace may +hae been a better hand at the clink than Stevison—mind, +I’m no sayin’ ‘t—but onyway he was never +sae weel prentit. Damned, but it’s bonny! Hoo +mony pages will there be, think ye? Stevison maun hae sent +ye the feck o’ twenty sangs—fifteen I’se +warrant. Weel, that’ll can make thretty pages, gin ye +were to prent on ae side only, whilk wad be perhaps what a man +o’ your <i>great</i> idees would be ettlin’ at, man +Johnson. Then there wad be the Pre-face, an’ prose ye +ken prents oot langer than po’try at the hinder end, for ye +hae to say things in’t. An’ then there’ll +be a title-page and a dedication and an index wi’ the first +lines like, and the deil an’ a’. Man, +it’ll be grand. Nae copies to be given to the +Liberys.</p> +<p>I am alane myself, in Nice, they ca’t, but damned, I +think they micht as well ca’t Nesty. The Pile-on, +‘s they ca’t, ‘s aboot as big as the river Tay +at Perth; and it’s rainin’ maist like Greenock. +Dod, I’ve seen ‘s had mair o’ what they +ca’ the I-talian at Muttonhole. I-talian! I +haenae seen the sun for eicht and forty hours. +Thomson’s better, I believe. But the body’s +fair attenyated. He’s <a name="page256"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 256</span>doon to seeven stane eleeven, +an’ he sooks awa’ at cod liver ile, till it’s a +fair disgrace. Ye see he tak’s it on a drap brandy; +and it’s my belief, it’s just an excuse for a +dram. He an’ Stevison gang aboot their lane, maistly; +they’re company to either, like, an’ whiles +they’ll speak o’Johnson. But <i>he’s</i> +far awa’, losh me! Stevison’s last book’s +in a third edeetion; an’ it’s bein’ translated +(like the psaulms o’ David, nae less) into French; and an +eediot they ca’ Asher—a kind o’ rival of +Tauchnitz—is bringin’ him oot in a paper book for the +Frenchies and the German folk in twa volumes. Sae +he’s in luck, ye see.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Thomson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Nice</i>, <i>February</i> +1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—You must +think, and quite justly, that I am one of the meanest rogues in +creation. But though I do not write (which is a thing I +hate), it by no means follows that people are out of my +mind. It is natural that I should always think more or less +about you, and still more natural that I should think of you when +I went back to Nice. But the real reason why you have been +more in my mind than usual is because of some little verses that +I have been writing, and that I mean to make a book of; and the +real reason of this letter (although I ought to have written to +you anyway) is that I have just seen that the book in question +must be dedicated to</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Alison +Cunningham</span>,</p> +<p>the only person who will really understand it. I +don’t know when it may be ready, for it has to be +illustrated, but I hope in the meantime you may like the idea of +what is to be; and when the time comes, I shall try to make the +dedication as pretty as I can make it. Of course, this is +only a flourish, like taking off one’s hat; but still, <a +name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 257</span>a person +who has taken the trouble to write things does not dedicate them +to any one without meaning it; and you must just try to take this +dedication in place of a great many things that I might have +said, and that I ought to have done, to prove that I am not +altogether unconscious of the great debt of gratitude I owe +you. This little book, which is all about my childhood, +should indeed go to no other person but you, who did so much to +make that childhood happy.</p> +<p>Do you know, we came very near sending for you this +winter. If we had not had news that you were ill too, I +almost believe we should have done so, we were so much in +trouble.</p> +<p>I am now very well; but my wife has had a very, very bad +spell, through overwork and anxiety, when I was +<i>lost</i>! I suppose you heard of that. She sends +you her love, and hopes you will write to her, though she no more +than I deserves it. She would add a word herself, but she +is too played out.—I am, ever your old boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Nice</i>, <i>March</i> +1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—This is to +announce to you the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. of Nursery +Verses, now numbering <span class="GutSmall">XLVIII</span>. +pieces or 599 verses, which, of course, one might augment <i>ad +infinitum</i>.</p> +<p>But here is my notion to make all clear.</p> +<p>I do not want a big ugly quarto; my soul sickens at the look +of a quarto. I want a refined octavo, not large—not +<i>larger</i> than the <i>Donkey Book</i>, at any price.</p> +<p>I think the full page might hold four verses of four <a +name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>lines, that +is to say, counting their blanks at two, of twenty-two lines in +height. The first page of each number would only hold two +verses or ten lines, the title being low down. At this +rate, we should have seventy-eight or eighty pages of +letterpress.</p> +<p>The designs should not be in the text, but facing the poem; so +that if the artist liked, he might give two pages of design to +every poem that turned the leaf, <i>i.e.</i> longer than eight +lines, <i>i.e.</i> to twenty-eight out of the forty-six. I +should say he would not use this privilege (?) above five times, +and some he might scorn to illustrate at all, so we may say fifty +drawings. I shall come to the drawings next.</p> +<p>But now you see my book of the thickness, since the drawings +count two pages, of 180 pages; and since the paper will perhaps +be thicker, of near two hundred by bulk. It is bound in a +quiet green with the words in thin gilt. Its shape is a +slender, tall octavo. And it sells for the +publisher’s fancy, and it will be a darling to look at; in +short, it would be like one of the original Heine books in type +and spacing.</p> +<p>Now for the pictures. I take another sheet and begin to +jot notes for them when my imagination serves: I will run through +the book, writing when I have an idea. There, I have jotted +enough to give the artist a notion. Of course, I +don’t do more than contribute ideas, but I will be happy to +help in any and every way. I may as well add another idea; +when the artist finds nothing much to illustrate, a good drawing +of any <i>object</i> mentioned in the text, were it only a loaf +of bread or a candlestick, is a most delightful thing to a young +child. I remember this keenly.</p> +<p>Of course, if the artist insists on a larger form, I must I +suppose, bow my head. But my idea I am convinced is the +best, and would make the book truly, not fashionably pretty.</p> +<p>I forgot to mention that I shall have a dedication; I <a +name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 259</span>am going to +dedicate ’em to Cummy; it will please her, and lighten a +little my burthen of ingratitude. A low affair is the Muse +business.</p> +<p>I will add no more to this lest you should want to communicate +with the artist; try another sheet. I wonder how many +I’ll keep wandering to.</p> +<p>O I forgot. As for the title, I think ‘Nursery +Verses’ the best. Poetry is not the strong point of +the text, and I shrink from any title that might seem to claim +that quality; otherwise we might have ‘Nursery Muses’ +or ‘New Songs of Innocence’ (but that were a +blasphemy), or ‘Rimes of Innocence’: the last not +bad, or—an idea—‘The Jews’ Harp,’ +or—now I have it—‘The Penny Whistle.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE PENNY WHISTLE:<br /> +NURSERY VERSES<br /> +BY<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.<br /> +ILLUSTRATED BY — — —</p> +<p>And here we have an excellent frontispiece, of a party playing +on a P. W. to a little ring of dancing children.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE PENNY WHISTLE<br /> +is the name for me.</p> +<p>Fool! this is all wrong, here is the true name:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PENNY WHISTLES<br /> +FOR SMALL WHISTLERS.</p> +<p>The second title is queried, it is perhaps better, as simply +<span class="GutSmall">PENNY WHISTLES</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor you, O Penny Whistler, grudge<br /> + That I your instrument debase:<br /> +By worse performers still we judge,<br /> + And give that fife a second place!</p> +<p><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +260</span>Crossed penny whistles on the cover, or else a sheaf of +’em.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SUGGESTIONS.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. The procession—the +child running behind it. The procession tailing off through +the gates of a cloudy city.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">IX</span>. <i>Foreign +Lands</i>.—This will, I think, want two plates—the +child climbing, his first glimpse over the garden wall, with what +he sees—the tree shooting higher and higher like the +beanstalk, and the view widening. The river slipping +in. The road arriving in Fairyland.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">X</span>. <i>Windy +Nights</i>.—The child in bed listening—the horseman +galloping.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XII</span>. The child helplessly +watching his ship—then he gets smaller, and the doll +joyfully comes alive—the pair landing on the +island—the ship’s deck with the doll steering and the +child firing the penny canon. Query two plates? The +doll should never come properly alive.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XV</span>. Building of the +ship—storing her—Navigation—Tom’s +accident, the other child paying no attention.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XXXI</span>. <i>The Wind</i>.—I +sent you my notion of already.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XXXVII</span>. <i>Foreign +Children</i>.—The foreign types dancing in a jing-a-ring, +with the English child pushing in the middle. The foreign +children looking at and showing each other marvels. The +English child at the leeside of a roast of beef. The +English child sitting thinking with his picture-books all round +him, and the jing-a-ring of the foreign children in miniature +dancing over the picture-books.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XXXIX</span>. Dear artist, can +you do me that?</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XLII</span>. The child being started +off—the bed sailing, curtains and all, upon the +sea—the child waking and finding himself at home; the +corner of toilette might be worked in to look like the pier.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XLVII</span>. The lighted part of the +room, to be carefully distinguished from my child’s dark +hunting grounds. A shaded lamp.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +261</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel des Iles d’Or</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>March</i> 2, [1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—It must be +at least a fortnight since we have had a scratch of a pen from +you; and if it had not been for Cummy’s letter, I should +have feared you were worse again: as it is, I hope we shall hear +from you to-day or to-morrow at latest.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Health</i>.</p> +<p>Our news is good: Fanny never got so bad as we feared, and we +hope now that this attack may pass off in threatenings. I +am greatly better, have gained flesh, strength, spirits; eat +well, walk a good deal, and do some work without fatigue. I +am off the sick list.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Lodging</i>.</p> +<p>We have found a house up the hill, close to the town, an +excellent place though very, very little. If I can get the +landlord to agree to let us take it by the month just now, and +let our month’s rent count for the year in case we take it +on, you may expect to hear we are again installed, and to receive +a letter dated thus:—</p> +<blockquote><p>La Solitude,<br /> + Hyères-les-Palmiers,<br /> + + +Var.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If the man won’t agree to that, of course I must just +give it up, as the house would be dear enough anyway at 2000 +f. However, I hope we may get it, as it is healthy, +cheerful, and close to shops, and society, and +civilisation. The garden, which is above, is lovely, and +will be cool in summer. There are two rooms below with a +kitchen, and four rooms above, all told.—Ever your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel des Iles d’Or</i>, +<i>but my address will be Chalet la Solitude</i>,<br /> +<i>Hyères-le-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>France</i>, +<i>March</i> 17, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—Your undated +favour from Eastbourne came to hand in course of post, and I now +hasten to acknowledge its receipt. We must ask you in +future, for the convenience of our business arrangements, to +struggle with and tread below your feet this most unsatisfactory +and uncommercial habit. Our Mr. Cassandra is better; our +Mr. Wogg expresses himself dissatisfied with our new place of +business; when left alone in the front shop, he bawled like a +parrot; it is supposed the offices are haunted.</p> +<p>To turn to the matter of your letter, your remarks on <i>Great +Expectations</i> are very good. We have both re-read it +this winter, and I, in a manner, twice. The object being a +play; the play, in its rough outline, I now see: and it is +extraordinary how much of Dickens had to be discarded as unhuman, +impossible, and ineffective: all that really remains is the loan +of a file (but from a grown-up young man who knows what he was +doing, and to a convict who, although he does not know it is his +father—the father knows it is his son), and the fact of the +convict-father’s return and disclosure of himself to the +son whom he has made rich. Everything else has been thrown +aside; and the position has had to be explained by a prologue +which is pretty strong. I have great hopes of this piece, +which is very amiable and, in places, very strong indeed: but it +was curious how Dickens had to be rolled away; he had made his +story turn on such improbabilities, such fantastic trifles, not +on a good human basis, such as I recognised. You are right +about the casts, they were a capital idea; a good description of +them at first, and then <a name="page263"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 263</span>afterwards, say second, for the +lawyer to have illustrated points out of the history of the +originals, dusting the particular bust—that was all the +development the thing would bear. Dickens killed +them. The only really well <i>executed</i> scenes are the +riverside ones; the escape in particular is excellent; and I may +add, the capture of the two convicts at the beginning. Miss +Havisham is, probably, the worst thing in human fiction. +But Wemmick I like; and I like Trabb’s boy; and Mr. Wopsle +as Hamlet is splendid.</p> +<p>The weather here is greatly improved, and I hope in three days +to be in the chalet. That is, if I get some money to float +me there.</p> +<p>I hope you are all right again, and will keep better. +The month of March is past its mid career; it must soon begin to +turn toward the lamb; here it has already begun to do so; and I +hope milder weather will pick you up. Wogg has eaten a +forpet of rice and milk, his beard is streaming, his eyes +wild. I am besieged by demands of work from America.</p> +<p>The £50 has just arrived; many thanks; I am now at +ease.—Ever your affectionate son, <i>pro</i> Cassandra, +Wogg and Co.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet la Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>April</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I am one +of the lowest of the—but that’s understood. I +received the copy, <a name="citation263"></a><a +href="#footnote263" class="citation">[263]</a> excellently +written, with I think only one slip from first to last. I +have struck out two, and added five or six; so they now number +forty-five; when they are fifty, they shall out on the +world. I have not written a letter for a cruel time; I have +been, and am, so busy, drafting a long story (for me, I mean), +about a hundred <i>Cornhill</i> pages, or say about as long as +the Donkey book: <i>Prince Otto</i> it is called, and is, <a +name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>at the +present hour, a sore burthen but a hopeful. If I had him +all drafted, I should whistle and sing. But no: then +I’ll have to rewrite him; and then there will be the +publishers, alas! But some time or other, I shall whistle +and sing, I make no doubt.</p> +<p>I am going to make a fortune, it has not yet begun, for I am +not yet clear of debt; but as soon as I can, I begin upon the +fortune. I shall begin it with a halfpenny, and it shall +end with horses and yachts and all the fun of the fair. +This is the first real grey hair in my character: rapacity has +begun to show, the greed of the protuberant guttler. Well, +doubtless, when the hour strikes, we must all guttle and +protube. But it comes hard on one who was always so +willow-slender and as careless as the daisies.</p> +<p>Truly I am in excellent spirits. I have crushed through +a financial crisis; Fanny is much better; I am in excellent +health, and work from four to five hours a day—from one to +two above my average, that is; and we all dwell together and make +fortunes in the loveliest house you ever saw, with a garden like +a fairy story, and a view like a classical landscape.</p> +<p>Little? Well, it is not large. And when you come +to see us, you will probably have to bed at the hotel, which is +hard by. But it is Eden, madam, Eden and Beulah and the +Delectable Mountains and Eldorado and the Hesperidean Isles and +Bimini.</p> +<p>We both look forward, my dear friend, with the greatest +eagerness to have you here. It seems it is not to be this +season; but I appoint you with an appointment for next +season. You cannot see us else: remember that. Till +my health has grown solid like an oak-tree, till my fortune +begins really to spread its boughs like the same monarch of the +woods (and the acorn, ay de mi! is not yet planted), I expect to +be a prisoner among the palms.</p> +<p>Yes, it is like old times to be writing you from the Riviera, +and after all that has come and gone who can <a +name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>predict +anything? How fortune tumbles men about! Yet I have +not found that they change their friends, thank God.</p> +<p>Both of our loves to your sister and yourself. As for +me, if I am here and happy, I know to whom I owe it; I know who +made my way for me in life, if that were all, and I remain, with +love, your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet la Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>April</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I am very +guilty; I should have written to you long ago; and now, though it +must be done, I am so stupid that I can only boldly +recapitulate. A phrase of three members is the outside of +my syntax.</p> +<p>First, I liked the <i>Rover</i> better than any of your other +verse. I believe you are right, and can make stories in +verse. The last two stanzas and one or two in the +beginning—but the two last above all—I thought +excellent. I suggest a pursuit of the vein. If you +want a good story to treat, get the <i>Memoirs of the Chevalier +Johnstone</i>, and do his passage of the Tay; it would be +excellent: the dinner in the field, the woman he has to follow, +the dragoons, the timid boatmen, the brave lasses. It would +go like a charm; look at it, and you will say you owe me one.</p> +<p>Second, Gilder asking me for fiction, I suddenly took a great +resolve, and have packed off to him my new work, <i>The Silverado +Squatters</i>. I do not for a moment suppose he will take +it; but pray say all the good words you can for it. I +should be awfully glad to get it taken. But if it does not +mean dibbs at once, I shall be ruined for life. Pray write +soon and beg Gilder your prettiest for a poor gentleman in +pecuniary sloughs.</p> +<p>Fourth, next time I am supposed to be at death’s door, +<a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>write to +me like a Christian, and let not your correspondence attend on +business.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I see I have led you to conceive the +<i>Squatters</i> are fiction. They are not, alas!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet Solitude</i>, <i>May</i> +5, [1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST PEOPLE</span>,—I have +had a great piece of news. There has been offered for +<i>Treasure Island</i>—how much do you suppose? I +believe it would be an excellent jest to keep the answer till my +next letter. For two cents I would do so. Shall +I? Anyway, I’ll turn the page first. +No—well—A hundred pounds, all alive, O! A +hundred jingling, tingling, golden, minted quid. Is not +this wonderful? Add that I have now finished, in draft, the +fifteenth chapter of my novel, and have only five before me, and +you will see what cause of gratitude I have.</p> +<p>The weather, to look at the per contra sheet, continues +vomitable; and Fanny is quite out of sorts. But, really, +with such cause of gladness, I have not the heart to be +dispirited by anything. My child’s verse book is +finished, dedication and all, and out of my hands—you may +tell Cummy; <i>Silverado</i> is done, too, and cast upon the +waters; and this novel so near completion, it does look as if I +should support myself without trouble in the future. If I +have only health, I can, I thank God. It is dreadful to be +a great, big man, and not be able to buy bread.</p> +<p>O that this may last!</p> +<p>I have to-day paid my rent for the half year, till the middle +of September, and got my lease: why they have been so long, I +know not.</p> +<p>I wish you all sorts of good things.</p> +<p>When is our marriage day?—Your loving and ecstatic +son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Treesure +Eilaan</span>,</p> +<p>It has been for me a Treasure Island verily.</p> +<h3><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +267</span><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> 8, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—I was +disgusted to hear my father was not so well. I have a most +troubled existence of work and business. But the work goes +well, which is the great affair. I meant to have written a +most delightful letter; too tired, however, and must stop. +Perhaps I’ll find time to add to it ere post.</p> +<p>I have returned refreshed from eating, but have little time, +as Lloyd will go soon with the letters on his way to his tutor, +Louis Robert (!!!!), with whom he learns Latin in French, and +French, I suppose, in Latin, which seems to me a capital +education. He, Lloyd, is a great bicycler already, and has +been long distances; he is most new-fangled over his instrument, +and does not willingly converse on other subjects.</p> +<p>Our lovely garden is a prey to snails; I have gathered about a +bushel, which, not having the heart to slay, I steal forth withal +and deposit near my neighbour’s garden wall. As a +case of casuistry, this presents many points of interest. I +loathe the snails, but from loathing to actual butchery, +trucidation of multitudes, there is still a step that I hesitate +to take. What, then, to do with them? My +neighbour’s vineyard, pardy! It is a rich, villa, +pleasure-garden of course; if it were a peasant’s patch, +the snails, I suppose, would have to perish.</p> +<p>The weather these last three days has been much better, though +it is still windy and unkind. I keep splendidly well, and +am cruelly busy, with mighty little time even for a walk. +And to write at all, under such pressure, must be held to lean to +virtue’s side.</p> +<p>My financial prospects are shining. O if the health will +hold, I should easily support myself.—Your ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>,<br /> +[<i>May</i> 20, 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I enclose +the receipt and the corrections. As for your letter and +Gilder’s, I must take an hour or so to think; the matter +much importing—to me. The £40 was a heavenly +thing.</p> +<p>I send the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. by Henley, +because he acts for me in all matters, and had the thing, like +all my other books, in his detention. He is my unpaid +agent—an admirable arrangement for me, and one that has +rather more than doubled my income on the spot.</p> +<p>If I have been long silent, think how long you were so and +blush, sir, blush.</p> +<p>I was rendered unwell by the arrival of your cheque, and, like +Pepys, ‘my hand still shakes to write of it.’ +To this grateful emotion, and not to D.T., please attribute the +raggedness of my hand.</p> +<p>This year I should be able to live and keep my family on my +own earnings, and that in spite of eight months and more of +perfect idleness at the end of last and beginning of this. +It is a sweet thought.</p> +<p>This spot, our garden and our view, are sub-celestial. I +sing daily with my Bunyan, that great bard,</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘I dwell already +the next door to Heaven!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If you could see my roses, and my aloes, and my fig-marigolds, +and my olives, and my view over a plain, and my view of certain +mountains as graceful as Apollo, as severe as Zeus, you would not +think the phrase exaggerated.</p> +<p>It is blowing to-day a <i>hot</i> mistral, which is the devil +or a near connection of his.</p> +<p>This to catch the post.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +269</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>France</i>,<br +/> +<i>May</i> 21, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—The night +giveth advice, generally bad advice; but I have taken it. +And I have written direct to Gilder to tell him to keep the book +<a name="citation269"></a><a href="#footnote269" +class="citation">[269]</a> back and go on with it in November at +his leisure. I do not know if this will come in time; if it +doesn’t, of course things will go on in the way +proposed. The £40, or, as I prefer to put it, the +1000 francs, has been such a piercing sun-ray as my whole grey +life is gilt withal. On the back of it I can endure. +If these good days of <i>Longman</i> and the <i>Century</i> only +last, it will be a very green world, this that we dwell in and +that philosophers miscall. I have no taste for that +philosophy; give me large sums paid on the receipt of the <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. and copyright reserved, and what do I +care about the non-bëent? Only I know it can’t +last. The devil always has an imp or two in every house, +and my imps are getting lively. The good lady, the dear, +kind lady, the sweet, excellent lady, Nemesis, whom alone I +adore, has fixed her wooden eye upon me. I fall prone; +spare me, Mother Nemesis! But catch her!</p> +<p>I must now go to bed; for I have had a whoreson influenza +cold, and have to lie down all day, and get up only to meals and +the delights, June delights, of business correspondence.</p> +<p>You said nothing about my subject for a poem. +Don’t you like it? My own fishy eye has been fixed on +it for prose, but I believe it could be thrown out finely in +verse, and hence I resign and pass the hand. Twig the +compliment?—Yours affectionately</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +270</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> +1883.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">The</span> influenza has busted me a +good deal; I have no spring, and am headachy. So, as my +good Red Lion Counter begged me for another Butcher’s +Boy—I turned me to—what thinkest ’ou?—to +Tushery, by the mass! Ay, friend, a whole tale of +tushery. And every tusher tushes me so free, that may I be +tushed if the whole thing is worth a tush. <i>The Black +Arrow</i>: <i>A Tale of Tunstall Forest</i> is his name: tush! a +poor thing!</p> +<p>Will <i>Treasure Island</i> proofs be coming soon, think +you?</p> +<p>I will now make a confession. It was the sight of your +maimed strength and masterfulness that begot John Silver in +<i>Treasure Island</i>. Of course, he is not in any other +quality or feature the least like you; but the idea of the maimed +man, ruling and dreaded by the sound, was entirely taken from +you.</p> +<p>Otto is, as you say, not a thing to extend my public on. +It is queer and a little, little bit free; and some of the +parties are immoral; and the whole thing is not a romance, nor +yet a comedy; nor yet a romantic comedy; but a kind of +preparation of some of the elements of all three in a glass +jar. I think it is not without merit, but I am not always +on the level of my argument, and some parts are false, and much +of the rest is thin; it is more a triumph for myself than +anything else; for I see, beyond it, better stuff. I have +nine chapters ready, or almost ready, for press. My feeling +would be to get it placed anywhere for as much as could be got +for it, and rather in the shadow, till one saw the look of it in +print.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Pretty +Sick</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +271</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>May</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—The books +came some time since, but I have not had the pluck to answer: a +shower of small troubles having fallen in, or troubles that may +be very large.</p> +<p>I have had to incur a huge vague debt for cleaning sewers; our +house was (of course) riddled with hidden cesspools, but that was +infallible. I have the fever, and feel the duty to work +very heavy on me at times; yet go it must. I have had to +leave <i>Fontainebleau</i>, when three hours would finish it, and +go full-tilt at tushery for a while. But it will come +soon.</p> +<p>I think I can give you a good article on Hokusai; but that is +for afterwards; <i>Fontainebleau</i> is first in hand</p> +<p>By the way, my view is to give the <i>Penny Whistles</i> to +Crane or Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is +a fellow who, at least, always does his best.</p> +<p>Shall I ever have money enough to write a play? O dire +necessity!</p> +<p>A word in your ear: I don’t like trying to support +myself. I hate the strain and the anxiety; and when +unexpected expenses are foisted on me, I feel the world is +playing with false dice.—Now I must Tush, adieu,</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">An +Aching</span>, <span class="smcap">Fevered</span>, <span +class="smcap">Penny-Journalist</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">A lytle Jape of <span +class="GutSmall">TUSHERIE</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">By A. Tusher.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pleasant river gushes<br /> + Among the meadows green;<br /> +At home the author tushes;<br /> + For him it flows unseen.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Birds among the Bûshes<br /> + May wanton on the spray;<br /> +But vain for him who tushes<br /> + The brightness of the day!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +272</span>The frog among the rushes<br /> + Sits singing in the blue.<br /> +By’r la’kin! but these tushes<br /> + Are wearisome to do!</p> +<p class="poetry">The task entirely crushes<br /> + The spirit of the bard:<br /> +God pity him who tushes—<br /> + His task is very hard.</p> +<p class="poetry">The filthy gutter slushes,<br /> + The clouds are full of rain,<br /> +But doomed is he who tushes<br /> + To tush and tush again.</p> +<p class="poetry">At morn with his hair-br<i>u</i>shes,<br /> + Still, ‘tush’ he says, and weeps;<br /> +At night again he tushes,<br /> + And tushes till he sleeps.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when at length he pushes<br /> + Beyond the river dark—<br /> +‘Las, to the man who tushes,<br /> + ‘Tush’ shall be God’s remark!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> 1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—You may be +surprised to hear that I am now a great writer of verses; that +is, however, so. I have the mania now like my betters, and +faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a book of rhymes +like Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. Really, I have +begun to learn some of the rudiments of that trade, and have +written three or four pretty enough pieces of octosyllabic +nonsense, semi-serious, semi-smiling. A kind of prose +Herrick, divested of the gift of verse, and you behold the +Bard. But I like it.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hyères</i> [<i>June</i> +1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—I was delighted +to hear the good news about —. Bravo, he goes uphill +fast. Let him beware of vanity, and he will go higher; let +him be still discontented, and let him (if it might be) see the +merits and not the faults of his rivals, and he may swarm at last +to the top-gallant. There is no other way. Admiration +is the only road to excellence; and the critical spirit kills, +but envy and injustice are putrefaction on its feet.</p> +<p>Thus far the moralist. The eager author now begs to know +whether you may have got the other Whistles, and whether a fresh +proof is to be taken; also whether in that case the dedication +should not be printed therewith; <i>B</i>ulk <i>D</i>elights +<i>P</i>ublishers (original aphorism; to be said sixteen times in +succession as a test of sobriety).</p> +<p>Your wild and ravening commands were received; but cannot be +obeyed. And anyway, I do assure you I am getting better +every day; and if the weather would but turn, I should soon be +observed to walk in hornpipes. Truly I am on the +mend. I am still very careful. I have the new +dictionary; a joy, a thing of beauty, and—bulk. I +shall be raked i’ the mools before it’s finished; +that is the only pity; but meanwhile I sing.</p> +<p>I beg to inform you that I, Robert Louis Stevenson, author of +<i>Brashiana</i> and other works, am merely beginning to commence +to prepare to make a first start at trying to understand my +profession. O the height and depth of novelty and worth in +any art! and O that I am privileged to swim and shoulder through +such oceans! Could one get out of sight of land—all +in the blue? Alas not, being anchored here in flesh, and +the bonds of logic being still about us.</p> +<p><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>But +what a great space and a great air there is in these small +shallows where alone we venture! and how new each sight, squall, +calm, or sunrise! An art is a fine fortune, a palace in a +park, a band of music, health, and physical beauty; all but +love—to any worthy practiser. I sleep upon my art for +a pillow; I waken in my art; I am unready for death, because I +hate to leave it. I love my wife, I do not know how much, +nor can, nor shall, unless I lost her; but while I can conceive +my being widowed, I refuse the offering of life without my +art. I <i>am</i> not but in my art; it is me; I am the body +of it merely.</p> +<p>And yet I produce nothing, am the author of <i>Brashiana</i> +and other works: tiddy-iddity—as if the works one wrote +were anything but ‘prentice’s experiments. Dear +reader, I deceive you with husks, the real works and all the +pleasure are still mine and incommunicable. After this +break in my work, beginning to return to it, as from light sleep, +I wax exclamatory, as you see.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Sursum Corda:</p> +<p class="gutindent">Heave ahead:</p> +<p class="gutindent">Here’s luck.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Art and Blue Heaven,</p> +<p class="gutindent">April and God’s Larks.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Green reeds and the sky-scattering +river.</p> +<p class="gutindent">A stately music.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Enter God!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Ay, but you know, until a man can write that ‘Enter +God,’ he has made no art! None! Come, let us +take counsel together and make some!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i> [<i>Summer</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—Glad you like +<i>Fontainebleau</i>. I am going to be the means, under +heaven, of aërating or liberating <a +name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 275</span>your +pages. The idea that because a thing is a picture-book all +the writing should be on the wrong tack is <i>triste</i> but +widespread. Thus Hokusai will be really a gossip on +convention, or in great part. And the Skelt will be as like +a Charles Lamb as I can get it. The writer should write, +and not illustrate pictures: else it’s bosh. . . .</p> +<p>Your remarks about the ugly are my eye. Ugliness is only +the prose of horror. It is when you are not able to write +<i>Macbeth</i> that you write <i>Thérèse +Raquin</i>. Fashions are external: the essence of art only +varies in so far as fashion widens the field of its application; +art is a mill whose thirlage, in different ages, widens and +contracts; but, in any case and under any fashion, the great man +produces beauty, terror, and mirth, and the little man produces +cleverness (personalities, psychology) instead of beauty, +ugliness instead of terror, and jokes instead of mirth. As +it was in the beginning, is now, and shall be ever, world without +end. Amen!</p> +<p>And even as you read, you say, ‘Of course, <i>quelle +rengaîne</i>!’</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i> [<i>Summer</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—Yes, I own +I am a real bad correspondent, and am as bad as can be in most +directions.</p> +<p>I have been adding some more poems to your book. I wish +they would look sharp about it; but, you see, they are trying to +find a good artist to make the illustrations, without which no +child would give a kick for it. It will be quite a fine +work, I hope. The dedication is a poem too, and has been +quite a long while written, but I do not mean you to see it till +you get the book; keep the jelly <a name="page276"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 276</span>for the last, you know, as you would +often recommend in former days, so now you can take your own +medicine.</p> +<p>I am very sorry to hear you have been so poorly; I have been +very well; it used to be quite the other way, used it not? +Do you remember making the whistle at Mount Chessie? I do +not think it <i>was</i> my knife; I believe it was yours; but +rhyme is a very great monarch, and goes before honesty, in these +affairs at least. Do you remember, at Warriston, one autumn +Sunday, when the beech nuts were on the ground, seeing heaven +open? I would like to make a rhyme of that, but cannot.</p> +<p>Is it not strange to think of all the changes: Bob, Cramond, +Delhi, Minnie, and Henrietta, all married, and fathers and +mothers, and your humble servant just the one point better +off? And such a little while ago all children +together! The time goes swift and wonderfully even; and if +we are no worse than we are, we should be grateful to the power +that guides us. For more than a generation I have now been +to the fore in this rough world, and been most tenderly helped, +and done cruelly wrong, and yet escaped; and here I am still, the +worse for wear, but with some fight in me still, and not +unthankful—no, surely not unthankful, or I were then the +worst of human beings!</p> +<p>My little dog is a very much better child in every way, both +more loving and more amiable; but he is not fond of strangers, +and is, like most of his kind, a great, specious humbug.</p> +<p>Fanny has been ill, but is much better again; she now goes +donkey rides with an old woman, who compliments her on her +French. That old woman—seventy odd—is in a +parlous spiritual state.</p> +<p>Pretty soon, in the new sixpenny illustrated magazine, +Wogg’s picture is to appear: this is a great honour! +And the poor soul whose vanity would just explode if he could +understand it, will never be a bit the wiser!—With much +love, in which Fanny joins, believe me, your affectionate +boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Summer</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—Snatches in +return for yours; for this little once, I’m well to +windward of you.</p> +<p>Seventeen chapters of <i>Otto</i> are now drafted, and finding +I was working through my voice and getting screechy, I have +turned back again to rewrite the earlier part. It has, I do +believe, some merit: of what order, of course, I am the last to +know; and, triumph of triumphs, my wife—my wife who hates +and loathes and slates my women—admits a great part of my +Countess to be on the spot.</p> +<p>Yes, I could borrow, but it is the joy of being before the +public, for once. Really, £100 is a sight more than +<i>Treasure Island</i> is worth.</p> +<p>The reason of my <i>dèche</i>? Well, if you begin +one house, have to desert it, begin another, and are eight months +without doing any work, you will be in a <i>dèche</i> +too. I am not in a <i>dèche</i>, however; +<i>distinguo</i>—I would fain distinguish; I am rather a +swell, but <i>not solvent</i>. At a touch the edifice, +<i>ædificium</i>, might collapse. If my creditors +began to babble around me, I would sink with a slow strain of +music into the crimson west. The difficulty in my elegant +villa is to find oil, <i>oleum</i>, for the dam axles. But +I’ve paid my rent until September; and beyond the chemist, +the grocer, the baker, the doctor, the gardener, Lloyd’s +teacher, and the great thief creditor Death, I can snap my +fingers at all men. Why will people spring bills on +you? I try to make ’em charge me at the moment; they +won’t, the money goes, the debt remains.—The Required +Play is in the <i>Merry Men</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Q. E. F.</p> +<p>I thus render honour to your <i>flair</i>; it came on me of a +clap; I do not see it yet beyond a kind of sunset glory. +But it’s there: passion, romance, the picturesque, +involved: startling, simple, horrid: a sea-pink in +sea-froth! <a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +278</span><i>S’agit de la désenterrer</i>. +‘Help!’ cries a buried masterpiece.</p> +<p>Once I see my way to the year’s end, clear, I turn to +plays; till then I grind at letters; finish <i>Otto</i>; write, +say, a couple of my <i>Traveller’s Tales</i>; and then, if +all my ships come home, I will attack the drama in earnest. +I cannot mix the skeins. Thus, though I’m morally +sure there is a play in <i>Otto</i>, I dare not look for it: I +shoot straight at the story.</p> +<p>As a story, a comedy, I think <i>Otto</i> very well +constructed; the echoes are very good, all the sentiments change +round, and the points of view are continually, and, I think (if +you please), happily contrasted. None of it is exactly +funny, but some of it is smiling.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i> [<i>Summer</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have now +leisurely read your volume; pretty soon, by the way, you will +receive one of mine.</p> +<p>It is a pleasant, instructive, and scholarly volume. The +three best being, quite out of sight—Crashaw, Otway, and +Etherege. They are excellent; I hesitate between them; but +perhaps Crashaw is the most brilliant</p> +<p>Your Webster is not my Webster; nor your Herrick my +Herrick. On these matters we must fire a gun to leeward, +show our colours, and go by. Argument is impossible. +They are two of my favourite authors: Herrick above all: I +suppose they are two of yours. Well, Janus-like, they do +behold us two with diverse countenances, few features are common +to these different avatars; and we can but agree to differ, but +still with gratitude to our entertainers, like two guests at the +same dinner, one <a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>of whom takes clear and one white soup. By my way +of thinking, neither of us need be wrong.</p> +<p>The other papers are all interesting, adequate, clear, and +with a pleasant spice of the romantic. It is a book you may +be well pleased to have so finished, and will do you much +good. The Crashaw is capital: capital; I like the taste of +it. Preface clean and dignified. The handling +throughout workmanlike, with some four or five touches of +preciosity, which I regret.</p> +<p>With my thanks for information, entertainment, and a +pleasurable envy here and there.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>,<br /> +<i>Var</i>, <i>September</i> 19, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOY</span>,—Our letters +vigorously cross: you will ere this have received a note to +Coggie: God knows what was in it.</p> +<p>It is strange, a little before the first word you sent +me—so late—kindly late, I know and feel—I was +thinking in my bed, when I knew you I had six friends—Bob I +had by nature; then came the good James Walter—with all his +failings—the <i>gentleman</i> of the lot, alas to sink so +low, alas to do so little, but now, thank God, in his quiet rest; +next I found Baxter—well do I remember telling Walter I had +unearthed ‘a W.S. that I thought would do’—it +was in the Academy Lane, and he questioned me <a +name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>as to the +Signet’s qualifications; fourth came Simpson; somewhere +about the same time, I began to get intimate with Jenkin; last +came Colvin. Then, one black winter afternoon, long Leslie +Stephen, in his velvet jacket, met me in the <i>Spec.</i> by +appointment, took me over to the infirmary, and in the crackling, +blighting gaslight showed me that old head whose excellent +representation I see before me in the photograph. Now when +a man has six friends, to introduce a seventh is usually +hopeless. Yet when you were presented, you took to them and +they to you upon the nail. You must have been a fine +fellow; but what a singular fortune I must have had in my six +friends that you should take to all. I don’t know if +it is good Latin, most probably not: but this is enscrolled +before my eye for Walter: <i>Tandem e nubibus in apricum +properat</i>. Rest, I suppose, I know, was all that +remained; but O to look back, to remember all the mirth, all the +kindness, all the humorous limitations and loved defects of that +character; to think that he was young with me, sharing that +weather-beaten, Fergussonian youth, looking forward through the +clouds to the sunburst; and now clean gone from my path, +silent—well, well. This has been a strange +awakening. Last night, when I was alone in the house, with +the window open on the lovely still night, I could have sworn he +was in the room with me; I could show you the spot; and, what was +very curious, I heard his rich laughter, a thing I had not called +to mind for I know not how long.</p> +<p>I see his coral waistcoat studs that he wore the first time he +dined in my house; I see his attitude, leaning back a little, +already with something of a portly air, and laughing +internally. How I admired him! And now in the West +Kirk.</p> +<p>I am trying to write out this haunting bodily sense of +absence; besides, what else should I write of?</p> +<p>Yes, looking back, I think of him as one who was good, though +sometimes clouded. He was the only gentle one <a +name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 281</span>of all my +friends, save perhaps the other Walter. And he was +certainly the only modest man among the lot. He never gave +himself away; he kept back his secret; there was always a gentle +problem behind all. Dear, dear, what a wreck; and yet how +pleasant is the retrospect! God doeth all things well, +though by what strange, solemn, and murderous contrivances!</p> +<p>It is strange: he was the only man I ever loved who did not +habitually interrupt. The fact draws my own portrait. +And it is one of the many reasons why I count myself honoured by +his friendship. A man like you <i>had</i> to like me; you +could not help yourself; but Ferrier was above me, we were not +equals; his true self humoured and smiled paternally upon my +failings, even as I humoured and sorrowed over his.</p> +<p>Well, first his mother, then himself, they are gone: ‘in +their resting graves.’</p> +<p>When I come to think of it, I do not know what I said to his +sister, and I fear to try again. Could you send her +this? There is too much both about yourself and me in it; +but that, if you do not mind, is but a mark of sincerity. +It would let her know how entirely, in the mind of (I suppose) +his oldest friend, the good, true Ferrier obliterates the memory +of the other, who was only his ‘lunatic brother.’</p> +<p>Judge of this for me, and do as you please; anyway, I will try +to write to her again; my last was some kind of scrawl that I +could not see for crying. This came upon me, remember, with +terrible suddenness; I was surprised by this death; and it is +fifteen or sixteen years since first I saw the handsome face in +the <i>Spec</i>. I made sure, besides, to have died +first. Love to you, your wife, and her sisters.</p> +<p>—Ever yours, dear boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I never knew any man so superior to himself as poor James +Walter. The best of him only came as a vision, like Corsica +from the Corniche. He never gave his <a +name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>measure +either morally or intellectually. The curse was on +him. Even his friends did not know him but by fits. I +have passed hours with him when he was so wise, good, and sweet, +that I never knew the like of it in any other. And for a +beautiful good humour he had no match. I remember breaking +in upon him once with a whole red-hot story (in my worst manner), +pouring words upon him by the hour about some truck not worth an +egg that had befallen me; and suddenly, some half hour after, +finding that the sweet fellow had some concern of his own of +infinitely greater import, that he was patiently and smilingly +waiting to consult me on. It sounds nothing; but the +courtesy and the unselfishness were perfect. It makes me +rage to think how few knew him, and how many had the chance to +sneer at their better.</p> +<p>Well, he was not wasted, that we know; though if anything +looked liker irony than this fitting of a man out with these rich +qualities and faculties to be wrecked and aborted from the very +stocks, I do not know the name of it. Yet we see that he +has left an influence; the memory of his patient courtesy has +often checked me in rudeness; has it not you?</p> +<p>You can form no idea of how handsome Walter was. At +twenty he was splendid to see; then, too, he had the sense of +power in him, and great hopes; he looked forward, ever jesting of +course, but he looked to see himself where he had the right to +expect. He believed in himself profoundly; but <i>he never +disbelieved in others</i>. To the roughest Highland student +he always had his fine, kind, open dignity of manner; and a good +word behind his back.</p> +<p>The last time that I saw him before leaving for +America—it was a sad blow to both of us. When he +heard I was leaving, and that might be the last time we might +meet—it almost was so—he was terribly upset, and came +round at once. We sat late, in Baxter’s empty house, +where I <a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>was sleeping. My dear friend Walter Ferrier: O if +I had only written to him more! if only one of us in these last +days had been well! But I ever cherished the honour of his +friendship, and now when he is gone, I know what I have lost +still better. We live on, meaning to meet; but when the +hope is gone, the, pang comes.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>,<br /> +26<i>th</i> <i>September</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—It appears +a bolt from Transatlantica is necessary to produce four lines +from you. It is not flattering; but as I was always a bad +correspondent, ’tis a vice to which I am lenient. I +give you to know, however, that I have already twice (this makes +three times) sent you what I please to call a letter, and +received from you in return a subterfuge—or nothing. . . +.</p> +<p>My present purpose, however, which must not be postponed, is +to ask you to telegraph to the Americans.</p> +<p>After a summer of good health of a very radiant order, +toothache and the death of a very old friend, which came upon me +like a thunderclap, have rather shelved my powers. I stare +upon the paper, not write. I wish I could write like your +Sculptors; yet I am well aware that I should not try in that +direction. A certain warmth (tepid enough) and a certain +dash of the picturesque are my poor essential qualities; and if I +went fooling after the too classical, I might lose even +these. But I envied you that page.</p> +<p>I am, of course, deep in schemes; I was so ever. +Execution alone somewhat halts. How much do you make per +annum, I wonder? This year, for the first time, I shall +pass £300; I may even get halfway to the next +milestone. This seems but a faint remuneration; and the +devil of it is, that I manage, with sickness, and moves, <a +name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>and +education, and the like, to keep steadily in front of my +income. However, I console myself with this, that if I were +anything else under God’s Heaven, and had the same crank +health, I should make an even zero. If I had, with my +present knowledge, twelve months of my old health, I would, +could, and should do something neat. As it is, I have to +tinker at my things in little sittings; and the rent, or the +butcher, or something, is always calling me off to rattle up a +pot-boiler. And then comes a back-set of my health, and I +have to twiddle my fingers and play patience.</p> +<p>Well, I do not complain, but I do envy strong health where it +is squandered. Treasure your strength, and may you never +learn by experience the profound <i>ennui</i> and irritation of +the shelved artist. For then, what is life? All that +one has done to make one’s life effective then doubles the +itch of inefficiency.</p> +<p>I trust also you may be long without finding out the devil +that there is in a bereavement. After love it is the one +great surprise that life preserves for us. Now I +don’t think I can be astonished any more.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i> [<i>October</i> +1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">COLVIN</span>, <span +class="GutSmall">COLVIN</span>, <span +class="GutSmall">COLVIN</span>,—Yours received; also +interesting copy of <i>P. Whistles</i>. ‘In the +multitude of <a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span>councillors the Bible declares there is wisdom,’ +said my great-uncle, ‘but I have always found in them +distraction.’ It is extraordinary how tastes vary: +these proofs have been handed about, it appears, and I have had +several letters; and—distraction. ‘Æsop: the +Miller and the Ass.’ Notes on details:—</p> +<p>1. I love the occasional trochaic line; and so did many +excellent writers before me.</p> +<p>2. If you don’t like ‘A Good Boy,’ I +do.</p> +<p>3. In ‘Escape at Bedtime,’ I found two +suggestions. ‘Shove’ for ‘above’ is +a correction of the press; it was so written. +‘Twinkled’ is just the error; to the child the stars +appear to be there; any word that suggests illusion is a +horror.</p> +<p>4. I don’t care; I take a different view of the +vocative.</p> +<p>5. Bewildering and childering are good enough for +me. These are rhymes, jingles; I don’t go for +eternity and the three unities.</p> +<p>I will delete some of those condemned, but not all. I +don’t care for the name Penny Whistles; I sent a sheaf to +Henley when I sent ’em. But I’ve forgot the +others. I would just as soon call ’em ‘Rimes +for Children’ as anything else. I am not proud nor +particular.</p> +<p>Your remarks on the <i>Black Arrow</i> are to the point. +I am pleased you liked Crookback; he is a fellow whose hellish +energy has always fired my attention. I wish Shakespeare +had written the play after he had learned some of the rudiments +of literature and art rather than before. Some day, I will +re-tickle the Sable Missile, and shoot it, <i>moyennant +finances</i>, once more into the air; I can lighten it of much, +and devote some more attention to Dick o’ Gloucester. +It’s great sport to write tushery.</p> +<p>By this I reckon you will have heard of my proposed +excursiolorum to the Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, and +kindred sites. If the excursiolorum goes on, that is, <a +name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>if +<i>moyennant finances</i> comes off, I shall write to beg you to +collect introductiolorums for me.</p> +<p>Distinguo: 1. <i>Silverado</i> was not written in America, but +in Switzerland’s icy mountains. 2. What you read is +the bleeding and disembowelled remains of what I wrote. 3. +The good stuff is all to come—so I think. ‘The +Sea Fogs,’ ‘The Hunter’s Family,’ +‘Toils and Pleasures’—<i>belles +pages</i>.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Ramnugger</span>.</p> +<p>O!—Seeley is too clever to live, and the book a +gem. But why has he read too much Arnold? Why will he +avoid—obviously avoid—fine writing up to which he has +led? This is a winking, curled-and-oiled, ultra-cultured, +Oxford-don sort of an affectation that infuriates my honest +soul. ‘You see’—they say—‘how +unbombastic <i>we</i> are; we come right up to eloquence, and, +when it’s hanging on the pen, dammy, we scorn +it!’ It is literary Deronda-ism. If you +don’t want the woman, the image, or the phrase, mortify +your vanity and avoid the appearance of wanting them.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>October</i> [1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—. . . Some +day or other, in Cassell’s <i>Magazine of Art</i>, you will +see a paper which will interest you, and where your name +appears. It is called ‘Fontainebleau: Village +Communities of Artists,’ and the signature of R. L. +Stevenson will be found annexed.</p> +<p>Please tell the editor of <i>Manhattan</i> the following +secrets for me: 1<i>st</i>, That I am a beast; 2<i>nd</i>, that I +owe him a letter; 3<i>rd</i>, that I have lost his, and cannot +recall either his name or address; 4<i>th</i>, that I am very +deep in engagements, which my absurd health makes it hard for me +<a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>to +overtake; but 5<i>th</i>, that I will bear him in mind; +6<i>th</i> and last, that I am a brute.</p> +<p>My address is still the same, and I live in a most sweet +corner of the universe, sea and fine hills before me, and a rich +variegated plain; and at my back a craggy hill, loaded with vast +feudal ruins. I am very quiet; a person passing by my door +half startles me; but I enjoy the most aromatic airs, and at +night the most wonderful view into a moonlit garden. By day +this garden fades into nothing, overpowered by its surroundings +and the luminous distance; but at night and when the moon is out, +that garden, the arbour, the flight of stairs that mount the +artificial hillock, the plumed blue gum-trees that hang +trembling, become the very skirts of Paradise. Angels I +know frequent it; and it thrills all night with the flutes of +silence. Damn that garden;—and by day it is gone.</p> +<p>Continue to testify boldly against realism. Down with +Dagon, the fish god! All art swings down towards imitation, +in these days, fatally. But the man who loves art with +wisdom sees the joke; it is the lustful that tremble and respect +her ladyship; but the honest and romantic lovers of the Muse can +see a joke and sit down to laugh with Apollo.</p> +<p>The prospect of your return to Europe is very agreeable; and I +was pleased by what you said about your parents. One of my +oldest friends died recently, and this has given me new thoughts +of death. Up to now I had rather thought of him as a mere +personal enemy of my own; but now that I see him hunting after my +friends, he looks altogether darker. My own father is not +well; and Henley, of whom you must have heard me speak, is in a +questionable state of health. These things are very solemn, +and take some of the colour out of life. It is a great +thing, after all, to be a man of reasonable honour and +kindness. Do you remember once consulting me in Paris +whether you had not better sacrifice honesty <a +name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>to art; and +how, after much confabulation, we agreed that your art would +suffer if you did? We decided better than we knew. In +this strange welter where we live, all hangs together by a +million filaments; and to do reasonably well by others, is the +first prerequisite of art. Art is a virtue; and if I were +the man I should be, my art would rise in the proportion of my +life.</p> +<p>If you were privileged to give some happiness to your parents, +I know your art will gain by it. <i>By God</i>, <i>it +will</i>! <i>Sic subscribitur</i>,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i> [<i>October</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—Yes, I got +both your letters at Lyons, but have been since then decading in +several steps Toothache; fever; Ferrier’s death; +lung. Now it is decided I am to leave to-morrow, penniless, +for Nice to see Dr. Williams.</p> +<p>I was much struck by your last. I have written a +breathless note on Realism for Henley; a fifth part of the +subject, hurriedly touched, which will show you how my thoughts +are driving. You are now at last beginning to think upon +the problems of executive, plastic art, for you are now for the +first time attacking them. Hitherto you have spoken and +thought of two things—technique and the <i>ars artium</i>, +or common background of all arts. Studio work is the real +touch. That is the genial error of the present French +teaching. Realism I regard as a mere question of +method. The ‘brown foreground,’ ‘old +mastery,’ and the like, ranking with villanelles, as +technical sports and pastimes. Real art, whether ideal or +realistic, addresses precisely the same feeling, and seeks the +same qualities—significance or charm. And the +same—very same—inspiration is only methodically +differentiated according as the artist is an arrant realist or an +arrant <a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +289</span>idealist. Each, by his own method, seeks to save +and perpetuate the same significance or charm; the one by +suppressing, the other by forcing, detail. All other +idealism is the brown foreground over again, and hence only art +in the sense of a game, like cup and ball. All other +realism is not art at all—but not at all. It is, +then, an insincere and showy handicraft.</p> +<p>Were you to re-read some Balzac, as I have been doing, it +would greatly help to clear your eyes. He was a man who +never found his method. An inarticulate Shakespeare, +smothered under forcible-feeble detail. It is astounding to +the riper mind how bad he is, how feeble, how untrue, how +tedious; and, of course, when he surrendered to his temperament, +how good and powerful. And yet never plain nor clear. +He could not consent to be dull, and thus became so. He +would leave nothing undeveloped, and thus drowned out of sight of +land amid the multitude of crying and incongruous details. +There is but one art—to omit! O if I knew how to +omit, I would ask no other knowledge. A man who knew how to +omit would make an <i>Iliad</i> of a daily paper.</p> +<p>Your definition of seeing is quite right. It is the +first part of omission to be partly blind. Artistic sight +is judicious blindness. Sam Bough <a +name="citation289"></a><a href="#footnote289" +class="citation">[289]</a> must have been a jolly blind old +boy. He would turn a corner, look for one-half or quarter +minute, and then say, ‘This’ll do, lad.’ +Down he sat, there and then, with whole artistic plan, scheme of +colour, and the like, and begin by laying a foundation of +powerful and seemingly incongruous colour on the block. He +saw, not the scene, but the water-colour sketch. Every +artist by sixty should so behold nature. Where does he +learn that? In the studio, I swear. He goes to nature +for facts, relations, values—material; as a man, before +writing a historical novel, reads up memoirs. But it is not +by reading memoirs that he has learned the <a +name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>selective +criterion. He has learned that in the practice of his art; +and he will never learn it well, but when disengaged from the +ardent struggle of immediate representation, of realistic and +<i>ex facto</i> art. He learns it in the crystallisation of +day-dreams; in changing, not in copying, fact; in the pursuit of +the ideal, not in the study of nature. These temples of art +are, as you say, inaccessible to the realistic climber. It +is not by looking at the sea that you get</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘The +multitudinous seas incarnadine,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>nor by looking at Mont Blanc that you find</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘And visited all +night by troops of stars.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A kind of ardour of the blood is the mother of all this; and +according as this ardour is swayed by knowledge and seconded by +craft, the art expression flows clear, and significance and +charm, like a moon rising, are born above the barren juggle of +mere symbols.</p> +<p>The painter must study more from nature than the man of +words. But why? Because literature deals with +men’s business and passions which, in the game of life, we +are irresistibly obliged to study; but painting with relations of +light, and colour, and significances, and form, which, from the +immemorial habit of the race, we pass over with an unregardful +eye. Hence this crouching upon camp-stools, and these +crusts. <a name="citation290"></a><a href="#footnote290" +class="citation">[290]</a> But neither one nor other is a +part of art, only preliminary studies.</p> +<p>I want you to help me to get people to understand that realism +is a method, and only methodic in its consequences; when the +realist is an artist, that is, and supposing the idealist with +whom you compare him to be anything but a <i>farceur</i> and a +<i>dilettante</i>. The two schools of working do, and +should, lead to the choice of different subjects. But that +is a consequence, not a <a name="page291"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 291</span>cause. See my chaotic note, +which will appear, I fancy, in November in Henley’s +sheet.</p> +<p>Poor Ferrier, it bust me horrid. He was, after you, the +oldest of my friends.</p> +<p>I am now very tired, and will go to bed having prelected +freely. Fanny will finish.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, 12<i>th</i> +<i>October</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I have +just lunched; the day is exquisite, the air comes though the open +window rich with odour, and I am by no means spiritually +minded. Your letter, however, was very much valued, and has +been read oftener than once. What you say about yourself I +was glad to hear; a little decent resignation is not only +becoming a Christian, but is likely to be excellent for the +health of a Stevenson. To fret and fume is undignified, +suicidally foolish, and theologically unpardonable; we are here +not to make, but to tread predestined, pathways; we are the foam +of a wave, and to preserve a proper equanimity is not merely the +first part of submission to God, but the chief of possible +kindnesses to those about us. I am lecturing myself, but +you also. To do our best is one part, but to wash our hands +smilingly of the consequence is the next part, of any sensible +virtue.</p> +<p>I have come, for the moment, to a pause in my moral works; for +I have many irons in the fire, and I wish to finish something to +bring coin before I can afford to go on with what I think +doubtfully to be a duty. It is a most difficult work; a +touch of the parson will drive off those I hope to influence; a +touch of overstrained laxity, besides disgusting, like a grimace, +may do harm. Nothing that I have ever seen yet speaks +directly and efficaciously to <a name="page292"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 292</span>young men; and I do hope I may find +the art and wisdom to fill up a gap. The great point, as I +see it, is to ask as little as possible, and meet, if it may be, +every view or absence of view; and it should be, must be, +easy. Honesty is the one desideratum; but think how hard a +one to meet. I think all the time of Ferrier and myself; +these are the pair that I address. Poor Ferrier, so much a +better man than I, and such a temporal wreck. But the thing +of which we must divest our minds is to look partially upon +others; all is to be viewed; and the creature judged, as he must +be by his Creator, not dissected through a prism of morals, but +in the unrefracted ray. So seen, and in relation to the +almost omnipotent surroundings, who is to distinguish between F. +and such a man as Dr. Candlish, or between such a man as David +Hume and such an one as Robert Burns? To compare my poor +and good Walter with myself is to make me startle; he, upon all +grounds above the merely expedient, was the nobler being. +Yet wrecked utterly ere the full age of manhood; and the last +skirmishes so well fought, so humanly useless, so pathetically +brave, only the leaps of an expiring lamp. All this is a +very pointed instance. It shuts the mouth. I have +learned more, in some ways, from him than from any other soul I +ever met; and he, strange to think, was the best gentleman, in +all kinder senses, that I ever knew.—Ever your affectionate +son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet la Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Oct.</i> 23, 1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +LOW</span>,—<i>C’est d’un bon camarade</i>; and +I am much obliged to you for your two letters and the +inclosure. Times are a lityle changed with all of us since +the ever <a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +293</span>memorable days of Lavenue: hallowed be his name! +hallowed his old Fleury!—of which you did not see—I +think—as I did—the glorious apotheosis: advanced on a +Tuesday to three francs, on the Thursday to six, and on Friday +swept off, holus bolus, for the proprietor’s private +consumption. Well, we had the start of that +proprietor. Many a good bottle came our way, and was, I +think, worthily made welcome.</p> +<p>I am pleased that Mr. Gilder should like my literature; and I +ask you particularly to thank Mr. Bunner (have I the name right?) +for his notice, which was of that friendly, headlong sort that +really pleases an author like what the French call a +‘shake-hands.’ It pleased me the more coming +from the States, where I have met not much recognition, save from +the buccaneers, and above all from pirates who misspell my +name. I saw my book advertised in a number of the +<i>Critic</i> as the work of one R. L. Stephenson; and, I own, I +boiled. It is so easy to know the name of the man whose +book you have stolen; for there it is, at full length, on the +title-page of your booty. But no, damn him, not he! +He calls me Stephenson. These woes I only refer to by the +way, as they set a higher value on the <i>Century</i> notice.</p> +<p>I am now a person with an established ill-health—a +wife—a dog possessed with an evil, a Gadarene +spirit—a chalet on a hill, looking out over the +Mediterranean—a certain reputation—and very obscure +finances. Otherwise, very much the same, I guess; and were +a bottle of Fleury a thing to be obtained, capable of developing +theories along with a fit spirit even as of yore. Yet I now +draw near to the Middle Ages; nearly three years ago, that fatal +Thirty struck; and yet the great work is not yet done—not +yet even conceived. But so, as one goes on, the wood seems +to thicken, the footpath to narrow, and the House Beautiful on +the hill’s summit to draw further and further away. +We learn, indeed, to use our means; but only to learn, along with +it, the paralysing knowledge that these means <a +name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>are only +applicable to two or three poor commonplace motives. Eight +years ago, if I could have slung ink as I can now, I should have +thought myself well on the road after Shakespeare; and +now—I find I have only got a pair of walking-shoes and not +yet begun to travel. And art is still away there on the +mountain summit. But I need not continue; for, of course, +this is your story just as much as it is mine; and, strange to +think, it was Shakespeare’s too, and Beethoven’s, and +Phidias’s. It is a blessed thing that, in this forest +of art, we can pursue our wood-lice and sparrows, <i>and not +catch them</i>, with almost the same fervour of exhilaration as +that with which Sophocles hunted and brought down the +Mastodon.</p> +<p>Tell me something of your work, and your wife.—My dear +fellow, I am yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>My wife begs to be remembered to both of you; I cannot say as +much for my dog, who has never seen you, but he would like, on +general principles, to bite you.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hyères</i>, +<i>November</i> 1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—. . . +Of course, my seamanship is jimmy: did I not beseech you I know +not how often to find me an ancient mariner—and you, whose +own wife’s own brother is one of the ancientest, did +nothing for me? As for my seamen, did Runciman ever know +eighteenth century buccaneers? No? Well, no more did +I. But I have known and sailed with seamen too, and lived +and eaten with them; and I made my put-up shot in no great +ignorance, but as a put-up thing has to be made, <i>i.e.</i> to +be coherent and picturesque, and damn the expense. Are they +fairly lively on the wires? Then, favour me with <a +name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>your +tongues. Are they wooden, and dim, and no sport? Then +it is I that am silent, otherwise not. The work, strange as +it may sound in the ear, is not a work of realism. The next +thing I shall hear is that the etiquette is wrong in Otto’s +Court! With a warrant, and I mean it to be so, and the +whole matter never cost me half a thought. I make these +paper people to please myself, and Skelt, and God Almighty, and +with no ulterior purpose. Yet am I mortal myself; for, as I +remind you, I begged for a supervising mariner. However, my +heart is in the right place. I have been to sea, but I +never crossed the threshold of a court; and the courts shall be +the way I want ’em.</p> +<p>I’m glad to think I owe you the review that pleased me +best of all the reviews I ever had; the one I liked best before +that was —’s on the <i>Arabians</i>. These two +are the flowers of the collection, according to me. To live +reading such reviews and die eating ortolans—sich is my +aspiration.</p> +<p>Whenever you come you will be equally welcome. I am +trying to finish <i>Otto</i> ere you shall arrive, so as to take +and be able to enjoy a well-earned—O yes, a +well-earned—holiday. Longman fetched by Otto: is it a +spoon or a spoilt horn? Momentous, if the latter; if the +former, a spoon to dip much praise and pudding, and to give, I do +think, much pleasure. The last part, now in hand, much +smiles upon me.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>November</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—You must +not blame me too much for my silence; I am over head and ears in +work, and do not know what to do first. I have been hard at +<i>Otto</i>, hard at <i>Silverado</i> proofs, which I have worked +over again to a tremendous extent; cutting, adding, rewriting, +until some of the worst chapters of the original are now, to my +mind, <a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 296</span>as +good as any. I was the more bound to make it good, as I had +such liberal terms; it’s not for want of trying if I have +failed.</p> +<p>I got your letter on my birthday; indeed, that was how I found +it out about three in the afternoon, when postie comes. +Thank you for all you said. As for my wife, that was the +best investment ever made by man; but ‘in our branch of the +family’ we seem to marry well. I, considering my +piles of work, am wonderfully well; I have not been so busy for I +know not how long. I hope you will send me the money I +asked however, as I am not only penniless, but shall remain so in +all human probability for some considerable time. I have +got in the mass of my expectations; and the £100 which is +to float us on the new year can not come due till +<i>Silverado</i> is all ready; I am delaying it myself for the +moment; then will follow the binders and the travellers and an +infinity of other nuisances; and only at the last, the +jingling-tingling.</p> +<p>Do you know that <i>Treasure Island</i> has appeared? In +the November number of Henley’s Magazine, a capital number +anyway, there is a funny publisher’s puff of it for your +book; also a bad article by me. Lang dotes on <i>Treasure +Island</i>: ‘Except <i>Tom Sawyer</i> and the +<i>Odyssey</i>,’ he writes, ‘I never liked any +romance so much.’ I will inclose the letter +though. The Bogue is angelic, although very dirty. It +has rained—at last! It was jolly cold when the rain +came.</p> +<p>I was overjoyed to hear such good news of my father. Let +him go on at that! Ever your affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, [<i>November</i> +1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no shame. I raise a +blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self-righteous +spirit.</p> +<p><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>I +continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and +indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to +fancy’s ear.</p> +<p>I suppose you heard of Ferrier’s death: my oldest +friend, except Bob. It has much upset me. I did not +fancy how much. I am strangely concerned about it.</p> +<p>My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight +nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the +Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world—nest +there like mavises.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Here lies<br /> +The carcase<br /> +of<br /> +Robert Louis Stevenson,<br /> +An active, austere, and not inelegant<br /> +writer,<br /> +who,<br /> +at the termination of a long career,<br /> +wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by<br /> +the attention of two hemispheres,<br /> +yet owned it to have been his crowning favour<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO INHABIT</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LA SOLITUDE</span>.</p> +<p>(With the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyères, +he has been interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden +which he honoured for so long with his poetic presence.)</p> +<p>I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. +Write.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Milne</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>November</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +HENRIETTA</span>,—Certainly; who else would they be? +More by token, on that particular occasion, <a +name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>you were +sailing under the title of Princess Royal; I, after a furious +contest, under that of Prince Alfred; and Willie, still a little +sulky, as the Prince of Wales. We were all in a buck basket +about half-way between the swing and the gate; and I can still +see the Pirate Squadron heave in sight upon the weather bow.</p> +<p>I wrote a piece besides on Giant Bunker; but I was not happily +inspired, and it is condemned. Perhaps I’ll try +again; he was a horrid fellow, Giant Bunker! and some of my +happiest hours were passed in pursuit of him. You were a +capital fellow to play: how few there were who could! None +better than yourself. I shall never forget some of the days +at Bridge of Allan; they were one golden dream. See +‘A Good Boy’ in the <i>Penny Whistles</i>, much of +the sentiment of which is taken direct from one evening at B. of +A. when we had had a great play with the little Glasgow +girl. Hallowed be that fat book of fairy tales! Do +you remember acting the Fair One with Golden Locks? What a +romantic drama! Generally speaking, whenever I think of +play, it is pretty certain that you will come into my head. +I wrote a paper called ‘Child’s Play’ once, +where, I believe, you or Willie would recognise things. . . .</p> +<p>Surely Willie is just the man to marry; and if his wife +wasn’t a happy woman, I think I could tell her who was to +blame. Is there no word of it? Well, these things are +beyond arrangement; and the wind bloweth where it +listeth—which, I observe, is generally towards the west in +Scotland. Here it prefers a south-easterly course, and is +called the Mistral—usually with an adjective in +front. But if you will remember my yesterday’s +toothache and this morning’s crick, you will be in a +position to choose an adjective for yourself. Not that the +wind is unhealthy; only when it comes strong, it is both very +high and very cold, which makes it the d-v-l. But as I am +writing to a lady, I had better avoid this topic; winds requiring +a great scope of language.</p> +<p><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +299</span>Please remember me to all at home; give Ramsay a +pennyworth of acidulated drops for his good taste.—And +believe me, your affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>November</i> 22, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MISS FERRIER</span>,—Many +thanks for the photograph. It is—well, it is like +most photographs. The sun is an artist of too much renown; +and, at any rate, we who knew Walter ‘in the brave days of +old’ will be difficult to please.</p> +<p>I was inexpressibly touched to get a letter from some lawyers +as to some money. I have never had any account with my +friends; some have gained and some lost; and I should feel there +was something dishonest in a partial liquidation even if I could +recollect the facts, <i>which I cannot</i>. But the fact of +his having put aside this memorandum touched me greatly.</p> +<p>The mystery of his life is great. Our chemist in this +place, who had been at Malvern, recognised the picture. You +may remember Walter had a romantic affection for all pharmacies? +and the bottles in the window were for him a poem? He said +once that he knew no pleasure like driving through a lamplit +city, waiting for the chemists to go by.</p> +<p>All these things return now.</p> +<p>He had a pretty full translation of Schiller’s +<i>Æsthetic Letters</i>, which we read together, as well as +the second part of <i>Faust</i>, in Gladstone Terrace, he helping +me with the German. There is no keepsake I should more +value than the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. of that +translation. They were the best days I ever had with him, +little dreaming all would so soon be over. It needs a blow +like this to convict a man of mortality and its burthen. I +always thought I should go by myself; not to survive. But +now I feel as if the earth <a name="page300"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 300</span>were undermined, and all my friends +have lost one thickness of reality since that one passed. +Those are happy who can take it otherwise; with that I found +things all beginning to dislimn. Here we have no abiding +city, and one felt as though he had—and O too much +acted.</p> +<p>But if you tell me, he did not feel my silence. However, +he must have done so; and my guilt is irreparable now. I +thank God at least heartily that he did not resent it.</p> +<p>Please remember me to Sir Alexander and Lady Grant, to whose +care I will address this. When next I am in Edinburgh I +will take flowers, alas! to the West Kirk. Many a long hour +we passed in graveyards, the man who has gone and I—or +rather not that man—but the beautiful, genial, witty youth +who so betrayed him.—Dear Miss Ferrier, I am yours most +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, 13<i>th</i> <i>December</i> +1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—. . . I was +much pleased with what you send about my work. Ill-health +is a great handicapper in the race. I have never at command +that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a thing +red-hot. <i>Silverado</i> is an example of stuff worried +and pawed about, God knows how often, in poor health, and you can +see for yourself the result: good pages, an imperfect fusion, a +certain languor of the whole. Not, in short, art. I +have told Roberts to send you a copy of the book when it appears, +where there are some fair passages that will be new to you. +My brief romance, <i>Prince Otto</i>—far my most difficult +adventure up to now—is near an end. I have still one +chapter to write <i>de fond en comble</i>, and three or four to +strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I do not know +if I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; <a +name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>but I am +tempted to hope the first. If the present bargain hold, it +will not see the light of day for some thirteen months. +Then I shall be glad to know how it strikes you. There is a +good deal of stuff in it, both dramatic and, I think, poetic; and +the story is not like these purposeless fables of to-day, but is, +at least, intended to stand <i>firm</i> upon a base of +philosophy—or morals—as you please. It has been +long gestated, and is wrought with care. <i>Enfin</i>, +<i>nous verrons</i>. My labours have this year for the +first time been rewarded with upwards of £350; that of +itself, so base we are! encourages me; and the better tenor of my +health yet more.—Remember me to Mrs. Low, and believe me, +yours most sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>December</i> +20, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I do not +know which of us is to blame; I suspect it is you this +time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I was +pleased to see; I am, on the whole, very well—suffering a +little still from my fever and liver complications, but +better.</p> +<p>I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you +above all things <i>not</i> to read, as it has made me very ill, +and would make you worse—Lockhart’s +<i>Scott</i>. It is worth reading, as all things are from +time to time that keep us nose to nose with fact; though I think +such reading may be abused, and that a great deal of life is +better spent in reading of a light and yet chivalrous +strain. Thus, no Waverley novel approaches in power, +blackness, bitterness, and moral elevation to the diary and +Lockhart’s narrative of the end; and yet the Waverley +novels are better reading for every day than the Life. You +may take a tonic daily, but not phlebotomy.</p> +<p>The great double danger of taking life too easily, and taking +it too hard, how difficult it is to balance that! But <a +name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>we are all +too little inclined to faith; we are all, in our serious moments, +too much inclined to forget that all are sinners, and fall justly +by their faults, and therefore that we have no more to do with +that than with the thunder-cloud; only to trust, and do our best, +and wear as smiling a face as may be for others and +ourselves. But there is no royal road among this +complicated business. Hegel the German got the best word of +all philosophy with his antinomies: the contrary of everything is +its postulate. That is, of course, grossly expressed, but +gives a hint of the idea, which contains a great deal of the +mysteries of religion, and a vast amount of the practical wisdom +of life. For your part, there is no doubt as to your +duty—to take things easy and be as happy as you can, for +your sake, and my mother’s, and that of many besides. +Excuse this sermon.—Ever your loving son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>December</i> +25, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER AND +MOTHER</span>,—This it is supposed will reach you about +Christmas, and I believe I should include Lloyd in the +greeting. But I want to lecture my father; he is not +grateful enough; he is like Fanny; his resignation is not the +‘true blue.’ A man who has gained a stone; +whose son is better, and, after so many fears to the contrary, I +dare to say, a credit to him; whose business is arranged; whose +marriage is a picture—what I should call resignation in +such a case as his would be to ‘take down his fiddle and +play as lood as ever he could.’ That and nought +else. And now, you dear old pious ingrate, on this +Christmas morning, think what your mercies have been; and do not +walk too far before your breakfast—as far as to the top of +India Street, then to the top of Dundas Street, and then to your +ain stair heid; and do not forget that even as <i>laborare</i>, +so <i>joculari</i>, <i>est orare</i>; and to be happy the first +step to being pious.</p> +<p><a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>I +have as good as finished my novel, and a hard job it has +been—but now practically over, <i>laus deo</i>! My +financial prospects better than ever before; my excellent wife a +touch dolorous, like Mr. Tommy; my Bogue quite converted, and +myself in good spirits. O, send Curry Powder per +Baxter.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>], <i>last Sunday of</i> ’83.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I give my +father up. I give him a parable: that the Waverley novels +are better reading for every day than the tragic Life. And +he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his head, and is +gloomier than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I +don’t want no such a parent. This is not the man for +my money. I do not call that by the name of religion which +fills a man with bile. I write him a whole letter, bidding +him beware of extremes, and telling him that his gloom is +gallows-worthy; and I get back an answer—Perish the thought +of it.</p> +<p>Here am I on the threshold of another year, when, according to +all human foresight, I should long ago have been resolved into my +elements; here am I, who you were persuaded was born to disgrace +you—and, I will do you the justice to add, on no such +insufficient grounds—no very burning discredit when all is +done; here am I married, and the marriage recognised to be a +blessing of the first order, A1 at Lloyd’s. There is +he, at his not first youth, able to take more exercise than I at +thirty-three, and gaining a stone’s weight, a thing of +which I am incapable. There are you; has the man no +gratitude? There is Smeoroch <a name="citation303"></a><a +href="#footnote303" class="citation">[303]</a>: is he +blind? Tell him from me that all this is</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">NOT THE TRUE +BLUE</span>!</p> +<p><a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>I +will think more of his prayers when I see in him a spirit of +<i>praise</i>. Piety is a more childlike and happy attitude +than he admits. Martha, Martha, do you hear the knocking at +the door? But Mary was happy. Even the Shorter +Catechism, not the merriest epitome of religion, and a work +exactly as pious although not quite so true as the multiplication +table—even that dry-as-dust epitome begins with a heroic +note. What is man’s chief end? Let him study +that; and ask himself if to refuse to enjoy God’s kindest +gifts is in the spirit indicated. Up, Dullard! It is +better service to enjoy a novel than to mump.</p> +<p>I have been most unjust to the Shorter Catechism, I +perceive. I wish to say that I keenly admire its merits as +a performance; and that all that was in my mind was its +peculiarly unreligious and unmoral texture; from which defect it +can never, of course, exercise the least influence on the minds +of children. But they learn fine style and some austere +thinking unconsciously.—Ever your loving son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>January</i> 1 +(1884).</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—A Good New +Year to you. The year closes, leaving me with £50 in +the bank, owing no man nothing, £100 more due to me in a +week or so, and £150 more in the course of the month; and I +can look back on a total receipt of £465, 0s. 6d. for the +last twelve months!</p> +<p>And yet I am not happy!</p> +<p>Yet I beg! Here is my beggary:—</p> +<p class="gutindent">1. Sellar’s Trial.</p> +<p class="gutindent">2. George Borrow’s Book about +Wales.</p> +<p class="gutindent">3. My Grandfather’s Trip to +Holland.</p> +<p class="gutindent">4. And (but this is, I fear, impossible) the +Bell Rock Book.</p> +<p><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>When +I think of how last year began, after four months of sickness and +idleness, all my plans gone to water, myself starting alone, a +kind of spectre, for Nice—should I not be grateful? +Come, let us sing unto the Lord!</p> +<p>Nor should I forget the expected visit, but I will not believe +in that till it befall; I am no cultivator of disappointments, +’tis a herb that does not grow in my garden; but I get some +good crops both of remorse and gratitude. The last I can +recommend to all gardeners; it grows best in shiny weather, but +once well grown, is very hardy; it does not require much labour; +only that the husbandman should smoke his pipe about the +flower-plots and admire God’s pleasant wonders. +Winter green (otherwise known as Resignation, or the ‘false +gratitude plant’) springs in much the same soil; is little +hardier, if at all; and requires to be so dug about and dunged, +that there is little margin left for profit. The variety +known as the Black Winter green (H. V. Stevensoniana) is rather +for ornament than profit.</p> +<p>‘John, do you see that bed of +resignation?’—‘It’s doin’ bravely, +sir.’—‘John, I will not have it in my garden; +it flatters not the eye and comforts not the stomach; root it +out.’—‘Sir, I ha’e seen o’ them +that rase as high as nettles; gran’ +plants!’—‘What then? Were they as tall as +alps, if still unsavoury and bleak, what matters it? Out +with it, then; and in its place put Laughter and a Good Conceit +(that capital home evergreen), and a bush of Flowering +Piety—but see it be the flowering sort—the other +species is no ornament to any gentleman’s Back +Garden.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Jno</span>. +<span class="smcap">Bunyan</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page306"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 306</span><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, 9<i>th</i> +<i>March</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR S. C.</span>,—You will +already have received a not very sane note from me; so your +patience was rewarded—may I say, your patient +silence? However, now comes a letter, which on receipt, I +thus acknowledge.</p> +<p>I have already expressed myself as to the political +aspect. About Grahame, I feel happier; it does seem to have +been really a good, neat, honest piece of work. We do not +seem to be so badly off for commanders: Wolseley and Roberts, and +this pile of Woods, Stewarts, Alisons, Grahames, and the +like. Had we but <span class="GutSmall">ONE</span> +statesman on any side of the house!</p> +<p>Two chapters of <i>Otto</i> do remain: one to rewrite, one to +create; and I am not yet able to tackle them. For me it is +my chief o’ works; hence probably not so for others, since +it only means that I have here attacked the greatest +difficulties. But some chapters towards the end: three in +particular—I do think come off. I find them stirring, +dramatic, and not unpoetical. We shall see, however; as +like as not, the effort will be more obvious than the +success. For, of course, I strung myself hard to carry it +out. The next will come easier, and possibly be more +popular. I believe in the covering of much paper, each time +with a definite and not too difficult artistic purpose; and then, +from time to time, drawing oneself up and trying, in a superior +effort, to combine the facilities thus acquired or +improved. Thus one progresses. But, mind, it is very +likely that the big effort, instead of being the masterpiece, may +be the blotted copy, the gymnastic exercise. This no man +can tell; only the brutal and licentious public, snouting in +Mudie’s wash-trough, can return a dubious answer.</p> +<p>I am to-day, thanks to a pure heaven and a beneficent, +loud-talking, antiseptic mistral, on the high places as to <a +name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>health and +spirits. Money holds out wonderfully. Fanny has gone +for a drive to certain meadows which are now one sheet of +jonquils: sea-bound meadows, the thought of which may freshen you +in Bloomsbury. ‘Ye have been fresh and fair, Ye have +been filled with flowers’—I fear I misquote. +Why do people babble? Surely Herrick, in his true vein, is +superior to Martial himself, though Martial is a very pretty +poet.</p> +<p>Did you ever read St. Augustine? The first chapters of +the <i>Confessions</i> are marked by a commanding genius. +Shakespearian in depth. I was struck dumb, but, alas! when +you begin to wander into controversy, the poet drops out. +His description of infancy is most seizing. And how is +this: ‘Sed majorum nugae negotia vocantur; puerorum autem +talia cum sint puniuntur a majoribus.’ Which is quite +after the heart of R. L. S. See also his splendid passage +about the ‘luminosus limes amicitiae’ and the +‘nebulae de limosa concupiscentia carnis’; going on +‘<i>Utrumque</i> in confuso aestuabat et rapiebat +imbecillam aetatem per abrupta cupiditatum.’ That +‘Utrumque’ is a real contribution to life’s +science. Lust <i>alone</i> is but a pigmy; but it never, or +rarely, attacks us single-handed.</p> +<p>Do you ever read (to go miles off, indeed) the incredible +Barbey d’Aurevilly? A psychological Poe—to be +for a moment Henley. I own with pleasure I prefer him with +all his folly, rot, sentiment, and mixed metaphors, to the whole +modern school in France. It makes me laugh when it’s +nonsense; and when he gets an effect (though it’s still +nonsense and mere Poëry, not poesy) it wakens me. +<i>Ce qui ne meurt pas</i> nearly killed me with laughing, and +left me—well, it left me very nearly admiring the old +ass. At least, it’s the kind of thing one feels one +couldn’t do. The dreadful moonlight, when they all +three sit silent in the room—by George, sir, it’s +imagined—and the brief scene between the husband and wife +is all there. <i>Quant au fond</i>, the whole thing, of +course, is a fever <a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +308</span>dream, and worthy of eternal laughter. Had the +young man broken stones, and the two women been hard-working +honest prostitutes, there had been an end of the whole immoral +and baseless business: you could at least have respected them in +that case.</p> +<p>I also read <i>Petronius Arbiter</i>, which is a rum work, not +so immoral as most modern works, but singularly silly. I +tackled some Tacitus too. I got them with a dreadful French +crib on the same page with the text, which helps me along and +drives me mad. The French do not even try to +translate. They try to be much more classical than the +classics, with astounding results of barrenness and tedium. +Tacitus, I fear, was too solid for me. I liked the war +part; but the dreary intriguing at Rome was too much.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. Dick</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, 12<i>th</i> <i>March</i> +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. DICK</span>,—I have +been a great while owing you a letter; but I am not without +excuses, as you have heard. I overworked to get a piece of +work finished before I had my holiday, thinking to enjoy it more; +and instead of that, the machinery near hand came sundry in my +hands! like Murdie’s uniform. However, I am now, I +think, in a fair way of recovery; I think I was made, what there +is of me, of whipcord and thorn-switches; surely I am +tough! But I fancy I shall not overdrive again, or not so +long. It is my theory that work is highly beneficial, but +that it should, if possible, and certainly for such partially +broken-down instruments as the thing I call my body, be taken in +batches, with a clear break and breathing space between. I +always do vary my work, laying one thing aside to take up +another, not <a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +309</span>merely because I believe it rests the brain, but +because I have found it most beneficial to the result. +Reading, Bacon says, makes a full man, but what makes me full on +any subject is to banish it for a time from all my +thoughts. However, what I now propose is, out of every +quarter, to work two months’ and rest the third. I +believe I shall get more done, as I generally manage, on my +present scheme, to have four months’ impotent illness and +two of imperfect health—one before, one after, I break +down. This, at least, is not an economical division of the +year.</p> +<p>I re-read the other day that heartbreaking book, the <i>Life +of Scott</i>. One should read such works now and then, but +O, not often. As I live, I feel more and more that +literature should be cheerful and brave-spirited, even if it +cannot be made beautiful and pious and heroic. We wish it +to be a green place; the <i>Waverley Novels</i> are better to +re-read than the over-true life, fine as dear Sir Walter +was. The Bible, in most parts, is a cheerful book; it is +our little piping theologies, tracts, and sermons that are dull +and dowie; and even the Shorter Catechism, which is scarcely a +work of consolation, opens with the best and shortest and +completest sermon ever written—upon Man’s chief +end.—Believe me, my dear Mr. Dick, very sincerely +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—You see I have changed my hand. I was +threatened apparently with scrivener’s cramp, and at any +rate had got to write so small, that the revisal of my <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. tried my eyes, hence my signature +alone remains upon the old model; for it appears that if I +changed that, I should be cut off from my +‘vivers.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +310</span><span class="smcap">to Cosmo Monkhouse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>March</i> 16, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MONKHOUSE</span>,—You see +with what promptitude I plunge into correspondence; but the truth +is, I am condemned to a complete inaction, stagnate dismally, and +love a letter. Yours, which would have been welcome at any +time, was thus doubly precious.</p> +<p>Dover sounds somewhat shiveringly in my ears. You should +see the weather <i>I</i> have—cloudless, clear as crystal, +with just a punkah-draft of the most aromatic air, all pine and +gum tree. You would be ashamed of Dover; you would scruple +to refer, sir, to a spot so paltry. To be idle at Dover is +a strange pretension; pray, how do you warm yourself? If I +were there I should grind knives or write blank verse, +or— But at least you do not bathe? It is idle +to deny it: I have—I may say I nourish—a growing +jealousy of the robust, large-legged, healthy Britain-dwellers, +patient of grog, scorners of the timid umbrella, innocuously +breathing fog: all which I once was, and I am ashamed to say +liked it. How ignorant is youth! grossly rolling among +unselected pleasures; and how nobler, purer, sweeter, and +lighter, to sip the choice tonic, to recline in the luxurious +invalid chair, and to tread, well-shawled, the little round of +the constitutional. Seriously, do you like to repose? +Ye gods, I hate it. I never rest with any acceptation; I do +not know what people mean who say they like sleep and that damned +bedtime which, since long ere I was breeched, has rung a knell to +all my day’s doings and beings. And when a man, +seemingly sane, tells me he has ‘fallen in love with +stagnation,’ I can only say to him, ‘You will never +be a Pirate!’ This may not cause any regret to Mrs. +Monkhouse; but in your own soul it will <a +name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 311</span>clang +hollow—think of it! Never! After all +boyhood’s aspirations and youth’s immoral day-dreams, +you are condemned to sit down, grossly draw in your chair to the +fat board, and be a beastly Burgess till you die. Can it +be? Is there not some escape, some furlough from the Moral +Law, some holiday jaunt contrivable into a Better Land? +Shall we never shed blood? This prospect is too grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Here lies a man who never did<br /> +Anything but what he was bid;<br /> +Who lived his life in paltry ease,<br /> +And died of commonplace disease.’</p> +<p>To confess plainly, I had intended to spend my life (or any +leisure I might have from Piracy upon the high seas) as the +leader of a great horde of irregular cavalry, devastating whole +valleys. I can still, looking back, see myself in many +favourite attitudes; signalling for a boat from my pirate ship +with a pocket-handkerchief, I at the jetty end, and one or two of +my bold blades keeping the crowd at bay; or else turning in the +saddle to look back at my whole command (some five thousand +strong) following me at the hand-gallop up the road out of the +burning valley: this last by moonlight.</p> +<p><i>Et point du tout</i>. I am a poor scribe, and have +scarce broken a commandment to mention, and have recently dined +upon cold veal! As for you (who probably had some +ambitions), I hear of you living at Dover, in lodgings, like the +beasts of the field. But in heaven, when we get there, we +shall have a good time, and see some real carnage. For +heaven is—must be—that great Kingdom of Antinomia, +which Lamb saw dimly adumbrated in the <i>Country Wife</i>, where +the worm which never dies (the conscience) peacefully expires, +and the sinner lies down beside the Ten Commandments. Till +then, here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, with neither +health nor vice for anything more spirited than procrastination, +<a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>which I +may well call the Consolation Stakes of Wickedness; and by whose +diligent practice, without the least amusement to ourselves, we +can rob the orphan and bring down grey hairs with sorrow to the +dust.</p> +<p>This astonishing gush of nonsense I now hasten to close, +envelope, and expedite to Shakespeare’s Cliff. +Remember me to Shakespeare, and believe me, yours very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>March</i> 17, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Your +office—office is profanely said—your bower upon the +leads is divine. Have you, like Pepys, ‘the right to +fiddle’ there? I see you mount the companion, +barbiton in hand, and, fluttered about by city sparrows, pour +forth your spirit in a voluntary. Now when the spring +begins, you must lay in your flowers: how do you say about a +potted hawthorn? Would it bloom? Wallflower is a +choice pot-herb; lily-of-the-valley, too, and carnation, and +Indian cress trailed about the window, is not only beautiful by +colour, but the leaves are good to eat. I recommend thyme +and rosemary for the aroma, which should not be left upon one +side; they are good quiet growths.</p> +<p>On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is +still better—it takes one further—the havens with +their little anchors, the rocks, banks, and soundings, are +adorably marine; and such furniture will suit your ship-shape +habitation. I wish I could see those cabins; they smile +upon me with the most intimate charm. From your leads, do +you behold St. Paul’s? I always like to see the +Foolscap; it is London <i>per se</i> and no spot from <a +name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>which it is +visible is without romance. Then it is good company for the +man of letters, whose veritable nursing Pater-Noster is so near +at hand.</p> +<p>I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not +so pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in +the writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a +few days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that +structure. I have worked very hard at it, and so do not +expect any great public favour. <i>In moments of +effort</i>, <i>one learns to do the easy things that people +like</i>. There is the golden maxim; thus one should strain +and then play, strain again and play again. The strain is +for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and +pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened +by two contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my +forefathers would have called ‘rank conformity,’ and +to pour forth cheap replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, +and still more insidiously present, to forget that art is a +diversion and a decoration, that no triumph or effort is of +value, nor anything worth reaching except charm.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, [<i>March</i> 22, +1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS FERRIER</span>,—Are +you really going to fall us? This seems a dreadful +thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for friends on +this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have been +promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has +failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know +how delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a +visit. Look at the names: ‘The +Solitude’—is that romantic? The +palm-trees?—how is that for the gorgeous East? +‘Var’? the name of a river—‘the quiet +waters by’! ’Tis true, they are in another +department, <a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +314</span>and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a +music, what a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have +hills; we have skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet +sparsely; the meadows by the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the +birds sing as in an English May—for, considering we are in +France and serve up our song-birds, I am ashamed to say, on a +little field of toast and with a sprig of thyme (my own receipt) +in their most innocent and now unvocal bellies—considering +all this, we have a wonderfully fair wood-music round this +Solitude of ours. What can I say more?—All this +awaits you. <i>Kennst du das Land</i>, in short.—Your +sincere friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, [<i>April</i> +1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—The blind man +in these sprawled lines sends greeting. I have been ill, as +perhaps the papers told you. The news—‘great +news—glorious news—sec-ond +ed-ition!’—went the round in England.</p> +<p>Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly +the Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing +me) much liked.</p> +<p>Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to +send to press. Then I thought of the <i>Manhattan</i>, +towards whom I have guilty and compunctious feelings. Last, +I had the best thought of all—to send them to you in case +you might think them suitable for illustration. It seemed +to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if not, hand them on +to <i>Manhattan</i>, <i>Century</i>, or <i>Lippincott</i>, at +your pleasure, as all three desire my work or pretend to. +But I trust the lines will not go unattended. <a +name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>Some +riverside will haunt you; and O! be tender to my bathing +girls. The lines are copied in my wife’s hand, as I +cannot see to write otherwise than with the pen of Cormoran, +Gargantua, or Nimrod. Love to your wife.—Yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Copied it myself.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>April</i> 19, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Yesterday +I very powerfully stated the <i>Heresis Stevensoniana</i>, or the +complete body of divinity of the family theologian, to Miss +Ferrier. She was much impressed; so was I. You are a +great heresiarch; and I know no better. Whaur the devil did +ye get thon about the soap? Is it altogether your +own? I never heard it elsewhere; and yet I suspect it must +have been held at some time or other, and if you were to look up +you would probably find yourself condemned by some Council.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear you are so well. The hear is +excellent. The <i>Cornhills</i> came; I made Miss Ferrier +read us ‘Thrawn Janet,’ and was quite bowled over by +my own works. The ‘Merry Men’ I mean to make +much longer, with a whole new denouement, not yet quite clear to +me. ‘The Story of a Lie,’ I must rewrite +entirely also, as it is too weak and ragged, yet is worth saving +for the Admiral. Did I ever tell you that the Admiral was +recognised in America?</p> +<p>When they are all on their legs this will make an excellent +collection.</p> +<p>Has Davie never read <i>Guy Mannering</i>, <i>Rob Roy</i>, or +<i>The Antiquary</i>? All of which are worth three +<i>Waverleys</i>. I think <i>Kenilworth</i> better than +<i>Waverley</i>; <i>Nigel</i>, too; and <i>Quentin Durward</i> +about as good. But it shows a true piece of insight to +prefer <i>Waverley</i>, for it <i>is</i> different; and <a +name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>though not +quite coherent, better worked in parts than almost any other: +surely more carefully. It is undeniable that the love of +the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with success. +Perhaps it does on many of us, which may be the granite on which +D.’s opinion stands. However, I hold it, in Patrick +Walker’s phrase, for an ‘old, condemned, damnable +error.’ Dr. Simson was condemned by P. W. as being +‘a bagful of’ such. One of Patrick’s +amenities!</p> +<p>Another ground there may be to D.’s opinion; those who +avoid (or seek to avoid) Scott’s facility are apt to be +continually straining and torturing their style to get in more of +life. And to many the extra significance does not redeem +the strain.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Doctor +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Cosmo Monkhouse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>April</i> 24, 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MONKHOUSE</span>,—If you are +in love with repose, here is your occasion: change with me. +I am too blind to read, hence no reading; I am too weak to walk, +hence no walking; I am not allowed to speak, hence no talking; +but the great simplification has yet to be named; for, if this +goes on, I shall soon have nothing to eat—and hence, O +Hallelujah! hence no eating. The offer is a fair one: I +have not sold myself to the devil, for I could never find +him. I am married, but so are you. I sometimes write +verses, but so do you. Come! <i>Hic quies</i>! +As for the commandments, I have broken them so small that they +are the dust of my chambers; you walk upon them, triturate and +toothless; and with the Golosh of Philosophy, they shall not bite +your heel. True, the tenement is falling. Ay, friend, +but yours also. Take a larger view; what is a year or two? +dust in the balance! ’Tis done, behold you Cosmo +Stevenson, and me R. L. Monkhouse; you at Hyères, I in +London; you rejoicing in the <a name="page317"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 317</span>clammiest repose, me proceeding to +tear your tabernacle into rags, as I have already so admirably +torn my own.</p> +<p>My place to which I now introduce you—it is +yours—is like a London house, high and very narrow; upon +the lungs I will not linger; the heart is large enough for a +ballroom; the belly greedy and inefficient; the brain stocked +with the most damnable explosives, like a dynamiter’s +den. The whole place is well furnished, though not in a +very pure taste; Corinthian much of it; showy and not strong.</p> +<p>About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an +interesting exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, +falling over a blood-stained remorse; opening that cupboard in +the cerebellum and being welcomed by the spirit of your murdered +uncle. I should probably not like your remorses; I wonder +if you will like mine; I have a spirited assortment; they whistle +in my ear o’ nights like a north-easter. I trust +yours don’t dine with the family; mine are better mannered; +you will hear nought of them till, 2 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span>, except one, to be sure, that I have +made a pet of, but he is small; I keep him in buttons, so as to +avoid commentaries; you will like him much—if you like what +is genuine.</p> +<p>Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good +article, with a trick of stopping; cathedral bell note; +ornamental dial; supported by Venus and the Graces; quite a +summer-parlour piety. Of yours, since your last, I fear +there is little to be said.</p> +<p>There is one article I wish to take away with me: my +spirits. They suit me. I don’t want yours; I +like my own; I have had them a long while in bottle. It is +my only reservation.—Yours (as you decide),</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Monkhouse</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +318</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOY</span>,—<i>Old +Mortality</i> <a name="citation318"></a><a href="#footnote318" +class="citation">[318]</a> is out, and I am glad to say Coggie +likes it. We like her immensely.</p> +<p>I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot +work—cannot: that is flat, not even verses: as for prose, +that more active place is shut on me long since.</p> +<p>My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically +comic. <i>As you Like It</i> is to me the most bird-haunted +spot in letters; <i>Tempest</i> and <i>Twelfth Night</i> +follow. These are what I mean by poetry and nature. I +make an effort of my mind to be quite one with Molière, +except upon the stage, where his inimitable <i>jeux de +scène</i> beggar belief; but you will observe they are +stage-plays—things <i>ad hoc</i>; not great Olympian +debauches of the heart and fancy; hence more perfect, and not so +great. Then I come, after great wanderings, to Carmosine +and to Fantasio; to one part of La Dernière Aldini (which, +by the by, we might dramatise in a week), to the notes that +Meredith has found, Evan and the postillion, Evan and Rose, Harry +in Germany. And to me these things are the good; beauty, +touched with sex and laughter; beauty with God’s earth for +the background. Tragedy does not seem to me to come off; +and when it does, it does so by the heroic illusion; the +anti-masque has been omitted; laughter, which attends on all our +steps in life, and sits by the deathbed, and certainly redacts +the epitaph, laughter has been lost from these great-hearted +lies. But the comedy which keeps the beauty and touches the +terrors of our life (laughter and tragedy-in-a-good-humour having +kissed), that is the last word of moved representation; embracing +the greatest number of elements of fate and character; and +telling its story, not with the one eye of pity, but with the two +of pity and mirth.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +319</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>From my Bed</i>, <i>May</i> 29, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR GOSSE</span>,—The news of +the Professorate found me in the article of—well, of heads +or tails; I am still in bed, and a very poor person. You +must thus excuse my damned delay; but, I assure you, I was +delighted. You will believe me the more, if I confess to +you that my first sentiment was envy; yes, sir, on my +blood-boltered couch I envied the professor. However, it +was not of long duration; the double thought that you deserved +and that you would thoroughly enjoy your success fell like balsam +on my wounds. How came it that you never communicated my +rejection of Gilder’s offer for the Rhone? But it +matters not. Such earthly vanities are over for the +present. This has been a fine well-conducted illness. +A month in bed; a month of silence; a fortnight of not stirring +my right hand; a month of not moving without being lifted. +Come! <i>Ça y est</i>: devilish like being +dead.—Yours, dear Professor, academically,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with +me! I got him cheap—second-hand.</p> +<p>In turning over my late friend Ferrier’s commonplace +book, I find three poems from <i>Viol and Flute</i> copied out in +his hand: ‘When Flower-time,’ ‘Love in +Winter,’ and ‘Mistrust.’ They are capital +too. But I thought the fact would interest you. He +was no poetist either; so it means the more. ‘Love in +W.!’ I like the best.</p> +<h3><a name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +320</span><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Chabassière</i>, +<i>Royat</i>, [<i>July</i> 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—The +weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff of cold, and was +finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day, however, it has +cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to</p> +<p style="text-align: right">(<i>Several days after</i>.)</p> +<p>I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am +better, and keep better, but the weather is a mere +injustice. The imitation of Edinburgh is, at times, +deceptive; there is a note among the chimney pots that suggests +Howe Street; though I think the shrillest spot in Christendom was +not upon the Howe Street side, but in front, just under the Miss +Graemes’ big chimney stack. It had a fine alto +character—a sort of bleat that used to divide the marrow in +my joints—say in the wee, slack hours. That music is +now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, not +regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; +a knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I +mind it above all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was +blue and spotted with rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold +evening was seen blue all over, with the lamps of Queen’s +and Frederick’s Street dotting it with yellow, and flaring +east-ward in the squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I have been +in such circumstances—I, who have now positively forgotten +the colour of unhappiness; who am full like a fed ox, and dull +like a fresh turf, and have no more spiritual life, for good or +evil, than a French bagman.</p> +<p>We are at Chabassière’s, for of course it was +nonsense to go up the hill when we could not walk.</p> +<p>The child’s poems in a far extended form are likely soon +to be heard of—which Cummy I dare say will be glad to +know. They will make a book of about one hundred +pages.—Ever your affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page321"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +321</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Royat</i>, <i>July</i> +1884.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Here</span> is a quaint thing, I +have read <i>Robinson</i>, <i>Colonel Jack</i>, <i>Moll +Flanders</i>, <i>Memoirs of a Cavalier</i>, <i>History of the +Plague</i>, <i>History of the Great Storm</i>, <i>Scotch Church +and Union</i>. And there my knowledge of Defoe +ends—except a book, the name of which I forget, about +Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not write, and +could not have written if he wanted. To which of these does +B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish +Church. I jest; for, of course, I <i>know</i> it must be a +book I have never read, and which this makes me keen to +read—I mean <i>Captain Singleton</i>. Can it be got +and sent to me? If <i>Treasure Island</i> is at all like +it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day +wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing +<i>T. I.</i>, as a mine for pirate tips. <i>T. I.</i> came +out of Kingsley’s <i>At Last</i>, where I got the Dead +Man’s Chest—and that was the seed—and out of +the great Captain Johnson’s <i>History of Notorious</i> +<i>Pirates</i>. The scenery is Californian in part, and in +part <i>chic.</i></p> +<p>I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made +man—till the next time.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>If it was <i>Captain Singleton</i>, send it to me, won’t +you?</p> +<p><i>Later</i>.—My life dwindles into a kind of valley of +the shadow picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as +to-day) I must not speak above my breath, that to play patience, +or to see my wife play it, is become the be-all and the end-all +of my dim career. To add to my gaiety, I may write letters, +but there are few to answer. <a name="page322"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 322</span>Patience and Poesy are thus my rod +and staff; with these I not unpleasantly support my days.</p> +<p>I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be +silenced; and if to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to +understand them cannot be my wife’s. Do not think me +unhappy; I have not been so for years; but I am blurred, inhabit +the debatable frontier of sleep, and have but dim designs upon +activity. All is at a standstill; books closed, paper put +aside, the voice, the eternal voice of R. L. S., well +silenced. Hence this plaint reaches you with no very great +meaning, no very great purpose, and written part in slumber by a +heavy, dull, somnolent, superannuated son of a bedpost.</p> +<h2><a name="page323"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +323</span>VII<br /> +LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SEPTEMBER 1884–DECEMBER +1885</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page328"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +328</span><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, 28<i>th</i> <i>September</i> +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—I keep +better, and am to-day downstairs for the first time. I find +the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the front. Will +you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale, and +has blown for nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping +wind, lashing rain; the sea is a fine colour, and wind-bound +ships lie at anchor under the Old Harry rocks, to make one glad +to be ashore.</p> +<p>The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I +hope they may produce some of the ready.—I am, ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 1884?]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOY</span>,—I trust this +finds you well; it leaves me so-so. The weather is so cold +that I must stick to bed, which is rotten and tedious, but +can’t be helped.</p> +<p>I find in the blotting book the enclosed, which I wrote to you +the eve of my blood. Is it not strange? That night, +when I naturally thought I was coopered, the thought of it was +much in my mind; I thought it had gone; and I thought what a +strange prophecy I had made in jest, and how it was indeed like +to be the end of many letters. But I have written a good +few since, and the spell is broken. I am just as pleased, +for I earnestly desire to live. This pleasant middle age +into whose port we are steering is quite to my fancy. I +would cast anchor here, and go ashore for twenty years, and see +the manners of the place. Youth was a great time, but +somewhat fussy. Now in middle age (bar lucre) <a +name="page329"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 329</span>all seems +mighty placid. It likes me; I spy a little bright +café in one corner of the port, in front of which I now +propose we should sit down. There is just enough of the +bustle of the harbour and no more; and the ships are close in, +regarding us with stern-windows—the ships that bring deals +from Norway and parrots from the Indies. Let us sit down +here for twenty years, with a packet of tobacco and a drink, and +talk of art and women. By-and-by, the whole city will sink, +and the ships too, and the table, and we also; but we shall have +sat for twenty years and had a fine talk; and by that time, who +knows? exhausted the subject.</p> +<p>I send you a book which (or I am mistook) will please you; it +pleased me. But I do desire a book of adventure—a +romance—and no man will get or write me one. Dumas I +have read and re-read too often; Scott, too, and I am +short. I want to hear swords clash. I want a book to +begin in a good way; a book, I guess, like <i>Treasure +Island</i>, alas! which I have never read, and cannot though I +live to ninety. I would God that some one else had written +it! By all that I can learn, it is the very book for my +complaint. I like the way I hear it opens; and they tell me +John Silver is good fun. And to me it is, and must ever be, +a dream unrealised, a book unwritten. O my sighings after +romance, or even Skeltery, and O! the weary age which will +produce me neither!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">CHAPTER I</p> +<p class="gutindent">The night was damp and cloudy, the ways +foul. The single horseman, cloaked and booted, who pursued +his way across Willesden Common, had not met a traveller, when +the sound of wheels—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">CHAPTER I</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘Yes, sir,’ said the old pilot, +‘she must have dropped into the bay a little afore +dawn. A queer craft she looks.’</p> +<p class="gutindent"><a name="page330"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 330</span>‘She shows no colours,’ +returned the young gentleman musingly.</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘They’re a-lowering of a +quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,’ resumed the old salt. +‘We shall soon know more of her.’</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘Ay,’ replied the young +gentleman called Mark, ‘and here, Mr. Seadrift, comes your +sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.’</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘God bless her kind heart, sir,’ +ejaculated old Seadrift.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">CHAPTER I</p> +<p class="gutindent">The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been +summoned to the top of a great house in the Isle St. Louis to +make a will; and now, his duties finished, wrapped in a warm +roquelaure and with a lantern swinging from one hand, he issued +from the mansion on his homeward way. Little did he think +what strange adventures were to befall him!—</p> +<p>That is how stories should begin. And I am offered <span +class="GutSmall">HUSKS</span> instead.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">What should be:</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center">What is:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Filibuster’s Cache.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Aunt Anne’s Tea Cosy.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Jerry Abershaw.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mrs. Brierly’s Niece.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Blood Money: A Tale.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Society: A Novel</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to the Rev. Professor Lewis +Campbell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1884.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CAMPBELL</span>,—The +books came duly to hand. My wife has occupied the +translation <a name="citation330"></a><a href="#footnote330" +class="citation">[330]</a> ever since, nor have I yet been able +to dislodge her. As for the primer, I have read it with a +very strange result: that I find no fault. If you knew how, +dogmatic and pugnacious, I stand warden on the literary art, you +would the more appreciate your success and my—well, I will +own it—disappointment. For I love to put people right +(or <a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +331</span>wrong) about the arts. But what you say of +Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply satisfies me; it is well felt +and well said; a little less technically than it is my weakness +to desire to see it put, but clear and adequate. You are +very right to express your admiration for the resource displayed +in Œdipus King; it is a miracle. Would it not have +been well to mention Voltaire’s interesting onslaught, a +thing which gives the best lesson of the difference of neighbour +arts?—since all his criticisms, which had been fatal to a +narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw in this +masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though +such a fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, +so imperfect, so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required +of these conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts.</p> +<p>I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by +hoping for better luck next time. My wife begs to be +remembered to both of you.—Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Andrew Chatto</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 3, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. CHATTO</span>,—I have an +offer of £25 for <i>Otto</i> from America. I do not +know if you mean to have the American rights; from the nature of +the contract, I think not; but if you understood that you were to +sell the sheets, I will either hand over the bargain to you, or +finish it myself and hand you over the money if you are pleased +with the amount. You see, I leave this quite in your +hands. To parody an old Scotch story of servant and master: +if you don’t know that you have a good author, I know that +I have a good publisher. Your fair, open, and handsome +dealings are a good point in my life, and do more for my crazy +health than has yet been done by any doctor.—Very truly +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page332"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +332</span><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Hants</i>,<br /> +<i>England</i>, <i>First week in November</i>, <i>I guess</i>, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—Now, look +here, the above is my address for three months, I hope; continue, +on your part, if you please, to write to Edinburgh, which is +safe; but if Mrs. Low thinks of coming to England, she might take +a run down from London (four hours from Waterloo, main line) and +stay a day or two with us among the pines. If not, I hope +it will be only a pleasure deferred till you can join her.</p> +<p>My Children’s Verses will be published here in a volume +called <i>A Child’s Garden</i>. The sheets are in +hand; I will see if I cannot send you the lot, so that you might +have a bit of a start. In that case I would do nothing to +publish in the States, and you might try an illustrated edition +there; which, if the book went fairly over here, might, when +ready, be imported. But of this more fully ere long. +You will see some verses of mine in the last <i>Magazine of +Art</i>, with pictures by a young lady; rather pretty, I +think. If we find a market for <i>Phasellulus loquitur</i>, +we can try another. I hope it isn’t necessary to put +the verse into that rustic printing. I am Philistine enough +to prefer clean printer’s type; indeed, I can form no idea +of the verses thus transcribed by the incult and tottering hand +of the draughtsman, nor gather any impression beyond one of +weariness to the eyes. Yet the other day, in the +<i>Century</i>, I saw it imputed as a crime to Vedder that he had +not thus travestied Omar Khayyàm. We live in a rum +age of music without airs, stories without incident, pictures +without beauty, American wood <a name="page333"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 333</span>engravings that should have been +etchings, and dry-point etchings that ought to have been +mezzo-tints. I think of giving ’em literature without +words; and I believe if you were to try invisible illustration, +it would enjoy a considerable vogue. So long as an artist +is on his head, is painting with a flute, or writes with an +etcher’s needle, or conducts the orchestra with a meat-axe, +all is well; and plaudits shower along with roses. But any +plain man who tries to follow the obtrusive canons of his art, is +but a commonplace figure. To hell with him is the motto, or +at least not that; for he will have his reward, but he will never +be thought a person of parts.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>January</i> 3, 1885.</p> +<p>And here has this been lying near two months. I have +failed to get together a preliminary copy of the Child’s +Verses for you, in spite of doughty efforts; but yesterday I sent +you the first sheet of the definitive edition, and shall continue +to send the others as they come. If you can, and care to, +work them—why so, well. If not, I send you +fodder. But the time presses; for though I will delay a +little over the proofs, and though—it is even possible they +may delay the English issue until Easter, it will certainly not +be later. Therefore perpend, and do not get caught +out. Of course, if you can do pictures, it will be a great +pleasure to me to see our names joined; and more than that, a +great advantage, as I daresay you may be able to make a bargain +for some share a little less spectral than the common for the +poor author. But this is all as you shall choose; I give +you <i>carte blanche</i> to do or not to do.—Yours most +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>O, Sargent has been and painted my portrait; a very nice +fellow he is, and is supposed to have done well; it is a poetical +but very chicken-boned figure-head, as thus represented.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S. Go on.</p> +<p><a name="page334"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +334</span><i>P.P.S.</i>—Your picture came; and let me thank +you for it very much. I am so hunted I had near +forgotten. I find it very graceful; and I mean to have it +framed.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I have no +hesitation in recommending you to let your name go up; please +yourself about an address; though I think, if we could meet, we +could arrange something suitable. What you propose would be +well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest a whine. +From that point of view it would be better to change a little; +but this, whether we meet or not, we must discuss. Tait, +Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, all think you amply deserve +this honour and far more; it is not the True Blue to call this +serious compliment a ‘trial’; you should be glad of +this recognition. As for resigning, that is easy enough if +found necessary; but to refuse would be husky and +unsatisfactory. <i>Sic subs.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well. Fanny +is very very much out of sorts, principally through perpetual +misery with me. I fear I have been a little in the dumps, +which, <i>as you know</i>, <i>sir</i>, is a very great sin. +I must try to be more cheerful; but my cough is so severe that I +have sometimes most exhausting nights and very peevish +wakenings. However, this shall be remedied, and last night +I was distinctly better than the night before. There is, my +dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise blandly as we sit together on +the devil’s garden-wall), no more <a +name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>abominable +sin than this gloom, this plaguey peevishness; why (say I) what +matters it if we be a little uncomfortable—that is no +reason for mangling our unhappy wives. And then I turn and +<i>girn</i> on the unfortunate Cassandra.—Your fellow +culprit,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—We are all to +pieces in health, and heavily handicapped with Arabs. I +have a dreadful cough, whose attacks leave me <i>ætat.</i> +90. I never let up on the Arabs, all the same, and rarely +get less than eight pages out of hand, though hardly able to come +downstairs for twittering knees.</p> +<p>I shall put in —’s letter. He says so little +of his circumstances that I am in an impossibility to give him +advice more specific than a copybook. Give him my love, +however, and tell him it is the mark of the parochial gentleman +who has never travelled to find all wrong in a foreign +land. Let him hold on, and he will find one country as good +as another; and in the meanwhile let him resist the fatal British +tendency to communicate his dissatisfaction with a country to its +inhabitants. ’Tis a good idea, but it somehow fails +to please. In a fortnight, if I can keep my spirit in the +box at all, I should be nearly through this Arabian desert; so +can tackle something fresh.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page336"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +336</span><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i><br /> +(<i>The three B’s</i>) [<i>November</i> 5, 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Allow me +to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, that you are a silly +fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I be +offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you +had the same impression of the <i>Deacon</i>; and yet, when you +saw it played, were less revolted than you looked for; and I will +still hope that the <i>Admiral</i> also is not so bad as you +suppose. There is one point, however, where I differ from +you very frankly. Religion is in the world; I do not think +you are the man to deny the importance of its rôle; and I +have long decided not to leave it on one side in art. The +opposition of the Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, either +horrible or irreverent; but it may be, and it probably is, very +ill done: what then? This is a failure; better luck next +time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, more wisdom in +the design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the new +victory. Concern yourself about no failure; they do not +cost lives, as in engineering; they are the <i>pierres +perdues</i> of successes. Fame is (truly) a vapour; do not +think of it; if the writer means well and tries hard, no failure +will injure him, whether with God or man.</p> +<p>I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am +inclined to acquit the <i>Admiral</i> of having a share in the +responsibility. My very heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; +and the change to this charming house in the forest will, I hope, +complete my re-establishment.—With love to all, believe me, +your ever affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page337"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +337</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>,<br /> +<i>November</i> 11, [1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I am in +my new house, thus proudly styled, as you perceive; but the +deevil a tower ava’ can be perceived (except out of +window); this is not as it should be; one might have hoped, at +least, a turret. We are all vilely unwell. I put in +the dark watches imitating a donkey with some success, but little +pleasure; and in the afternoon I indulge in a smart fever, +accompanied by aches and shivers. There is thus little +monotony to be deplored. I at least am a <i>regular</i> +invalid; I would scorn to bray in the afternoon; I would +indignantly refuse the proposal to fever in the night. What +is bred in the bone will come out, sir, in the flesh; and the +same spirit that prompted me to date my letter regulates the hour +and character of my attacks.—I am, sir, yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Thomson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Postmark</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, +13<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +THOMSON</span>,—It’s a maist remarkable fac’, +but nae shüner had I written yon braggin’, +blawin’ letter aboot ma business habits, when bang! that +very day, ma hoast <a name="citation337"></a><a +href="#footnote337" class="citation">[337]</a> begude in the +aifternune. It is really remaurkable; it’s +providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae fair dry, the words +werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got the lee. The +mair ye think o’t, Thomson, the less ye’ll like the +looks o’t. Proavidence (I’m no’ +sayin’) is all verra weel <i>in its place</i>; but if +Proavidence has nae mainners, wha’s to learn’t? +Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo would you like Proavidence +to keep your till for ye? The richt <a +name="page338"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 338</span>place for +Proavidence is in the kirk; it has naething to do wi’ +private correspondence between twa gentlemen, nor freendly +cracks, nor a wee bit word of sculduddery <a +name="citation338"></a><a href="#footnote338" +class="citation">[338]</a> ahint the door, nor, in shoart, +wi’ ony <i>hole-and-corner wark</i>, what I would +call. I’m pairfec’ly willin’ to meet in +wi’ Proavidence, I’ll be prood to meet in wi’ +him, when my time’s come and I cannae dae nae better; but +if he’s to come skinking aboot my stair-fit, damned, I +micht as weel be deid for a’ the comfort I’ll can get +in life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it’s +beneath him? Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae +steir my heid for a plain, auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he +taks himsel,’ ‘s just aboot as honest as he can weel +afford, an’ but for a wheen auld scandals, near forgotten +noo, is a pairfec’ly respectable and thoroughly decent +man. Or if I fashed wi’ him ava’, it wad be +kind o’ handsome like; a pun’-note under his stair +door, or a bottle o’ auld, blended malt to his bit +marnin’, as a teshtymonial like yon ye ken sae weel aboot, +but mair successfu’.</p> +<p>Dear Thomson, have I ony money? If I have, <i>send +it</i>, for the loard’s sake.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Johnson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 12, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COGGIE</span>,—Many +thanks for the two photos which now decorate my room. I was +particularly glad to have the Bell Rock. I wonder if you +saw me plunge, lance in rest, into a controversy +thereanent? It was a very one-sided affair. I slept +upon the field of battle, paraded, sang Te Deum, and came home +after a review rather than a campaign.</p> +<p>Please tell Campbell I got his letter. The Wild Woman of +the West has been much amiss and complaining sorely. I hope +nothing more serious is wrong with <a name="page339"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 339</span>her than just my ill-health, and +consequent anxiety and labour; but the deuce of it is, that the +cause continues. I am about knocked out of time now: a +miserable, snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, +nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting shadow and +remains of man. But we’ll no gie ower jist yet a +bittie. We’ve seen waur; and dod, mem, it’s my +belief that we’ll see better. I dinna ken ‘at +I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but +jist here’s guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale +o’ guid fortune to your bonny sel’; and my respecs to +the Perfessor and his wife, and the Prinshiple, an’ the +Bell Rock, an’ ony ither public chara’ters that +I’m acquaunt wi’.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Nov.</i> 15, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—This Mr. +Morley <a name="citation339"></a><a href="#footnote339" +class="citation">[339]</a> of yours is a most desperate +fellow. He has sent me (for my opinion) the most truculent +advertisement I ever saw, in which the white hairs of Gladstone +are dragged round Troy behind my chariot wheels. What can I +say? I say nothing to <a name="page340"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 340</span>him; and to you, I content myself +with remarking that he seems a desperate fellow.</p> +<p>All luck to you on your American adventure; may you find +health, wealth, and entertainment! If you see, as you +likely will, Frank R. Stockton, pray greet him from me in words +to this effect:—</p> +<p class="poetry">My Stockton if I failed to like,<br /> + It were a sheer depravity,<br /> +For I went down with the <i>Thomas Hyke</i><br /> + And up with the <i>Negative Gravity</i>!</p> +<p>I adore these tales.</p> +<p>I hear flourishing accounts of your success at Cambridge, so +you leave with a good omen. Remember me to <i>green +corn</i> if it is in season; if not, you had better hang yourself +on a sour apple tree, for your voyage has been lost.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Austin Dobson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i> [<i>December</i> 1884?].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR DOBSON</span>,—Set down my +delay to your own fault; I wished to acknowledge such a gift from +you in some of my inapt and slovenly rhymes; but you should have +sent me your pen and not your desk. The verses stand up to +the axles in a miry cross-road, whence the coursers of the sun +shall never draw them; hence I am constrained to this +uncourtliness, that I must appear before one of the kings of that +country of rhyme without my singing robes. For less than +this, if we may trust the book of Esther, favourites have tasted +death; but I conceive the kingdom of the Muses mildlier mannered; +and in particular that county which you administer and which I +seem to see as a half-suburban land; a land of holly-hocks and +country houses; a land where at night, in thorny and sequestered +bypaths, you will meet masqueraders going to a ball in their +sedans, and the rector steering homeward by the light of his +lantern; a land of <a name="page341"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +341</span>the windmill, and the west wind, and the flowering +hawthorn with a little scented letter in the hollow of its trunk, +and the kites flying over all in the season of kites, and the far +away blue spires of a cathedral city.</p> +<p>Will you forgive me, then, for my delay and accept my thanks +not only for your present, but for the letter which followed it, +and which perhaps I more particularly value, and believe me to +be, with much admiration, yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>,<br /> +<i>December</i> 8, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—This +is a very brave hearing from more points than one. The +first point is that there is a hope of a sequel. For this I +laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of information and +thoughtful interest in the art of literature, those who try to +practise it with any deliberate purpose run the risk of finding +no fit audience. People suppose it is ‘the +stuff’ that interests them; they think, for instance, that +the prodigious fine thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare +impress by their own weight, not understanding that the +unpolished diamond is but a stone. They think that striking +situations, or good dialogue, are got by studying life; they will +not rise to understand that they are prepared by deliberate +artifice and set off by painful suppressions. Now, I want +the whole thing well ventilated, for my own education and the +public’s; and I beg you to look as quick as you can, to +follow me up with every circumstance of defeat where we differ, +and (to prevent the flouting of <a name="page342"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 342</span>the laity) to emphasise the points +where we agree. I trust your paper will show me the way to +a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I shall hope to make with so much +art as to woo or drive you from your threatened silence. I +would not ask better than to pass my life in beating out this +quarter of corn with such a seconder as yourself.</p> +<p>Point the second—I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak +so kindly of my work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to +myself a very rude, left-handed countryman; not fit to be read, +far less complimented, by a man so accomplished, so adroit, so +craftsmanlike as you. You will happily never have cause to +understand the despair with which a writer like myself considers +(say) the park scene in Lady Barberina. Every touch +surprises me by its intangible precision; and the effect when +done, as light as syllabub, as distinct as a picture, fills me +with envy. Each man among us prefers his own aim, and I +prefer mine; but when we come to speak of performance, I +recognise myself, compared with you, to be a lout and slouch of +the first water.</p> +<p>Where we differ, both as to the design of stories and the +delineation of character, I begin to lament. Of course, I +am not so dull as to ask you to desert your walk; but could you +not, in one novel, to oblige a sincere admirer, and to enrich his +shelves with a beloved volume, could you not, and might you not, +cast your characters in a mould a little more abstract and +academic (dear Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your other work, +a taste of what I mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not say in +any stronger, but in a slightly more emphatic key—as it +were an episode from one of the old (so-called) novels of +adventure? I fear you will not; and I suppose I must +sighingly admit you to be right. And yet, when I see, as it +were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite precision +and shot through with those side-lights of reflection in which +you excel, I relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think +upon it.</p> +<p><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 343</span>As +you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid: +this puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is +possible that some day you may feel that a day near the sea and +among pinewoods would be a pleasant change from town. If +so, please let us know; and my wife and I will be delighted to +put you up, and give you what we can to eat and drink (I have a +fair bottle of claret).—On the back of which, believe me, +yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I reopen this to say that I have re-read my +paper, and cannot think I have at all succeeded in being either +veracious or polite. I knew, of course, that I took your +paper merely as a pin to hang my own remarks upon; but, alas! +what a thing is any paper! What fine remarks can you not +hang on mine! How I have sinned against proportion, and +with every effort to the contrary, against the merest rudiments +of courtesy to you! You are indeed a very acute reader to +have divined the real attitude of my mind; and I can only +conclude, not without closed eyes and shrinking shoulders, in the +well-worn words</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Lay on, Macduff!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>December</i> 9, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—The +dreadful tragedy of the <i>Pall Mall</i> has come to a happy but +ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale writ for them +is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to flash out +before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, ‘The Body +Snatcher.’ When you come, please to bring—</p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) My <i>Montaigne</i>, or, at least, the +two last volumes.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) My <i>Milton</i> in the three vols. in +green.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The <i>Shakespeare</i> that Babington +sent me for a wedding-gift.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) Hazlitt’s <i>Table Talk and Plain +Speaker</i>.</p> +<p><a name="page344"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 344</span>If +you care to get a box of books from Douglas and Foulis, let them +be <i>solid</i>. <i>Croker Papers</i>, <i>Correspondence of +Napoleon</i>, <i>History of Henry IV.</i>, Lang’s <i>Folk +Lore</i>, would be my desires.</p> +<p>I had a charming letter from Henry James about my +<i>Longman</i> paper. I did not understand queries about +the verses; the pictures to the Seagull I thought charming; those +to the second have left me with a pain in my poor belly and a +swimming in the head.</p> +<p>About money, I am afloat and no more, and I warn you, unless I +have great luck, I shall have to fall upon you at the New Year +like a hundredweight of bricks. Doctor, rent, chemist, are +all threatening; sickness has bitterly delayed my work; and +unless, as I say, I have the mischief’s luck, I shall +completely break down. <i>Verbum sapientibus</i>. I +do not live cheaply, and I question if I ever shall; but if only +I had a halfpenny worth of health, I could now easily +suffice. The last breakdown of my head is what makes this +bankruptcy probable.</p> +<p>Fanny is still out of sorts; Bogue better; self fair, but a +stranger to the blessings of sleep.—Ever affectionate +son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, [<i>December</i> 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—I have made up +my mind about the P. M. G., and send you a copy, which please +keep or return. As for not giving a reduction, what are +we? Are we artists or city men? Why do we sneer at +stock-brokers? O nary; I will not take the £40. +I took that as a fair price for my best work; I was not able to +produce my best; and I will be damned if I steal with my eyes +open. <i>Sufficit</i>. This is my lookout. As +for the paper being rich, certainly it is; but I am +honourable. It is no more above me in money than the poor +slaveys <a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +345</span>and cads from whom I look for honesty are below +me. Am I Pepys, that because I can find the countenance of +‘some of our ablest merchants,’ that +because—and—pour forth languid twaddle and get paid +for it, I, too, should ‘cheerfully continue to +steal’? I am not Pepys. I do not live much to +God and honour; but I will not wilfully turn my back on +both. I am, like all the rest of us, falling ever lower +from the bright ideas I began with, falling into greed, into +idleness, into middle-aged and slippered fireside cowardice; but +is it you, my bold blade, that I hear crying this sordid and rank +twaddle in my ear? Preaching the dankest Grundyism and +upholding the rank customs of our trade—you, who are so +cruel hard upon the customs of the publishers? O man, look +at the Beam in our own Eyes; and whatever else you do, do not +plead Satan’s cause, or plead it for all; either embrace +the bad, or respect the good when you see a poor devil trying for +it. If this is the honesty of authors—to take what +you can get and console yourself because publishers are +rich—take my name from the rolls of that association. +’Tis a caucus of weaker thieves, jealous of the +stronger.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">The +Roaring</span> R. L. S.</p> +<p>You will see from the enclosed that I have stuck to what I +think my dues pretty tightly in spite of this flourish: these are +my words for a poor ten-pound note!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, [<i>Winter</i>, 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—Here was I in +bed; not writing, not hearing, and finding myself gently and +agreeably ill used; and behold I learn you are bad +yourself. Get your wife to send us a word how you +are. I am better decidedly. Bogue got his Christmas +card, and behaved well for three days after. It may +interest the cynical to learn that I started my last +hæmorrhage by too sedulous attentions to my dear +Bogue. The stick was broken; and that night <a +name="page346"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 346</span>Bogue, who +was attracted by the extraordinary aching of his bones, and is +always inclined to a serious view of his own ailments, announced +with his customary pomp that he was dying. In this case, +however, it was not the dog that died. (He had tried to +bite his mother’s ankles.) I have written a long and +peculiarly solemn paper on the technical elements of style. +It is path-breaking and epoch-making; but I do not think the +public will be readily convoked to its perusal. Did I tell +you that S. C. had risen to the paper on James? At +last! O but I was pleased; he’s (like Johnnie) been +lang, lang o’ comin’, but here he is. He will +not object to my future manœuvres in the same field, as he +has to my former. All the family are here; my father better +than I have seen him these two years; my mother the same as +ever. I do trust you are better, and I am yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to H. A. Jones</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>,<br /> +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 30, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—I am so +accustomed to hear nonsense spoken about all the arts, and the +drama in particular, that I cannot refrain from saying +‘Thank you,’ for your paper. In my answer to +Mr. James, in the December <i>Longman</i>, you may see that I +have merely touched, I think in a parenthesis, on the drama; but +I believe enough was said to indicate our agreement in +essentials.</p> +<p>Wishing you power and health to further enunciate and to act +upon these principles, believe me, dear sir, yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Jan.</i> 4, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR S. C.</span>,—I am on my +feet again, and getting on my boots to do the <i>Iron +Duke</i>. Conceive my glee: I <a name="page347"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 347</span>have refused the £100, and am +to get some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. +’Tis for Longman’s <i>English Worthies</i>, edited by +A. Lang. Aw haw, haw!</p> +<p>Now, look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or +is that a dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and +certainly note pages on the fly. If you think it a dream, +will Bain get me a second-hand copy, or who would? The +sooner, and cheaper, I can get it the better. If there is +anything in your weird library that bears on either the man or +the period, put it in a mortar and fire it here instanter; I +shall catch. I shall want, of course, an infinity of books: +among which, any lives there may be; a life of the Marquis +Marmont (the Maréchal), <i>Marmont’s Memoirs</i>, +<i>Grevillè’s Memoirs</i>, <i>Peel’s +Memoirs</i>, <i>Napier</i>, that blind man’s history of +England you once lent me, Hamley’s <i>Waterloo</i>; can you +get me any of these? Thiers, idle Thiers also. Can +you help a man getting into his boots for such a huge +campaign? How are you? A Good New Year to you. +I mean to have a good one, but on whose funds I cannot fancy: not +mine leastways, as I am a mere derelict and drift beam-on to +bankruptcy.</p> +<p>For God’s sake, remember the man who set out for to +conquer Arthur Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty +pocket.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>,] 14<i>th</i> <i>January</i> 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I am glad +you like the changes. I own I was pleased with my +hand’s darg; you may observe, I have corrected several +errors which (you may tell Mr. Dick) he had allowed to pass his +eagle eye; I <a name="page348"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +348</span>wish there may be none in mine; at least, the order is +better. The second title, ‘Some new Engineering +Questions involved in the M. S. C. Scheme of last Session of +P.’, likes me the best. I think it a very good paper; +and I am vain enough to think I have materially helped to polish +the diamond. I ended by feeling quite proud of the paper, +as if it had been mine; the next time you have as good a one, I +will overhaul it for the wages of feeling as clever as I did when +I had managed to understand and helped to set it clear. I +wonder if I anywhere misapprehended you? I rather think not +at the last; at the first shot I know I missed a point or +two. Some of what may appear to you to be wanton changes, a +little study will show to be necessary.</p> +<p>Yes, Carlyle was ashamed of himself as few men have been; and +let all carpers look at what he did. He prepared all these +papers for publication with his own hand; all his wife’s +complaints, all the evidence of his own misconduct: who else +would have done so much? Is repentance, which God accepts, +to have no avail with men? nor even with the dead? I have +heard too much against the thrawn, discomfortable dog: dead he +is, and we may be glad of it; but he was a better man than most +of us, no less patently than he was a worse. To fill the +world with whining is against all my views: I do not like +impiety. But—but—there are two sides to all +things, and the old scalded baby had his noble side.—Ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>January</i> 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR S. C.</span>,—I have +addressed a letter to the G. O. M., <i>à propos</i> of +Wellington; and I became aware, you will be interested to hear, +of an overwhelming respect for the old gentleman. I can +<i>blaguer</i> his failures; but when you actually address him, +and bring the two statures and <a name="page349"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 349</span>records to confrontation, dismay is +the result. By mere continuance of years, he must impose; +the man who helped to rule England before I was conceived, +strikes me with a new sense of greatness and antiquity, when I +must actually beard him with the cold forms of +correspondence. I shied at the necessity of calling him +plain ‘Sir’! Had he been ‘My lord,’ +I had been happier; no, I am no equalitarian. Honour to +whom honour is due; and if to none, why, then, honour to the +old!</p> +<p>These, O Slade Professor, are my unvarnished sentiments: I was +a little surprised to find them so extreme, and therefore I +communicate the fact.</p> +<p>Belabour thy brains, as to whom it would be well to +question. I have a small space; I wish to make a popular +book, nowhere obscure, nowhere, if it can be helped, +unhuman. It seems to me the most hopeful plan to tell the +tale, so far as may be, by anecdote. He did not die till so +recently, there must be hundreds who remember him, and thousands +who have still ungarnered stories. Dear man, to the +breach! Up, soldier of the iron dook, up, Slades, and at +’em! (which, conclusively, he did not say: the at +’em-ic theory is to be dismissed). You know piles of +fellows who must reek with matter; help! help!—Yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>February</i> 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—You are +indeed a backward correspondent, and much may be said against +you. But in this <a name="page350"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 350</span>weather, and O dear! in this +political scene of degradation, much must be forgiven. I +fear England is dead of Burgessry, and only walks about +galvanised. I do not love to think of my countrymen these +days; nor to remember myself. Why was I silent? I +feel I have no right to blame any one; but I won’t write to +the G. O. M. I do really not see my way to any form of +signature, unless ‘your fellow criminal in the eyes of +God,’ which might disquiet the proprieties.</p> +<p>About your book, I have always said: go on. The drawing +of character is a different thing from publishing the details of +a private career. No one objects to the first, or should +object, if his name be not put upon it; at the other, I draw the +line. In a preface, if you chose, you might distinguish; it +is, besides, a thing for which you are eminently well equipped, +and which you would do with taste and incision. I long to +see the book. People like themselves (to explain a little +more); no one likes his life, which is a misbegotten issue, and a +tale of failure. To see these failures either touched upon, +or <i>coasted</i>, to get the idea of a spying eye and blabbing +tongue about the house, is to lose all privacy in life. To +see that thing, which we do love, our character, set forth, is +ever gratifying. See how my <i>Talk and Talkers</i> went; +every one liked his own portrait, and shrieked about other +people’s; so it will be with yours. If you are the +least true to the essential, the sitter will be pleased; very +likely not his friends, and that from <i>various motives</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>When will your holiday be? I sent your letter to my +wife, and forget. Keep us in mind, and I hope we shall he +able to receive you.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. A. Symonds</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>February</i> +1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SYMONDS</span>,—Yes, we +have both been very neglectful. I had horrid luck, catching +two thundering <a name="page351"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +351</span>influenzas in August and November. I recovered +from the last with difficulty, but have come through this +blustering winter with some general success; in the house, up and +down. My wife, however, has been painfully upset by my +health. Last year, of course, was cruelly trying to her +nerves; Nice and Hyères are bad experiences; and though +she is not ill, the doctor tells me that prolonged anxiety may do +her a real mischief.</p> +<p>I feel a little old and fagged, and chary of speech, and not +very sure of spirit in my work; but considering what a year I +have passed, and how I have twice sat on Charon’s pierhead, +I am surprising.</p> +<p>My father has presented us with a very pretty home in this +place, into which we hope to move by May. My +<i>Child’s Verses</i> come out next week. <i>Otto</i> +begins to appear in April; <i>More New Arabian Nights</i> as soon +as possible. Moreover, I am neck deep in Wellington; also a +story on the stocks, <i>Great North Road</i>. O, I am busy! +Lloyd is at college in Edinburgh. That is, I think, all +that can be said by way of news.</p> +<p>Have you read <i>Huckleberry Finn</i>? It contains many +excellent things; above all, the whole story of a healthy +boy’s dealings with his conscience, incredibly well +done.</p> +<p>My own conscience is badly seared; a want of piety; yet I pray +for it, tacitly, every day; believing it, after courage, the only +gift worth having; and its want, in a man of any claims to +honour, quite unpardonable. The tone of your letter seemed +to me very sound. In these dark days of public dishonour, I +do not know that one can do better than carry our private trials +piously. What a picture is this of a nation! No man +that I can see, on any side or party, seems to have the least +sense of our ineffable shame: the desertion of the +garrisons. I tell my little parable that Germany took +England, and then there was an Indian Mutiny, and Bismarck said: +‘Quite right: let Delhi and Calcutta and Bombay fall; and +let the women and children be treated Sepoy fashion,’ and +<a name="page352"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 352</span>people +say, ‘O, but that is very different!’ And then +I wish I were dead. Millais (I hear) was painting Gladstone +when the news came of Gordon’s death; Millais was much +affected, and Gladstone said, ‘Why? <i>It is the +man’s own temerity</i>!’ Voilà le +Bourgeois! le voilà nu! But why should I blame +Gladstone, when I too am a Bourgeois? when I have held my +peace? Why did I hold my peace? Because I am a +sceptic: <i>i.e.</i> a Bourgeois. We believe in nothing, +Symonds; you don’t, and I don’t; and these are two +reasons, out of a handful of millions, why England stands before +the world dripping with blood and daubed with dishonour. I +will first try to take the beam out of my own eye, trusting that +even private effort somehow betters and braces the general +atmosphere. See, for example, if England has shown (I put +it hypothetically) one spark of manly sensibility, they have been +shamed into it by the spectacle of Gordon. Police-Officer +Cole is the only man that I see to admire. I dedicate my +<i>New Arabs</i> to him and Cox, in default of other great public +characters.—Yours ever most affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 12, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I was +indeed much exercised how I could be worked into Gray; and lo! +when I saw it, the passage seemed to have been written with a +single eye to elucidate the—worst?—well, not a very +good poem of Gray’s. Your little life is excellent, +clean, neat, efficient. I have read many of your notes, +too, with pleasure. Your connection with Gray was a happy +circumstance; it was a suitable conjunction.</p> +<p><a name="page353"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 353</span>I did +not answer your letter from the States, for what was I to +say? I liked getting it and reading it; I was rather +flattered that you wrote it to me; and then I’ll tell you +what I did—I put it in the fire. Why? Well, +just because it was very natural and expansive; and thinks I to +myself, if I die one of these fine nights, this is just the +letter that Gosse would not wish to go into the hands of third +parties. Was I well inspired? And I did not answer it +because you were in your high places, sailing with supreme +dominion, and seeing life in a particular glory; and I was +peddling in a corner, confined to the house, overwhelmed with +necessary work, which I was not always doing well, and, in the +very mild form in which the disease approaches me, touched with a +sort of bustling cynicism. Why throw cold water? How +ape your agreeable frame of mind? In short, I held my +tongue.</p> +<p>I have now published on 101 small pages <i>The Complete Proof +of Mr. R. L. Stevenson’s Incapacity to Write Verse</i>, in +a series of graduated examples with table of contents. I +think I shall issue a companion volume of exercises: +‘Analyse this poem. Collect and comminate the ugly +words. Distinguish and condemn the <i>chevilles</i>. +State Mr. Stevenson’s faults of taste in regard to the +measure. What reasons can you gather from this example for +your belief that Mr. S. is unable to write any other +measure?’</p> +<p>They look ghastly in the cold light of print; but there is +something nice in the little ragged regiment for all; the +blackguards seem to me to smile, to have a kind of childish +treble note that sounds in my ears freshly; not song, if you +will, but a child’s voice.</p> +<p>I was glad you enjoyed your visit to the States. Most +Englishmen go there with a confirmed design of patronage, as they +go to France for that matter; and patronage will not pay. +Besides, in this year of—grace, said I?—of disgrace, +who should creep so low as an Englishman? ‘It is not +to be thought of that the flood’—ah, <a +name="page354"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 354</span>Wordsworth, +you would change your note were you alive to-day!</p> +<p>I am now a beastly householder, but have not yet entered on my +domain. When I do, the social revolution will probably cast +me back upon my dung heap. There is a person called Hyndman +whose eye is on me; his step is beHynd me as I go. I shall +call my house Skerryvore when I get it: <span +class="GutSmall">SKERRYVORE</span>: <i>c’est bon pour la +poéshie</i>. I will conclude with my favourite +sentiment: ‘The world is too much with me.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>,<br /> +<i>The Hermit of Skerryvore</i>.</p> +<p>Author of ‘John Vane Tempest: a Romance,’ +‘Herbert and Henrietta: or the Nemesis of Sentiment,’ +‘The Life and Adventures of Colonel Bludyer +Fortescue,’ ‘Happy Homes and Hairy Faces,’ +‘A Pound of Feathers and a Pound of Lead,’ part +author of ‘Minn’s Complete Capricious Correspondent: +a Manual of Natty, Natural, and Knowing Letters,’ and +editor of the ‘Poetical Remains of Samuel Burt Crabbe, +known as the melodious Bottle-Holder.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Uniform with the above:</p> +<p>‘The Life and Remains of the Reverend Jacob Degray +Squah,’ author of ‘Heave-yo for the New +Jerusalem.’ ‘A Box of Candles; or the Patent +Spiritual Safety Match,’ and ‘A Day with the Heavenly +Harriers.’</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 13, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—Your success +has been immense. I wish your letter had come two days ago: +<i>Otto</i>, alas! has been disposed of a good while ago; but it +was only <a name="page355"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +355</span>day before yesterday that I settled the new volume of +Arabs. However, for the future, you and the sons of the +deified Scribner are the men for me. Really they have +behaved most handsomely. I cannot lay my hand on the +papers, or I would tell you exactly how it compares with my +English bargain; but it compares well. Ah, if we had that +copyright, I do believe it would go far to make me solvent, +ill-health and all.</p> +<p>I wrote you a letter to the Rembrandt, in which I stated my +views about the dedication in a very brief form. It will +give me sincere pleasure, and will make the second dedication I +have received, the other being from John Addington Symonds. +It is a compliment I value much; I don’t know any that I +should prefer.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear you have windows to do; that is a fine +business, I think; but, alas! the glass is so bad nowadays; +realism invading even that, as well as the huge inferiority of +our technical resource corrupting every tint. Still, +anything that keeps a man to decoration is, in this age, good for +the artist’s spirit.</p> +<p>By the way, have you seen James and me on the novel? +James, I think in the August or September—R. L. S. in the +December <i>Longman</i>. I own I think the <i>école +bête</i>, of which I am the champion, has the whip hand of +the argument; but as James is to make a rejoinder, I must not +boast. Anyway the controversy is amusing to see. I +was terribly tied down to space, which has made the end congested +and dull. I shall see if I can afford to send you the April +<i>Contemporary</i>—but I dare say you see it +anyway—as it will contain a paper of mine on style, a sort +of continuation of old arguments on art in which you have wagged +a most effective tongue. It is a sort of start upon my +Treatise on the Art of Literature: a small, arid book that shall +some day appear.</p> +<p>With every good wish from me and mine (should I not say +‘she and hers’?) to you and yours, believe me yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page356"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +356</span><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 16, +1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HAMERTON</span>,—Various +things have been reminding me of my misconduct: First, +Swan’s application for your address; second, a sight of the +sheets of your <i>Landscape</i> book; and last, your note to +Swan, which he was so kind as to forward. I trust you will +never suppose me to be guilty of anything more serious than an +idleness, partially excusable. My ill-health makes my rate +of life heavier than I can well meet, and yet stops me from +earning more. My conscience, sometimes perhaps too easily +stifled, but still (for my time of life and the public manners of +the age) fairly well alive, forces me to perpetual and almost +endless transcriptions. On the back of all this, my +correspondence hangs like a thundercloud; and just when I think I +am getting through my troubles, crack, down goes my health, I +have a long, costly sickness, and begin the world again. It +is fortunate for me I have a father, or I should long ago have +died; but the opportunity of the aid makes the necessity none the +more welcome. My father has presented me with a beautiful +house here—or so I believe, for I have not yet seen it, +being a cage bird but for nocturnal sorties in the garden. +I hope we shall soon move into it, and I tell myself that some +day perhaps we may have the pleasure of seeing you as our +guest. I trust at least that you will take me as I am, a +thoroughly bad correspondent, and a man, a hater, indeed, of +rudeness in others, but too often rude in all unconsciousness +himself; and that you will never cease to believe the sincere +sympathy and admiration that I feel for you and for your +work.</p> +<p>About the <i>Landscape</i>, which I had a glimpse of while <a +name="page357"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 357</span>a friend of +mine was preparing a review, I was greatly interested, and could +write and wrangle for a year on every page; one passage +particularly delighted me, the part about +Ulysses—jolly. Then, you know, that is just what I +fear I have come to think landscape ought to be in literature; so +there we should be at odds. Or perhaps not so much as I +suppose, as Montaigne says it is a pot with two handles, and I +own I am wedded to the technical handle, which (I likewise own +and freely) you do well to keep for a mistress. I should +much like to talk with you about some other points; it is only in +talk that one gets to understand. Your delightful +Wordsworth trap I have tried on two hardened Wordsworthians, not +that I am not one myself. By covering up the context, and +asking them to guess what the passage was, both (and both are +very clever people, one a writer, one a painter) pronounced it a +guide-book. ‘Do you think it an unusually good +guide-book?’ I asked, and both said, ‘No, not at +all!’ Their grimace was a picture when I showed the +original.</p> +<p>I trust your health and that of Mrs. Hamerton keep better; +your last account was a poor one. I was unable to make out +the visit I had hoped, as (I do not know if you heard of it) I +had a very violent and dangerous hæmorrhage last +spring. I am almost glad to have seen death so close with +all my wits about me, and not in the customary lassitude and +disenchantment of disease. Even thus clearly beheld I find +him not so terrible as we suppose. But, indeed, with the +passing of years, the decay of strength, the loss of all my old +active and pleasant habits, there grows more and more upon me +that belief in the kindness of this scheme of things, and the +goodness of our veiled God, which is an excellent and pacifying +compensation. I trust, if your health continues to trouble +you, you may find some of the same belief. But perhaps my +fine discovery is a piece of art, and belongs to a character +cowardly, intolerant of certain feelings, and apt to +self-deception. I don’t think so, however; <a +name="page358"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 358</span>and when I +feel what a weak and fallible vessel I was thrust into this +hurly-burly, and with what marvellous kindness the wind has been +tempered to my frailties, I think I should be a strange kind of +ass to feel anything but gratitude.</p> +<p>I do not know why I should inflict this talk upon you; but +when I summon the rebellous pen, he must go his own way; I am no +Michael Scott, to rule the fiend of correspondence. Most +days he will none of me; and when he comes, it is to rape me +where he will.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 29, +1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>,—Yes, I +have heard of you and read some of your work; but I am bound in +particular to thank you for the notice of my verses. +‘There,’ I said, throwing it over to the friend who +was staying with me, ‘it’s worth writing a book to +draw an article like that.’ Had you been as hard upon +me as you were amiable, I try to tell myself I should have been +no blinder to the merits of your notice. For I saw there, +to admire and to be very grateful for, a most sober, agile pen; +an enviable touch; the marks of a reader, such as one imagines +for one’s self in dreams, thoughtful, critical, and kind; +and to put the top on this memorial column, a greater readiness +to describe the author criticised than to display the talents of +his censor.</p> +<p>I am a man <i>blasé</i> to injudicious praise (though I +hope some of it may be judicious too), but I have to thank you +for <span class="GutSmall">THE BEST CRITICISM I EVER HAD</span>; +and am therefore, <a name="page359"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +359</span>dear Mr. Archer, the most grateful critickee now +extant.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I congratulate you on living in the corner +of all London that I like best. <i>À propos</i>, you +are very right about my voluntary aversion from the painful sides +of life. My childhood was in reality a very mixed +experience, full of fever, nightmare, insomnia, painful days and +interminable nights; and I can speak with less authority of +gardens than of that other ‘land of +counterpane.’ But to what end should we renew these +sorrows? The sufferings of life may be handled by the very +greatest in their hours of insight; it is of its pleasures that +our common poems should be formed; these are the experiences that +we should seek to recall or to provoke; and I say with Thoreau, +‘What right have I to complain, who have not ceased to +wonder?’ and, to add a rider of my own, who have no remedy +to offer.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>June</i> 1885.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—You +know how much and for how long I have loved, respected, and +admired him; I am only able to feel a little with you. But +I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never knew a +better man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel the +loss more greatly as time goes on. It scarce seems life to +me; what must it be to you? Yet one of the last things that +he said to me was, that from all these sad bereavements of yours +he had learned only more than ever to feel the goodness and what +we, in our feebleness, call the support of God; he had been +ripening so much—to other eyes <a name="page360"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 360</span>than ours, we must suppose he was +ripe, and try to feel it. I feel it is better not to say +much more. It will be to me a great pride to write a notice +of him: the last I can now do. What more in any way I can +do for you, please to think and let me know. For his sake +and for your own, I would not be a useless friend: I know, you +know me a most warm one; please command me or my wife, in any +way. Do not trouble to write to me; Austin, I have no +doubt, will do so, if you are, as I fear you will be, unfit.</p> +<p>My heart is sore for you. At least you know what you +have been to him; how he cherished and admired you; how he was +never so pleased as when he spoke of you; with what a boy’s +love, up to the last, he loved you. This surely is a +consolation. Yours is the cruel part—to survive; you +must try and not grudge to him his better fortune, to go +first. It is the sad part of such relations that one must +remain and suffer; I cannot see my poor Jenkin without you. +Nor you indeed without him; but you may try to rejoice that he is +spared that extremity. Perhaps I (as I was so much his +confidant) know even better than you can do what your loss would +have been to him; he never spoke of you but his face changed; it +was—you were—his religion.</p> +<p>I write by this post to Austin and to the +<i>Academy</i>.—Yours most sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>,</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>June</i> 1885.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—I +should have written sooner, but we are in a bustle, and I have +been very tired, though still well. Your very kind note was +most welcome to me. I shall be very much pleased to have +you call me Louis, as he has now done for so many years. +Sixteen, you say? is it so long? It seems too short now; +but of that we cannot judge, and must not complain.</p> +<p><a name="page361"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>I +wish that either I or my wife could do anything for you; when we +can, you will, I am sure, command us.</p> +<p>I trust that my notice gave you as little pain as was +possible. I found I had so much to say, that I preferred to +keep it for another place and make but a note in the +<i>Academy</i>. To try to draw my friend at greater length, +and say what he was to me and his intimates, what a good +influence in life and what an example, is a desire that grows +upon me. It was strange, as I wrote the note, how his old +tests and criticisms haunted me; and it reminded me afresh with +every few words how much I owe to him.</p> +<p>I had a note from Henley, very brief and very sad. We +none of us yet feel the loss; but we know what he would have said +and wished.</p> +<p>Do you know that Dew Smith has two photographs of him, neither +very bad? and one giving a lively, though not flattering air of +him in conversation? If you have not got them, would you +like me to write to Dew and ask him to give you proofs?</p> +<p>I was so pleased that he and my wife made friends; that is a +great pleasure. We found and have preserved one fragment +(the head) of the drawing he made and tore up when he was last +here. He had promised to come and stay with us this +summer. May we not hope, at least, some time soon to have +one from you?—Believe me, my dear Mrs. Jenkin, with the +most real sympathy, your sincere friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Dear me, what happiness I owe to both of you!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page362"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 362</span><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 22, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—I trust you +are not annoyed with me beyond forgiveness; for indeed my silence +has been devilish prolonged. I can only tell you that I +have been nearly six months (more than six) in a strange +condition of collapse, when it was impossible to do any work, and +difficult (more difficult than you would suppose) to write the +merest note. I am now better, but not yet my own man in the +way of brains, and in health only so-so. I suppose I shall +learn (I begin to think I am learning) to fight this vast, vague +feather-bed of an obsession that now overlies and smothers me; +but in the beginnings of these conflicts, the inexperienced +wrestler is always worsted, and I own I have been quite +extinct. I wish you to know, though it can be no excuse, +that you are not the only one of my friends by many whom I have +thus neglected; and even now, having come so very late into the +possession of myself, with a substantial capital of debts, and my +work still moving with a desperate slowness—as a child +might fill a sandbag with its little handfuls—and my future +deeply pledged, there is almost a touch of virtue in my borrowing +these hours to write to you. Why I said ‘hours’ +I know not; it would look blue for both of us if I made good the +word.</p> +<p>I was writing your address the other day, ordering a copy of +my next, <i>Prince Otto</i>, to go your way. I hope you +have not seen it in parts; it was not meant to be so read; and +only my poverty (dishonourably) consented to the serial +evolution.</p> +<p>I will send you with this a copy of the English edition of the +<i>Child’s Garden</i>. I have heard there is some +vile rule of the post-office in the States against inscriptions; +so I send herewith a piece of doggerel which Mr. Bunner may, if +he thinks fit, copy off the fly leaf.</p> +<p>Sargent was down again and painted a portrait of me walking +about in my own dining-room, in my own velveteen jacket, and +twisting as I go my own moustache; at <a name="page363"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 363</span>one corner a glimpse of my wife, in +an Indian dress, and seated in a chair that was once my +grandfather’s; but since some months goes by the name of +Henry James’s, for it was there the novelist loved to +sit—adds a touch of poesy and comicality. It is, I +think, excellent, but is too eccentric to be exhibited. I +am at one extreme corner; my wife, in this wild dress, and +looking like a ghost, is at the extreme other end; between us an +open door exhibits my palatial entrance hall and a part of my +respected staircase. All this is touched in lovely, with +that witty touch of Sargent’s; but, of course, it looks dam +queer as a whole.</p> +<p>Pray let me hear from you, and give me good news of yourself +and your wife, to whom please remember me.—Yours most +sincerely, my dear Low,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Autumn</i> 1885.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—If there was any +more praise in what you wrote, I think [the editor] has done us +both a service; some of it stops my throat. What, it would +not have been the same if Dumas or Musset had done it, would it +not? Well, no, I do not think it would, do you know, now; I +am really of opinion it would not; and a dam good job too. +Why, think what Musset would have made of Otto! Think how +gallantly Dumas would have carried his crowd through! And +whatever you do, don’t quarrel with —. It gives +me much pleasure to see your work there; I think <a +name="page364"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 364</span>you do +yourself great justice in that field; and I would let no +annoyance, petty or justifiable, debar me from such a +market. I think you do good there. Whether +(considering our intimate relations) you would not do better to +refrain from reviewing me, I will leave to yourself: were it all +on my side, you could foresee my answer; but there is your side +also, where you must be the judge.</p> +<p>As for the <i>Saturday</i>. Otto is no +‘fool,’ the reader is left in no doubt as to whether +or not Seraphina was a Messalina (though much it would matter, if +you come to that); and therefore on both these points the +reviewer has been unjust. Secondly, the romance lies +precisely in the freeing of two spirits from these court +intrigues; and here I think the reviewer showed himself +dull. Lastly, if Otto’s speech is offensive to him, +he is one of the large class of unmanly and ungenerous dogs who +arrogate and defile the name of manly. As for the passages +quoted, I do confess that some of them reek Gongorically; they +are excessive, but they are not inelegant after all. +However, had he attacked me only there, he would have scored.</p> +<p>Your criticism on Gondremark is, I fancy, right. I +thought all your criticisms were indeed; only your +praise—chokes me.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 28, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>,—I have +read your paper with my customary admiration; it is very witty, +very adroit; it contains a great deal that is excellently true +(particularly the parts about my stories and the description of +me as an artist in life); but you will not be surprised if I do +not think it altogether just. It seems to me, in +particular, <a name="page365"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +365</span>that you have wilfully read all my works in terms of my +earliest; my aim, even in style, has quite changed in the last +six or seven years; and this I should have thought you would have +noticed. Again, your first remark upon the affectation of +the italic names; a practice only followed in my two affected +little books of travel, where a typographical <i>minauderie</i> +of the sort appeared to me in character; and what you say of it, +then, is quite just. But why should you forget yourself and +use these same italics as an index to my theology some pages +further on? This is lightness of touch indeed; may I say, +it is almost sharpness of practice?</p> +<p>Excuse these remarks. I have been on the whole much +interested, and sometimes amused. Are you aware that the +praiser of this ‘brave gymnasium’ has not seen a +canoe nor taken a long walk since ’79? that he is rarely +out of the house nowadays, and carries his arm in a sling? +Can you imagine that he is a backslidden communist, and is sure +he will go to hell (if there be such an excellent institution) +for the luxury in which he lives? And can you believe that, +though it is gaily expressed, the thought is hag and skeleton in +every moment of vacuity or depression? Can you conceive how +profoundly I am irritated by the opposite affectation to my own, +when I see strong men and rich men bleating about their sorrows +and the burthen of life, in a world full of ‘cancerous +paupers,’ and poor sick children, and the fatally bereaved, +ay, and down even to such happy creatures as myself, who has yet +been obliged to strip himself, one after another, of all the +pleasures that he had chosen except smoking (and the days of that +I know in my heart ought to be over), I forgot eating, which I +still enjoy, and who sees the circle of impotence closing very +slowly but quite steadily around him? In my view, one dank, +dispirited word is harmful, a crime of +<i>lèse-humanité</i>, a piece of acquired evil; +every gay, every bright word or picture, like every pleasant air +of music, is a piece of pleasure set <a name="page366"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 366</span>afloat; the reader catches it, and, +if he be healthy, goes on his way rejoicing; and it is the +business of art so to send him, as often as possible.</p> +<p>For what you say, so kindly, so prettily, so precisely, of my +style, I must in particular thank you; though even here, I am +vexed you should not have remarked on my attempted change of +manner: seemingly this attempt is still quite unsuccessful! +Well, we shall fight it out on this line if it takes all +summer.</p> +<p>And now for my last word: Mrs. Stevenson is very anxious that +you should see me, and that she should see you, in the +flesh. If you at all share in these views, I am a +fixture. Write or telegraph (giving us time, however, to +telegraph in reply, lest the day be impossible), and come down +here to a bed and a dinner. What do you say, my dear +critic? I shall be truly pleased to see you; and to explain +at greater length what I meant by saying narrative was the most +characteristic mood of literature, on which point I have great +hopes I shall persuade you.—Yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—My opinion about Thoreau, and the passage in +<i>The Week</i>, is perhaps a fad, but it is sincere and +stable. I am still of the same mind five years later; did +you observe that I had said ‘modern’ authors? and +will you observe again that this passage touches the very joint +of our division? It is one that appeals to me, deals with +that part of life that I think the most important, and you, if I +gather rightly, so much less so? You believe in the extreme +moment of the facts that humanity has acquired and is acquiring; +I think them of moment, but still or much less than those +inherent or inherited brute principles and laws that sit upon us +(in the character of conscience) as heavy as a shirt of mail, and +that (in the character of the affections and the airy spirit of +pleasure) make all the light of our lives. The house is, +indeed, a great thing, <a name="page367"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 367</span>and should be rearranged on sanitary +principles; but my heart and all my interest are with the +dweller, that ancient of days and day-old infant man.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>An excellent touch is p. 584. ‘By instinct or +design he eschews what demands constructive +patience.’ I believe it is both; my theory is that +literature must always be most at home in treating movement and +change; hence I look for them.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>,] <i>October</i> 28, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST FATHER</span>,—Get the +November number of <i>Time</i>, and you will see a review of me +by a very clever fellow, who is quite furious at bottom because I +am too orthodox, just as Purcell was savage because I am not +orthodox enough. I fall between two stools. It is +odd, too, to see how this man thinks me a full-blooded +fox-hunter, and tells me my philosophy would fail if I lost my +health or had to give up exercise!</p> +<p>An illustrated <i>Treasure Island</i> will be out next +month. I have had an early copy, and the French pictures +are admirable. The artist has got his types up in Hogarth; +he is full of fire and spirit, can draw and can compose, and has +understood the book as I meant it, all but one or two little +accidents, such as making the <i>Hispaniola</i> a brig. I +would send you my copy, <i>but I cannot</i>; it is my new toy, +and I cannot divorce myself from this enjoyment.</p> +<p>I am keeping really better, and have been out about every +second day, though the weather is cold and very wild.</p> +<p>I was delighted to hear you were keeping better; you and +Archer would agree, more shame to you! (Archer is my +pessimist critic.) Good-bye to all of you, with my best +love. We had a dreadful overhauling of my conduct <a +name="page368"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 368</span>as a son +the other night; and my wife stripped me of my illusions and made +me admit I had been a detestable bad one. Of one thing in +particular she convicted me in my own eyes: I mean, a most unkind +reticence, which hung on me then, and I confess still hangs on me +now, when I try to assure you that I do love you.—Ever your +bad son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 28, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—At +last, my wife being at a concert, and a story being done, I am at +some liberty to write and give you of my views. And first, +many thanks for the works that came to my sickbed. And +second, and more important, as to the <i>Princess</i>. <a +name="citation368"></a><a href="#footnote368" +class="citation">[368]</a> Well, I think you are going to +do it this time; I cannot, of course, foresee, but these two +first numbers seem to me picturesque and sound and full of +lineament, and very much a new departure. As for your young +lady, she is all there; yes, sir, you can do low life, I +believe. The prison was excellent; it was of that nature of +touch that I sometimes achingly miss from your former work; with +some of the grime, that is, and some of the emphasis of skeleton +there is in nature. I pray you to take grime in a good +sense; it need not be ignoble: dirt may have dignity; in nature +it usually has; and your prison was imposing.</p> +<p>And now to the main point: why do we not see you? Do not +fail us. Make an alarming sacrifice, and let us see +‘Henry James’s chair’ properly occupied. +I never sit in it myself (though it was my grandfather’s); +it has been consecrated to guests by your approval, and now +stands at my elbow gaping. We have a new room, too, to +introduce to you—our last baby, the drawing-room; it <a +name="page369"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 369</span>never +cries, and has cut its teeth. Likewise, there is a cat +now. It promises to be a monster of laziness and +self-sufficiency.</p> +<p>Pray see, in the November <i>Time</i> (a dread name for a +magazine of light reading), a very clever fellow, W. Archer, +stating his views of me; the rosy-gilled +‘athletico-æsthete’; and warning me, in a +fatherly manner, that a rheumatic fever would try my philosophy +(as indeed it would), and that my gospel would not do for +‘those who are shut out from the exercise of any manly +virtue save renunciation.’ To those who know that +rickety and cloistered spectre, the real R. L. S., the paper, +besides being clever in itself, presents rare elements of +sport. The critical parts are in particular very bright and +neat, and often excellently true. Get it by all manner of +means.</p> +<p>I hear on all sides I am to be attacked as an immoral writer; +this is painful. Have I at last got, like you, to the pitch +of being attacked? ’Tis the consecration I +lack—and could do without. Not that Archer’s +paper is an attack, or what either he or I, I believe, would call +one; ’tis the attacks on my morality (which I had thought a +gem of the first water) I referred to.</p> +<p>Now, my dear James, come—come—come. The +spirit (that is me) says, Come; and the bride (and that is my +wife) says, Come; and the best thing you can do for us and +yourself and your work is to get up and do so right +away,—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>,] <i>October</i> 30, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>.—It is +possible my father may be soon down with me; he is an old man and +in bad health and spirits; and I could neither leave him alone, +nor could we talk freely before him. If he should be here +<a name="page370"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 370</span>when you +offer your visit, you will understand if I have to say no, and +put you off.</p> +<p>I quite understand your not caring to refer to things of +private knowledge. What still puzzles me is how you +(‘in the witness box’—ha! I like the +phrase) should have made your argument actually hinge on a +contention which the facts answered.</p> +<p>I am pleased to hear of the correctness of my guess. It +is then as I supposed; you are of the school of the generous and +not the sullen pessimists; and I can feel with you. I used +myself to rage when I saw sick folk going by in their +Bath-chairs; since I have been sick myself (and always when I was +sick myself), I found life, even in its rough places, to have a +property of easiness. That which we suffer ourselves has no +longer the same air of monstrous injustice and wanton cruelty +that suffering wears when we see it in the case of others. +So we begin gradually to see that things are not black, but have +their strange compensations; and when they draw towards their +worst, the idea of death is like a bed to lie on. I should +bear false witness if I did not declare life happy. And +your wonderful statement that happiness tends to die out and +misery to continue, which was what put me on the track of your +frame of mind, is diagnostic of the happy man raging over the +misery of others; it could never be written by the man who had +tried what unhappiness was like. And at any rate, it was a +slip of the pen: the ugliest word that science has to declare is +a reserved indifference to happiness and misery in the +individual; it declares no leaning toward the black, no iniquity +on the large scale in fate’s doings, rather a marble +equality, dread not cruel, giving and taking away and +reconciling.</p> +<p>Why have I not written my <i>Timon</i>? Well, here is my +worst quarrel with you. You take my young books as my last +word. The tendency to try to say more has passed +unperceived (my fault, that). And you make no <a +name="page371"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 371</span>allowance +for the slowness with which a man finds and tries to learn his +tools. I began with a neat brisk little style, and a sharp +little knack of partial observation; I have tried to expand my +means, but still I can only utter a part of what I wish to say, +and am bound to feel; and much of it will die unspoken. But +if I had the pen of Shakespeare, I have no <i>Timon</i> to give +forth. I feel kindly to the powers that be; I marvel they +should use me so well; and when I think of the case of others, I +wonder too, but in another vein, whether they may not, whether +they must not, be like me, still with some compensation, some +delight. To have suffered, nay, to suffer, sets a keen edge +on what remains of the agreeable. This is a great truth, +and has to be learned in the fire.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>We expect you, remember that.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>,—You will +see that I had already had a sight of your article and what were +my thoughts.</p> +<p>One thing in your letter puzzles me. Are you, too, not +in the witness-box? And if you are, why take a wilfully +false hypothesis? If you knew I was a chronic invalid, why +say that my philosophy was unsuitable to such a case? My +call for facts is not so general as yours, but an essential fact +should not be put the other way about.</p> +<p>The fact is, consciously or not, you doubt my honesty; you +think I am making faces, and at heart disbelieve my +utterances. And this I am disposed to think must spring +from your not having had enough of pain, sorrow, and trouble in +your existence. It is easy to have too much; easy also or +possible to have too little; enough is required <a +name="page372"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 372</span>that a man +may appreciate what elements of consolation and joy there are in +everything but absolutely over-powering physical pain or +disgrace, and how in almost all circumstances the human soul can +play a fair part. You fear life, I fancy, on the principle +of the hand of little employment. But perhaps my hypothesis +is as unlike the truth as the one you chose. Well, if it be +so, if you have had trials, sickness, the approach of death, the +alienation of friends, poverty at the heels, and have not felt +your soul turn round upon these things and spurn them +under—you must be very differently made from me, and I +earnestly believe from the majority of men. But at least +you are in the right to wonder and complain.</p> +<p>To ‘say all’? Stay here. All at +once? That would require a word from the pen of +Gargantua. We say each particular thing as it comes up, and +‘with that sort of emphasis that for the time there seems +to be no other.’ Words will not otherwise serve us; +no, nor even Shakespeare, who could not have put <i>As You Like +It</i> and <i>Timon</i> into one without ruinous loss both of +emphasis and substance. Is it quite fair then to keep your +face so steadily on my most light-hearted works, and then say I +recognise no evil? Yet in the paper on Burns, for instance, +I show myself alive to some sorts of evil. But then, +perhaps, they are not your sorts.</p> +<p>And again: ‘to say all’? All: yes. +Everything: no. The task were endless, the effect +nil. But my all, in such a vast field as this of life, is +what interests me, what stands out, what takes on itself a +presence for my imagination or makes a figure in that little +tricky abbreviation which is the best that my reason can +conceive. That I must treat, or I shall be fooling with my +readers. That, and not the all of some one else.</p> +<p>And here we come to the division: not only do I believe that +literature should give joy, but I see a universe, I suppose, +eternally different from yours; a solemn, a terrible, but a very +joyous and noble universe, where <a name="page373"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 373</span>suffering is not at least wantonly +inflicted, though it falls with dispassionate partiality, but +where it may be and generally is nobly borne; where, above all +(this I believe; probably you don’t: I think he may, with +cancer), <i>any brave man may make</i> out a life which shall be +happy for himself, and, by so being, beneficent to those about +him. And if he fails, why should I hear him weeping? +I mean if I fail, why should I weep? Why should <i>you</i> +hear <i>me</i>? Then to me morals, the conscience, the +affections, and the passions are, I will own frankly and +sweepingly, so infinitely more important than the other parts of +life, that I conceive men rather triflers who become immersed in +the latter; and I will always think the man who keeps his lip +stiff, and makes ‘a happy fireside clime,’ and +carries a pleasant face about to friends and neighbours, +infinitely greater (in the abstract) than an atrabilious +Shakespeare or a backbiting Kant or Darwin. No offence to +any of these gentlemen, two of whom probably (one for certain) +came up to my standard.</p> +<p>And now enough said; it were hard if a poor man could not +criticise another without having so much ink shed against +him. But I shall still regret you should have written on an +hypothesis you knew to be untenable, and that you should thus +have made your paper, for those who do not know me, essentially +unfair. The rich, fox-hunting squire speaks with one voice; +the sick man of letters with another.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span><br /> +(<span class="GutSmall"><i>Prometheus-Heine in +minimis</i></span>).</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Here I go again. To me, the medicine +bottles on my chimney and the blood on my handkerchief are +accidents; they do not colour my view of life, as you would know, +I think, if you had experience of sickness; they do not exist in +my prospect; I would as soon drag them under the eyes of my +readers as I would mention a pimple I might chance to have +(saving your presence) <a name="page374"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 374</span>on my posteriors. What does it +prove? what does it change? it has not hurt, it has not changed +me in any essential part; and I should think myself a trifler and +in bad taste if I introduced the world to these unimportant +privacies.</p> +<p>But, again, there is this mountain-range between +us—<i>that you do not believe me</i>. It is not +flattering, but the fault is probably in my literary art.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>December</i> 26, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—<i>Lamia</i> +has not yet turned up, but your letter came to me this evening +with a scent of the Boulevard Montparnasse that was +irresistible. The sand of Lavenue’s crumbled under my +heel; and the bouquet of the old Fleury came back to me, and I +remembered the day when I found a twenty franc piece under my +fetish. Have you that fetish still? and has it brought you +luck? I remembered, too, my first sight of you in a frock +coat and a smoking-cap, when we passed the evening at the +Café de Medicis; and my last when we sat and talked in the +Parc Monceau; and all these things made me feel a little young +again, which, to one who has been mostly in bed for a month, was +a vivifying change.</p> +<p>Yes, you are lucky to have a bag that holds you +comfortably. Mine is a strange contrivance; I don’t +die, damme, and I can’t get along on both feet to save my +soul; I am a chronic sickist; and my work cripples along between +bed and the parlour, between the medicine bottle and the cupping +glass. Well, I like my life all the same; and should like +it none the worse if I could have another talk with you, though +even my talks now are measured <a name="page375"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 375</span>out to me by the minute hand like +poisons in a minim glass.</p> +<p>A photograph will be taken of my ugly mug and sent to you for +ulterior purposes: I have another thing coming out, which I did +not put in the way of the Scribners, I can scarce tell how; but I +was sick and penniless and rather back on the world, and +mismanaged it. I trust they will forgive me.</p> +<p>I am sorry to hear of Mrs. Low’s illness, and glad to +hear of her recovery. I will announce the coming +<i>Lamia</i> to Bob: he steams away at literature like +smoke. I have a beautiful Bob on my walls, and a good +Sargent, and a delightful Lemon; and your etching now hangs +framed in the dining-room. So the arts surround +me.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnotexv"></a><a href="#citationxv" +class="footnote">[xv]</a> <i>Vailima Letters</i>: Methuen +and Co., 1895.</p> +<p><a name="footnotexxi"></a><a href="#citationxxi" +class="footnote">[xxi]</a> Compare <i>Virginibus +Puerisque</i>: the essay on ‘The English +Admirals.’</p> +<p><a name="footnotexxx"></a><a href="#citationxxx" +class="footnote">[xxx]</a> The fragment called <i>Lay +Morals</i>, at present only printed in the Edinburgh edition +(<i>Miscellanies</i>, vol. iv.), contains the pith of his mental +history on these subjects.</p> +<p><a name="footnote17"></a><a href="#citation17" +class="footnote">[17]</a> Aikman’s <i>Annals of the +Persecution in Scotland</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote24"></a><a href="#citation24" +class="footnote">[24]</a> Thomas Stevenson.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56"></a><a href="#citation56" +class="footnote">[56]</a> See Scott himself in the preface +to the Author’s edition.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67"></a><a href="#citation67" +class="footnote">[67]</a> Compare the paragraph in +‘Ordered South’ describing the state of mind of the +invalid doubtful of recovery, and ending: ‘He will pray for +Medea; when she comes, let here either rejuvenate or +slay.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote144"></a><a href="#citation144" +class="footnote">[144]</a> ‘The Story of a +Lie.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote149"></a><a href="#citation149" +class="footnote">[149]</a> Engraisser, grow fat.</p> +<p><a name="footnote161"></a><a href="#citation161" +class="footnote">[161]</a> Here follows a long calculation +of ways and means.</p> +<p><a name="footnote185"></a><a href="#citation185" +class="footnote">[185]</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 +‘Wandering Willie’s Tale’ in +<i>Redgauntlet</i>, borrowed perhaps from <i>Christ’s Kirk +of the Green</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote186"></a><a href="#citation186" +class="footnote">[186]</a> In architecture, a series of +piles to defend the pier of a bridge.</p> +<p><a name="footnote191"></a><a href="#citation191" +class="footnote">[191]</a> Gentleman’s library.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209"></a><a href="#citation209" +class="footnote">[209]</a> The reference is of course to +Wordsworth’s <i>Song at the Feast of Brougham +Castle</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210"></a><a href="#citation210" +class="footnote">[210]</a> At Davos-Platz.</p> +<p><a name="footnote223"></a><a href="#citation223" +class="footnote">[223]</a> From Landor’s +<i>Gebir</i>: the line refers to Napoleon Bonaparte.</p> +<p><a name="footnote263"></a><a href="#citation263" +class="footnote">[263]</a> Fair copy of some of the +<i>Child’s Garden</i> verses.</p> +<p><a name="footnote269"></a><a href="#citation269" +class="footnote">[269]</a> <i>Silverado Squatters</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote289"></a><a href="#citation289" +class="footnote">[289]</a> The well-known Scottish +landscape painter, who had been a friend of Stevenson’s in +youth.</p> +<p><a name="footnote290"></a><a href="#citation290" +class="footnote">[290]</a> <i>Croûtes</i>: crude +studies or daubs from nature.</p> +<p><a name="footnote303"></a><a href="#citation303" +class="footnote">[303]</a> A favourite Skye terrier. +Mr. Stevenson was a great lover of dogs.</p> +<p><a name="footnote318"></a><a href="#citation318" +class="footnote">[318]</a> The essay so called. See +<i>Memories and Portraits</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote330"></a><a href="#citation330" +class="footnote">[330]</a> Of Sophocles.</p> +<p><a name="footnote337"></a><a href="#citation337" +class="footnote">[337]</a> Cough.</p> +<p><a name="footnote338"></a><a href="#citation338" +class="footnote">[338]</a> Loose talk.</p> +<p><a name="footnote339"></a><a href="#citation339" +class="footnote">[339]</a> Mr. Charles Morley, at this time +manager or assistant-manager of the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote368"></a><a href="#citation368" +class="footnote">[368]</a> <i>Princess Casamassina</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** +</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 622-h.htm or 622-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/9/9/9/622 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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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Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +</pre></body> +</html> diff --git a/622-h/images/cover.jpg b/622-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c931fba --- /dev/null +++ b/622-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/622-h/images/fpb.jpg b/622-h/images/fpb.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..674eab6 --- /dev/null +++ b/622-h/images/fpb.jpg diff --git a/622-h/images/fps.jpg b/622-h/images/fps.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3254f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/622-h/images/fps.jpg diff --git a/622-h/images/p22b.jpg b/622-h/images/p22b.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c019da1 --- /dev/null +++ b/622-h/images/p22b.jpg diff --git a/622-h/images/p22s.jpg b/622-h/images/p22s.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f86cd75 --- /dev/null +++ b/622-h/images/p22s.jpg @@ -0,0 +1,12779 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, +Volume 1, by Robert Louis Stevenson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll +have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using +this ebook. + + + +Title: The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, Volume 1 + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: August, 1996 [EBook #622] +Last Updated: July 20, 2019 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF STEVENSON *** + + + + +Produced by David Price + + + + + + + + +THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON -- Volume 1 + + + + +CHAPTER I - STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH, TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS, +1868-1873 + + + +Letter: SPRING GROVE SCHOOL, 12TH NOVEMBER 1863. + + + +MA CHERE MAMAN, - Jai recu votre lettre Aujourdhui et comme le jour +prochaine est mon jour de naisance je vous ecrit ce lettre. Ma +grande gatteaux est arrive il leve 12 livres et demi le prix etait +17 shillings. Sur la soiree 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'll est possible. I hope you will find your 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. + +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. + +R. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: 2 SULYARDE TERRACE, TORQUAY, THURSDAY (APRIL 1866). + + + +RESPECTED PATERNAL RELATIVE, - 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. + +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. + +Does not this deserve remuneration? + +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. + +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, + +R. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WICK, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1868. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - . . . Wick lies at the end or elbow of an open +triangular bay, hemmed on either side 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. + +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, +BLACK southerly wind, with occasional rising showers of rain; it +was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of it. + +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. + +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. + +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 ALWAYS drunk, simply and truthfully always. +From morning to evening the great villainous-looking 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. + +An EMEUTE 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. + +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 ME. + +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WICK, September 5, 1868. MONDAY. + + + +MY DEAR MAMMA, - This morning I got a delightful haul: your letter +of the fourth (surely mis-dated); Papa's of same day; Virgil's +BUCOLICS, very thankfully received; and Aikman's ANNALS, 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. + +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. + +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 - + + +'Carve or discourse; do not a famine fear. +Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.' + + +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. + +Do you remember condemning something of mine for being too +obtrusively didactic. Listen to Herbert - + + +'Is it not verse except enchanted groves +And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? +Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? +MUST ALL BE VEILED, WHILE HE THAT READS DIVINES +CATCHING THE SENSE AT TWO REMOVES?' + + +You see, 'except' was used for 'unless' before 1630. + + +TUESDAY. - The riots were a hum. No more has been heard; and one +of the war-steamers has deserted in disgust. + +The MOONSTONE 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. + +I thought to have gone on to Thurso to-night, but the coach was +full; so I go to-morrow instead. + +To-day I had a grouse: great glorification. + +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 P.M. to half-past one. At last I opened my +door. 'Are we to have no sleep at all for that DRUNKEN BRUTE?' 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WICK, SEPTEMBER 1868. SATURDAY, 10 A.M. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 SHOOT with considerable ECLAT; but, +wonderful to relate! I kept well. My hands are all skinned, +blistered, discoloured, and 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 ITS being so stiff +and YOUR 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. + +You see, I have been roughing it; and though some parts of the +letter may be neither very comprehensible nor very interesting to +YOU, I think that perhaps it might amuse Willie Traquair, who +delights in all such dirty jobs. + +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. + +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. + +We have got double weights at the guys, and hope to get it up like +a shot. + +What fun you three must be having! I hope the cold don't disagree +with you. - I remain, my dear mother, your affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +PULTENEY, WICK, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 1868. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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. + +Last week has been a blank one: always too much sea. + +I enjoyed myself very much last night at the R.'s. There was a +little dancing, much singing and supper. + +Are you not well that you do not write? I haven't heard from you +for more than a fortnight. + +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 Cummie +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 M- if he's disengaged, to the +R.'s if not. + +SUNDAY (LATER). - 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. + +Seven P.M. found me at Breadalbane Terrace, clad in spotless +blacks, white tie, shirt, et caetera, 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? + +Dramatis personae: pere R., amusing, long-winded, in many points +like papa; mere R., nice, delicate, likes hymns, knew Aunt Margaret +('t'ould man knew Uncle Alan); fille R., nommee Sara (no h), rather +nice, lights up well, good voice, INTERESTED face; Miss L., nice +also, washed out a little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils +R., 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.' CEST LA MERE QUI PARLE. + +I was back there again to-night. There was hymn-singing, and +general religious controversy till eight, after which talk was +secular. Mrs. S. 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. + +I have done with frivolity. This morning I was awakened by Mrs. S. +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. + + +C D ++------------------- +| +| ++------------------- + \ + A\ + \ + B\ + + +C D is the new pier. + +A the schooner ashore. B the salmon house. + +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 with wood: skipper owner of vessel and +cargo bottom out. + +I was in a great fright at first lest we should be liable; but it +seems that's all right. + +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. + +I am so sleepy I am writing nonsense. + +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:- + + +'But yet the Lord that is on high +Is more of might by far +Than noise of many waters is +Or great sea-billows are.' + + +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. + +MONDAY. - 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 NE SAIT PAS ENCORE. 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 spales 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 QUAIL as a huge roller +thundered on the work at the last year's cross wall. + +How could NOSTER AMICUS Q. MAXIMUS appreciate a storm at Wick? It +requires a little of the artistic temperament, of which Mr. T. S., +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. CHURCHILL BABINGTON + + + +[SWANSTON COTTAGE, LOTHIANBURN, SUMMER 1871.] + +MY DEAR MAUD, - If you have forgotten the hand-writing - 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. + +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 - ONE p or TWO?) and +pretty. All the same, we have been having shocking weather - cold +winds and grey skies. + +I have been reading heaps of nice books; but I can't go back so +far. I am reading Clarendon's HIST. REBELL. 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 THOUGHT 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, 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. + +I think this letter has turned into a sermon, but I had nothing +interesting to talk about. + +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. DO +reconsider it. - Believe me, my dear Maud, ever your most +affectionate cousin, + +LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +1871? + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - 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. 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. + +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, + +Louis. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +DUNBLANE, FRIDAY, 5TH MARCH 1872. + +MY DEAR BAXTER, - 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, TU-DIEU! 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 ECLOGUES. HIC CORULIS MISTOS INTER +CONSEDIMUS ULMOS, 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 MESSIEURS LES ARCADIENS would roll out those cloying +hexameters that sing themselves in one's mouth to such a curious +lifting chant. + +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 IOTA this forenoon, +in spite of all my idleness and Guthrie's lost paper, which is ever +present with me - a horrible phantom. + +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 SHALL 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +DUNBLANE, TUESDAY, 9TH APRIL 1872. + +MY DEAR BAXTER, - 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. THAT 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 +BUSINESS LETTERS: THE AFFAIR IS IN THE HANDS OF THE POLICE.' Do +you hear THAT, you evildoer? Sending business letters is surely a +far more hateful and slimy degree of wickedness than sending +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. + +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 EARTHLY PARADISE; you +can get it for me in Elliot's for two and tenpence (2s. 10d.) +(BUSINESS HABITS). Also bring an ounce of honeydew from Wilson's. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BRUSSELS, THURSDAY, 25TH JULY 1872. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 Gruyere cheese. + +We had a very good passage, which we certainly deserved, in +compensation for having to sleep on 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 (FIAT EXPERIMENTUM IN +CORPORE VILI) 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, ARTIFICIAL, 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. + +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 +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. + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +P.S. - The snake was about a yard long, but harmless, and now, he +says, quite tame. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL LANDSBERG, FRANKFURT, MONDAY, 29TH JULY 1872. + +... LAST 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 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. + +To-day I got rather a curiosity - LIEDER UND BALLADEN VON ROBERT +BURNS, 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 cafe, or at least the German +substitute for a cafe; but what a falling off after the heavenly +forenoons in Brussels! + +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL LANDSBERG, THURSDAY, 1ST AUGUST 1872. + +... YESTERDAY 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 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 - GROSS WIE DAS - had come nearly every +day out of Frankfurt to the ECKENHEIMER WIRTHSCHAFT, 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 COBIE (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 KLOSTER, with a +considerable slice of the mother's GELD. I told them we had no +klosters in Scotland, with a certain feeling of superiority. No +more had they, I was told - 'HIER IST UNSER KLOSTER!' 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 APROPOS of nothing and +with almost defiant conviction, 'ER WAR EIN FEINER MANN, DER HERR +DOCTOR,' and was answered by another with 'YAW, YAW, UND TRANK +IMMER ROTHEN WEIN.' + +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. - 'SIE SPRECHEN DA REIN' (clean), said one; and they all +nodded their heads together like as many mandarins, and repeated +REIN, SO REIN in chorus. + +Of course we got upon Scotland. The hostess said, 'DIE +SCHOTTLANDER TRINKEN GERN SCHNAPPS,' 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 HOT 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 'S IST +LANGE HER, the German version of Auld Lang Syne; so you see, +madame, the finest lyric ever written will make its way out of +whatsoever corner of patois it found its birth in. + + +'MEITZ HERZ IST IM HOCHLAND, MEAN HERZ IST NICHT HIER, +MEIN HERZ IST IM HOCHLAND IM GRUNEN REVIER. +IM GRUNEN REVIERE ZU JAGEN DAS REH; +MEIN HERZ IST IM HOCHLAND, WO IMMER ICH GEH.' + + +I don't think I need translate that for you. + +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 to +fall back again, after these political interludes, upon Burns, +toddy, and the Highlands. + +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. + +FRIDAY, AUGUST 2, 1872. - In the evening, at the theatre, I had a +great laugh. Lord Allcash in FRA DIAVOLO, with his white hat, red +guide-books, and bad German, was the PIECE-DE-RESISTANCE 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. + +I am just going off to do some German with Simpson. - Your +affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +FRANKFURT, ROSENGASSE 13, AUGUST 4, 1872. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - 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 SHADY, I should be +boasting. The people sit at their doors in shirt-sleeves, smoking +as they do in Seven Dials of a Sunday. + +Last night we went to bed about ten, for the first time +HOUSEHOLDERS 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 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, 'HIER ALLES RUHT - +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, +'FEUER, - IM SACHSENHAUSEN, 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 CAROL-ETS, 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. + +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 an awful joke to be living (two +would-be advocates, and one a baronet) in this supremely mean +abode. + +The abode is, however, a great improvement on the hotel, and I +think we shall grow quite fond of it. - Ever your affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +13 ROSENGASSE, FRANKFURT, TUESDAY MORNING, AUGUST 1872. + +. . . Last night I was at the theatre and heard DIE JUDIN (LA +JUIVE), 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 GALERE, 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 BIERHALLE, and sat and brooded +over a SCHNITT (half-glass) for nearly an hour. An opera is far +more REAL 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 LIVE 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 FLOURISHOUS aria. + +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 REZ-DE-CHAUSSEE: 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 +MUTTERSPRACHE; 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. + +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 DEAD PORRIDGE, 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +(RENTIER). + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1873. + +MY DEAR BAXTER, - 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.' + +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 DAMNED the happiness +of (probably) the only two people who care a damn about you in the +world. + +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 a worse than death, in +the eyes of my father and mother, what the DEVIL am I to do? + +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + + +CHAPTER II - STUDENT DAYS - ORDERED SOUTH, SEPTEMBER 1873-JULY 1875 + + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +COCKFIELD RECTORY, SUDBURY, SUFFOLK, TUESDAY, JULY 28, 1873. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1873. + +I HAVE 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. + +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, DU HAST DIAMANTEN UND PERLEN, 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 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 +- DRUM IST SO WOHL MIR IN DER WELT! 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! + +SUNDAY, 11.20 A.M. - I wonder what you are doing now? - in church +likely, at the TE DEUM. 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 LISTEN. 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 ROADS until I feel as if I were standing +on my head; but I mean ROADS, and shall do something to them. + +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. + +MONDAY NIGHT. - 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 SCUTTLE) (?) and a +DEBRIS of broken pipes 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. + +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. + +These good booksellers of mine have at last got a WERTHER 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 ROADS, 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1873. + +. . . I WAS 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 +tumbledown 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 HEBETE, 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. + +SATURDAY. - This has been a charming day for me from morning to now +(5 P.M.). 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 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. + +I am, unhappily, off my style, and can do nothing well; indeed, I +fear I have marred ROADS 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. + +I have finished ROADS 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +MONDAY. - I have looked over ROADS 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 well? However, it shall go to +you, for the reasons given above. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +EDINBURGH, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1873. + +. . . I MUST 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. + +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. + +7.20 P.M. - 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 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. + +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. + +DUMFRIES, FRIDAY. - 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 SWISH, 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. + +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 +ADELAIDE. I have so perfect an idea out of that song! The great +Alps, a wonder in the starlight - the river, strong from the hills, +and turbulent, and loudly audible at night - the country, a scented +FRUHLINGSGARTEN of orchards and deep wood where the nightingales +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, EINST, O WUNDER, EINST, 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. + +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. + +SATURDAY. - 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 pounds) to the poor woman who +served him as heroine in the HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN, and the +inscription in its stiff, Jedediah Cleishbotham fashion is not +without something touching. We went up the stream a little further +to where two Covenanters lie buried in an oakwood; 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:- + + +'We died, their furious rage to stay, +Near to the kirk of Iron-gray.' + + +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 . . . + +SUNDAY. - 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH], SATURDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1873. + +IT 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 LEAPED 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. + + +8 P.M. - 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 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. + +I want to let you see these verses from an ODE TO THE CUCKOO, +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 - + + +'What time the pea puts on the bloom, +Thou fliest the vocal vale, +An annual guest, in other lands +Another spring to hail. + +Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, +Thy sky is ever clear; +Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, +No winter in thy year. + +O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! +We'd make on joyful wing +Our annual visit o'er the globe, +Companions of the spring.' + + +SUNDAY. - 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, MAIS J'AI DU COURAGE; I am +indefatigable at rewriting and bettering, and surely that humble +quality should get me on a little. + +MONDAY, OCTOBER 6. - 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. + +I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to Portobello, +in the heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing PAR RAFALES off the +sea (or 'EN RAFALES' 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 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH], TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1873. + +MY 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. + +WEDNESDAY. - I may as well tell you exactly about my health. I am +not at all ill; have quite recovered; only I am what MM. LES +MEDECINS 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. + +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 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. + +THURSDAY. - 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. + +II. - 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 LE CAPITAINE FRACASSE before the dining- +room fire. I must write no more, for I am sleepy after two nights, +and to quote my book, 'SINON BLANCHES, DU MOINS GRISES'; and so I +must go to bed and faithfully, hoggishly slumber. - Your faithful + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +MENTONE, NOVEMBER 13, 1873. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - The PLACE is not where I thought; it is about +where the old Post Office was. The Hotel de Londres is no more an +hotel. I have found a charming room in the Hotel 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 PLACE +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 St. 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 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 'Chateau 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.) + +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. + +I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them to-night. +Continue to address Poste Restante. Take care of yourselves. + +This is my birthday, by the way - O, I said that before. Adieu. - +Ever your affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +MENTONE, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1873. + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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 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. + +TUESDAY. - 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. + +THURSDAY. - 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 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 VIA 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, ANYTHING rather +than not to keep well. + +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 INEFFABLE AURORE. + +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. + +FRIDAY. - 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 man of seventy: O Medea, kill +me, or make me young again! + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL MIRABEAU, MENTONE, SUNDAY, JANUARY 4, 1874. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 DEJEUNER the +other day, over the memory of which I lick my lips in the silent +watches. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +Here ends the political sermon of your affectionate (and somewhat +dogmatical) son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +MENTONE, JANUARY 7, 1874. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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. + +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 FAVORI 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 POLISSON +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 MADCHEN; which word she repeated +with shrill emphasis, as though fearing that her proposition would +be called in question - MADCHEN, MADCHEN, MADCHEN, MADCHEN. 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 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. + +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. + +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 POLISSON, which is +beautifully out of place. + +SATURDAY, 10TH JANUARY. - The little Russian kid is only two and a +half: she speaks six languages. She and her sister (aet. 8) and +May Johnstone (aet. 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. + +O - I have not told you that Colvin is gone; however, he is coming +back again; he has left clothes in pawn to me. - Ever your +affectionate son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +MENTONE, TUESDAY, 13TH JANUARY 1874. + +. . . I LOST 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. + +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 HORRIDLY; 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, +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! + +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. + +WEDNESDAY, 10.30. - 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. + +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; she is drawn through her sobs +into the air; and in a moment there is Nelly singing, with the glad +look that comes into her face always when she sings, and all the +tears and pain forgotten. + +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! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[MENTONE, JANUARY 1874.] + +. . . LAST 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 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. + +FRIDAY. - You have not yet heard of my book? - FOUR GREAT SCOTSMEN +- 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. VOILA, MADAME, LE MENU. COMMENT LE TROUVEZ- +VOUS? IL Y A DE LA BONNE VIANDO, SI ON PARVIENT A LA CUIRE +CONVENABLEMENT. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[MENTONE, MARCH 28, 1874.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Beautiful weather, perfect weather; sun, pleasant +cooling winds; health very good; only incapacity to write. + +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 MY 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, 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[SWANSTON], MAY 1874, MONDAY. + +WE are now at Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. The garden +is but little clothed yet, for, you 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. + +EVENING. - 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. + +I have made an arrangement with my people: I am to have 84 pounds +a year - I only asked for 80 pounds 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. + +WEDNESDAY. - 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 ORDERED SOUTH. '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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +SWANSTON, WEDNESDAY, MAY 1874. + +STRUGGLING away at FABLES IN SONG. 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 IMPOSSIBLE. + +THURSDAY. - I feel happier about the FABLES, 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 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. + +SATURDAY. - I have received such a nice long letter (four sides) +from Leslie Stephen to-day about my Victor Hugo. 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, partly, perhaps, because I have just finished some of the +deedest rubbish about Lord Lytton's fables 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. + +TUESDAY. - Another 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 files 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 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. + +SATURDAY. - I have been two days in Edinburgh, and so had not the +occasion to write to you. Morley has accepted the FABLES, 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. + +Try, by way of change, Byron's MAZEPPA; 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. - Ever your faithful +friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +TRAIN BETWEEN EDINBURGH AND CHESTER, AUGUST 8, 1874. + +MY 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. + +CHESTER. - 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 facades. + +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. + +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. + +BARMOUTH, AUGUST 9TH. - 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 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 VERY +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 litterature (which word, note +here, I do not spell correctly). Good-night, and here's the +verger's health! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +SWANSTON, WEDNESDAY, [AUTUMN] 1874. + +I HAVE 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 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, AD INFINITUM, 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. + +My first John Knox 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 TENTATION DE ST. ANTOINE; 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 with my present statement, that it's the finest thing I ever +read! Of course, it isn't that, it's full of LONGUEURS, and is not +quite 'redd up,' as we say in Scotland, not quite articulated; but +there are splendid things in it. + +I say, DO take your maccaroni with oil: DO, PLEASE. It's BEASTLY +with butter. - Ever your faithful friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH], DECEMBER 23, 1874. + +MONDAY. - 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 CAN skate a little bit; and what one can do +is always pleasant to do. + +TUESDAY. - 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. + +WEDNESDAY. - 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. + +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. + +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. + +THURSDAY. - 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 Guerin 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +17 HERIOT ROAD, EDINBURGH [JANUARY 1875]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I have worked too hard; I have given myself one +day of rest, and that was not enough; I am giving myself another. +I shall go to bed again likewise so soon as this is done, and +slumber most potently. + +9 P.M., slept all afternoon like a lamb. + +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 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, Coppee, Soulary, and Sully Prudhomme. But he has +not deigned to answer my letter. + +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 WHEN THE +DEVIL WAS WELL: 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +EDINBURGH, TUESDAY [FEBRUARY 1875]. + +I GOT your nice long gossiping letter to-day - I mean by that that +there was more news in it than usual - and 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. + +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. + +THURSDAY. - I have been still in the house since I wrote, and I +HAVE 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 A COUNTRY DANCE; 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. + +SATURDAY. - Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down here to +lecture, called on me and took me up to see a poor fellow, a 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 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +FEBRUARY 8, 1875. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - Forgive my bothering you. Here is the proof of +my second KNOX. 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. + +No, I can write no article just now; I am PIOCHING, 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) COMME LE +MINEUR ENFOUI SOUS UN EBOULEMENT. + +J'Y PARVIENDRAI, NOM DE NOM DE NOM! But it's a long look forward. +- Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[BARBIZON, APRIL 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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 + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, SUNDAY [APRIL 1875]. + +HERE 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. + +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 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. + +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 HER,' 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. + +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. + +Poor little boy! he was not called for, I learn, until ten this +morning. This is very ill written, and I've missed 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. + +MONDAY. - I have written nothing all morning; I cannot settle to +it. Yes - I WILL though. + +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 WOMEN, 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. + +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 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! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[SWANSTON, TUESDAY, APRIL 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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. + +What do you think of Henley's hospital verses? They were to have +been dedicated to me, but Stephen wouldn't allow it - said it would +be pretentious. + +WEDNESDAY. - 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 +coamplicated.' - Ever your faithful + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, SATURDAY, APRIL 1875.] + +I AM 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. - A DEMAIN. + +SUNDAY. - 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 +one; MAIL IL FAUT LUTTER. 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 MAN +HAPPY! 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 + +R. L. S. + +WEDNESDAY. - I am so played out with a cold in my eye that I cannot +see to write or read without difficulty. It is swollen HORRIBLE; +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. + +SUNDAY. - 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 + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + +WEDNESDAY. - 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. + +I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new 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 + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, JUNE 1875.] + +SIMPLY a scratch. All right, jolly, well, and through with the +difficulty. My father pleased about the Burns. 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 FUNESTE experience. I +wonder if a fruiterer from some place else - say Worcestershire - +would offer the same phenomena? insoluble doubt. + +R. L. S. + +Later. - 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +SWANSTON. END OF JUNE, 1875. + +THURSDAY. - 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. + +SATURDAY - NO, SUNDAY, 12.45. - Just been - not grinding, alas! - I +couldn't - but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. 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 Fontainebleau 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. + +SUNDAY. - I've been to church, and am not depressed - a great step. +I was at that beautiful church my PETIT POEME EN PROSE 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 grave-stones. 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 + +R. L. S. + + + + +CHAPTER III - ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR, EDINBURGH - PARIS - +FONTAINEBLEAU, JULY 1875-JULY 1879 + + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[CHEZ SIRON, BARBIZON, SEINE ET MARNE, AUGUST 1875.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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. + +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. + +Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet +as we did. + +Why don't you write? I have no more to say. - Ever your +affectionate son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +CHATEAU RENARD, LOIRET, AUGUST 1875. + +. . . I HAVE 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. + + +Far have you come, my lady, from the town, +And far from all your sorrows, if you please, +To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, +And in green meadows lay your body down. + +To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, +Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; +Far have you come, my lady, from the town, +And far from all your sorrows, if you please. + +Here in this seaboard land of old renown, +In meadow grass go wading to the knees; +Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; +There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; +Far have you come, my lady, from the town. + + +NOUS N'IRONS PLUS AU BOIS. + + +We'll walk the woods no more, +But stay beside the fire, +To weep for old desire +And things that are no more. + +The woods are spoiled and hoar, +The ways are full of mire; +We'll walk the woods no more, +But stay beside the fire. +We loved, in days of yore, +Love, laughter, and the lyre. +Ah God, but death is dire, +And death is at the door - +We'll walk the woods no more. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +EDINBURGH, [AUTUMN] 1875. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - Thanks for your letter and news. No - my BURNS +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 BURNS in a column or two. O golly, I say, you know, +it CAN'T be done at the money. All the more as I'm going write a +book about it. RAMSAY, FERGUSSON, AND BURNS: AN ESSAY (or A +CRITICAL ESSAY? 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 +COULD 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. + +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); and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a +very essential part of my RAMSAY-FERGUSSON-BURNS; 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 500,00 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. AH NOM DE DIEU! What do you think of all +this? will it paddle, think you? + +I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried. + +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 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 LIFE OF JOHNSON, Martin's +HISTORY OF FRANCE, ALLAN RAMSAY, OLIVIER BOSSELIN, all sorts of +rubbish, APROPOS of BURNS, COMMINES, JUVENAL DES URSINS, 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. + +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 SPRING or BERANGER, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +[EDINBURGH, OCTOBER 1875.] + +NOO lyart leaves blaw ower the green, +Red are the bonny woods o' Dean, +An' here we're back in Embro, freen', +To pass the winter. +Whilk noo, wi' frosts afore, draws in, +An' snaws ahint her. + +I've seen's hae days to fricht us a', +The Pentlands poothered weel wi' snaw, +The ways half-smoored wi' liquid thaw, +An' half-congealin', +The snell an' scowtherin' norther blaw +Frae blae Brunteelan'. + +I've seen's been unco sweir to sally, +And at the door-cheeks daff an' dally, +Seen's daidle thus an' shilly-shally +For near a minute - +Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley, +The deil was in it! - + +Syne spread the silk an' tak the gate, +In blast an' blaudin' rain, deil hae't! +The hale toon glintin', stane an' slate, +Wi' cauld an' weet, +An' to the Court, gin we'se be late, +Bicker oor feet. + +And at the Court, tae, aft I saw +Whaur Advocates by twa an' twa +Gang gesterin' end to end the ha' +In weeg an' goon, +To crack o' what ye wull but Law +The hale forenoon. + +That muckle ha,' maist like a kirk, +I've kent at braid mid-day sae mirk +Ye'd seen white weegs an' faces lurk +Like ghaists frae Hell, +But whether Christian ghaist or Turk +Deil ane could tell. + +The three fires lunted in the gloom, +The wind blew like the blast o' doom, +The rain upo' the roof abune +Played Peter Dick - +Ye wad nae'd licht enough i' the room +Your teeth to pick! + +But, freend, ye ken how me an' you, +The ling-lang lanely winter through, +Keep'd a guid speerit up, an' true +To lore Horatian, +We aye the ither bottle drew +To inclination. + +Sae let us in the comin' days +Stand sicker on our auncient ways - +The strauchtest road in a' the maze +Since Eve ate apples; +An' let the winter weet our cla'es - +We'll weet oor thrapples. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[EDINBURGH, AUTUMN 1875.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - FOUS NE ME GOMBRENNEZ PAS. Angry with you? No. +Is the thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer +in the world. The world can ill spare it, but I, sir, I (and here +I strike my hollow boson, 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. + +Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me +money, you would oblige, sincerely yours, + +R. L. S. + +I have a scroll of SPRINGTIME 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 SPRINGTIME, that's the truth of it. It +might have been four or five quid! + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Along with this, I send you some P.P.P'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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, NOVEMBER 12, 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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 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 MY 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. DE MATTOS + + + +EDINBURGH, JANUARY 1876. + +MY DEAR KATHARINE, - 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 MAL REUSSI, 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 + + +GROSSIR LA PATE UNIVERSELLE +FAITE DES FORMES QUE DIEU FOND. + + +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 HUGUENOTS. . . . + +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, + +R. L. S. + +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! + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, JANUARY 1876.] + +. . . OUR weather continues as it was, bitterly cold, and raining +often. There is not much pleasure in life certainly as it stands +at present. NOUS N'IRONS PLUS AU BOSS, HELAS! + +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. + +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! + +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 ECLAT 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[EDINBURGH, FEBRUARY 1876.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 1ST. I have sent 'Fontainebleau' 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 MONEY, and money soon, and not glory +and the illustration of the English language, I feel as if my +poverty were going to consent. + +2ND. 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 'Charles of Orleans' 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 +'Fontainebleau'! His head must be turned. + +3RD. If ever you do come across my 'Spring' (I beg your pardon for +referring to it again, but I don't want you to forget) send it off +at once. + +4TH. I went to Ayr, Maybole, Girvan, Ballantrae, Stranraer, +Glenluce, and Wigton. I shall make an article of it some day soon, +'A Winter's Walk in Carrick and Galloway.' I had a good time. - +Yours, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SWANSTON COTTAGE, LOTHIANBURN, JULY 1876.] + +HERE I am, here, and very well too. I am glad you liked 'Walking +Tours'; 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 'Forest Notes,' which is kind. There is one, if +you will, that was too sweet to be wholesome. + +I am at 'Charles d'Orleans.' About fifteen CORNHILL pages have +already coule'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; if +you see him, inquire about my 'Burns.' They have sent me 5 pounds, +5s, for it, which has mollified me horrid. 5 pounds, 5s. is a good +deal to pay for a read of it in MS.; I can't complain. - Yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[SWANSTON COTTAGE, LOTHIANBURN, JULY 1876.] + +. . . 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: TRIAL OF JOAN OF +ARC, PASTON LETTERS, BASIN, 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 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. Is that all? Yes, I think +that's all. I have a thing in proof for the CORNHILL called +VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE. 'Charles of Orleans' is again laid aside, +but in a good state of furtherance this time. A paper called 'A +Defence of Idlers' (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 as I say, I take lots of exercise, and I'm as brown a +berry. + +This is the first letter I've written for - O I don't know how +long. + +JULY 30TH. - This is, I suppose, three weeks after I began. Do, +please, forgive me. + +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. + +God bless you. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE is in August CORNHILL. 'Charles of +Orleans' is finished, and sent to Stephen; 'Idlers' ditto, and sent +to Grove; but I've no word of either. So I've not been idle. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +CHAUNY, AISNE [SEPTEMBER 1876]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 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 JUSQU' ICI are trifling. But I've a damned sore throat. - +Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, MAY 1877. + +. . . A PERFECT 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. + +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 +ready: 'An Apology for Idlers' 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! 'THE HAIR TRUNK; OR, THE IDEAL COMMONWEALTH.' 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 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. + +Please write to me, although I deserve it so little, and show a +Christian spirit. - Ever your faithful friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[EDINBURGH, AUGUST 1877.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +TEMPLE BAR appears to like my 'Villon,' 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, 'The Sire de +Maletroit's Mousetrap': a true novel, in the old sense; all +unities preserved moreover, if that's anything, and I believe with +some little merits; not so CLEVER perhaps as the last, but sounder +and more natural. + +My 'Villon' is out this month; I should so much like to know what +you think of it. Stephen has written to me apropos of 'Idlers,' +that something more in that vein would be agreeable to his views. +From Stephen I count that a devil of a lot. + +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, + +LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[PENZANCE, AUGUST 1877.] + +. . . YOU 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, +'The Sire de Maletroit's Mousetrap,' with which I shall try TEMPLE +BAR; another story, in the clouds, 'The Stepfather's Story,' 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 the 'Two St. Michael's Mounts,' +historical and picturesque; perhaps if it didn't come too long, I +might throw in the 'Bass Rock,' and call it 'Three Sea Fortalices,' +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 PETIT JEHAN DE SAINTRE, which is a kind of fifteenth +century SANDFORD AND MERTON, 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. + +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. 'Will o' the Mill' 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 income +anyway. I am glad you liked 'Villon'; 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 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN + + + +[1877.] + +DEAR SIR, - 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. + +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 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. + +I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called 'Such is +Life,' 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, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [DECEMBER 1877]. + +MY DEAR SIR, - 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. + +In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost 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. + +Of your poems I have myself a kindness for 'Noll and Nell,' +although I don't think you have made it as good as you ought: +verse five is surely not QUITE MELODIOUS. I confess I like the +Sonnet in the last number of the REVIEW - the Sonnet to England. + +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 - CLARISSA HARLOWE. 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 Mowbray - nothing, nothing could be +better! You will bless me when you read it for this +recommendation; 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: A +DIALOGUE ON MAN, WOMAN, AND 'CLARISSA HARLOWE.' 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. + +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? + +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 'The Sire de Maletroit's Door' +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +HOTEL DES ETRANGERS, DIEPPE, JANUARY 1, 1878. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am at the INLAND VOYAGE 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[PARIS, JANUARY OR FEBRUARY 1878.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +PARIS, 44 BD. HAUSSMANN, FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1878. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - 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 WAY OF THE WORLD; 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DU VAL DE GRACE, RUE ST. JACQUES, PARIS, SUNDAY [JUNE 1878]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - About criticisms, I was more surprised at the +tone of the critics than I suppose any one 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +MONASTIER, SEPTEMBER 1878. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 INLAND VOYAGE the other day: what rubbish +these reviewers did talk! It is not badly written, thin, mildly +cheery, and strained. SELON MOI. I mean to visit Hamerton on my +return journey; otherwise, I should come by sea from Marseilles. I +am very well known here now; indeed, quite a feature of the place. +- Your affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + +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! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[MONASTIER, SEPTEMBER 1878.] + +DEAR HENLEY, - I hope to leave Monastier this day (Saturday) week; +thenceforward Poste Restante, Alais, Gard, is my address. 'Travels +with a Donkey in the French Highlands.' 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 FILET, 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +MONASTIER, AT MOREL'S [SEPTEMBER 1878]. + +Lud knows about date, VIDE postmark. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - 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 five o'clock on Saturday morning to be driving +Modestine towards the Gevaudan. Modestine is my anesse; 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 ARABIAN NIGHTS 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, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +OCTOBER 1878. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - I have seen Hamerton; he was very kind, all his +family seemed pleased to see an INLAND VOYAGE, 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 INLAND VOYAGE over again, and send me his +cuts and cuffs in private, after having liberally administered his +kisses CORAM PUBLICO. 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. + +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 Cafe +Felix, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, AUTUMN 1878.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 +TRICOCHE ET CACOLET; 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 - CANNOT. Even +the GUITAR 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, APRIL 16, 1879]. POOL OF SILOAM, By EL +DORADO, DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS, ARCADIA + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - Herewith of the dibbs - a homely 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. + +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 Kubla +Khan, we have the man in the fact. Carlyle's picture, of course, +is not of the author of KUBLA, but of the author of that surprising +FRIEND 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-TELLING - if you will take my +meaning. + +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. + +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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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 CORRESPOND 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. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [APRIL 1879]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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. + +I'll try to improve it, but I shan't be able to - O go to the +devil. + +Seriously, you're a cool hand. And then you have the brass to ask +me WHY 'my steps went one by one'? Why? Powers of man! to rhyme +with sun, 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. + + +O Henley, in my hours of ease +You may say anything you please, +But when I join the Muse's revel, +Begad, I wish you at the devil! +In vain my verse I plane and bevel, +Like Banville's rhyming devotees; +In vain by many an artful swivel +Lug in my meaning by degrees; +I'm sure to hear my Henley cavil; +And grovelling prostrate on my knees, +Devote his body to the seas, +His correspondence to the devil! + + +Impromptu poem. + +I'm going to Shandon Hydropathic CUM PARENTIBUS. Write here. I +heard from Lang. Ferrier prayeth to be remembered; he means to +write, likes his Tourgenieff greatly. Also likes my 'What was on +the Slate,' which, under a new title, yet unfound, and with a new +and, on the whole, kindly DENOUEMENT, is going to shoot up and +become a star. . . . + +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'? JE ME LE DEMANDE. No, it +would be ambiguous, as though I had used it licentiously for +'daringly,' and that would cloak the sense. + +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. + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +SWANSTON, LOTHIANBURN, EDINBURGH, JULY 24, 1879. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I have greatly enjoyed your articles 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. + +Chapters VIII. and IX. 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 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 'Twa Dogs' and his 'Address to the +Unco Guid.' 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 'Twa Dogs.' Even a common Englishman may have +a glimpse, as it were from Pisgah, of its extraordinary merits. + +'ENGLISH, THE: - 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 HANDY CYCLOPAEDIA. Glescow: Blaikie & Bannock. + +Remember me in suitable fashion to Mrs. Gosse, the offspring, and +the cat. - And believe me ever yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [JULY 28, 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am just in the middle of your Rembrandt. 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; 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 off into a corner. Up will rise on the other +side, sane, pleasurable, human knowledge: a thing of beauty and a +joy, etc. + +I'm three parts through Burns; 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, who 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [JULY 29, 1879]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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 SPECTATOR 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 +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. + +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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + + +CHAPTER IV - THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT, MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO, JULY +1879-JULY 1880 + + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +ON BOARD SS. 'DEVONIA,' AN HOUR OR TWO OUT OF NEW YORK [AUGUST +1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I have finished my story. The handwriting is not +good because of the ship's misconduct: thirty-one pages in ten +days at sea is not bad. + +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 PALL MALL +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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + +P.S. - I go on my way to-night, if I can; if not, tomorrow: +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. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[IN THE EMIGRANT TRAIN FROM NEW YORK TO SAN FRANCISCO, AUGUST +1879.] + +DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +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. + + +Of where or how, I nothing know; +And why, I do not care; +Enough if, even so, +My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go +By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair, +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. +I think, I hope, I dream no more +The dreams of otherwhere, +The cherished thoughts of yore; +I have been changed from what I was before; +And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. +Unweary God me yet shall bring +To lands of brighter air, +Where I, now half a king, +Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing, +And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. + + +Exit Muse, hurried by child's games. . . . + +Have at you again, being now well through Indiana. In America you +eat better than anywhere else: fact. The food is heavenly. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +CROSSING NEBRASKA [SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1879]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 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. + +MONDAY. - 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. + +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. + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[COAST LINE MOUNTAINS, CALIFORNIA, SEPTEMBER 1879.] + +HERE 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +MONTEREY, DITTO CO., CALIFORNIA, 21ST OCTOBER [1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 A CHAPTER IN EXPERIENCE OF ARIZONA +BRECKONRIDGE or A VENDETTA IN THE WEST, 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, SEPTEMBER 1879. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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, it seems +already. My book is about half drafted: the AMATEUR EMIGRANT, +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 'The Lie,' 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 DEVONIA, for that is the habit with all children +born in a steerage. + +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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +MONTEREY, MONTEREY CO., CALIFORNIA, 8TH OCTOBER 1879. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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 frontiers-man, 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. + +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. + +My new book, THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT, 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 'Burns' in +the CORNHILL, and for my 'Story of a Lie' 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, AU FUR ET A MESURE of +their apparition, for I am naturally short of literature, and I do +not wish to rust. + +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. + +Is there a boy or a girl? and how is your wife? I thought of you +more than once, to put it mildly. + +I live here comfortably enough; but I shall soon be left all alone, +perhaps till Christmas. Then you may hope for correspondence - and +may not I? - Your friend, + +R L S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 1879.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - Herewith the PAVILION ON THE LINKS, 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. + +Do acknowledge the PAVILION 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 PAVILION! May +it bring me money for myself and my sick one, who may read it, I do +not know how soon. + +Love to your wife, Anthony and all. I shall write to Colvin to-day +or to-morrow. - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 1879.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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.; (2) a paper with +the announcement of second edition; and (3) the announcement of the +essays in ATHENAEUM. 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 a VENDETTA IN THE +WEST, and about sixty pages of the first draft of the AMATEUR +EMIGRANT. 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. + +At times I get terribly frightened about my work, which seems to +advance too slowly. I hope soon to have a greater burthen to +support, and must make money a great deal quicker than I used. I +may get nothing for the VENDETTA; I may only get some forty quid +for the EMIGRANT; I cannot hope to have them both done much before +the end of November. + +O, and look here, why did you not send me the SPECTATOR which +slanged me? Rogues and rascals, is that all you are worth? + +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 drill them out. Another shot, and I'd have gone to +kingdom come. + +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 Francois the +baker, perhaps an Italian fisherman, perhaps Augustin Dutra, and +Simoneau himself. Simoneau, Francois, 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 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. + +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. +Burns, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA [NOVEMBER 1879]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON, - 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. + +I find here (of all places in the world) your ESSAYS ON ART, 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. + +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. + +I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still somewhat of +a mossy ruin. If you would view my countenance aright, come - view +it by the pale moonlight. But that is on the mend. I believe I +have now a distant claim to tan. + +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. . . . + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, 15TH NOVEMBER 1879. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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. + +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, + +R. L S. + +I try it again by daylight. Once more in bed however; for to-day +it is MUCHO FRIO, as we Spaniards say; and I had no other means of +keeping warm for my work. I have done a good spell, 9 and a half +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 A VENDETTA IN THE +WEST. 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. + +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 Hadsel'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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[MONTEREY, DECEMBER 1879.] + +TO-DAY, my dear Colvin, I send you the first part of the AMATEUR +EMIGRANT, 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. + +Whatever is done about any book publication, two 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 BUYERS. + +The entire A. E. 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 CLEVER 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. + +I have never seen my Burns! 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! COMMENT +TROUVEZ-VOUS CA? 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. Dos Reales; deux reaux; 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: To EDMUND GOSSE + + + +MONTEREY, MONTEREY CO., CALIFORNIA, DEC. 8, 1879. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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 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 BEASTLY 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. + +I have read nearly the whole volume, and shall read it nearly all +over again; you have no rivals! + +Bancroft's HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, 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.! + +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; +NITOR AQUIS, said a certain Eton boy, translating for his sins a +part of the INLAND VOYAGE 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 MIGHT 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + +'Too young to be our child': blooming good. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO [DECEMBER 26, 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am now writing to you in a cafe 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 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 EMIGRANT, 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 . . . +. + +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 SPECTATOR, +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 NORMA, 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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO [JANUARY 10, 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +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 waxcloth, 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 pounds, 0s. 5d.). + +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 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 inkbottle. 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. + +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, ALIAS fifty cents., 0 pounds, 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. + +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 +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. + +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 pounds; if I can do that, I +can swim: last year, with my ill health I touched only 109 pounds, +that would not do, I could not fight it through on that; but on 200 +pounds, 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 JUST IN THE MEANTIME, give me no bad. If I could get +THOREAU, EMIGRANT and VENDETTA 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 FINISHED, you see, they don't +fairly count. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, JAN. 26, '80 + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - 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. 10 and a half d. 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 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA [JANUARY 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 EMIGRANT; +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 polysyllables over me that a better man than I might +have been disheartened. - However, I was not, as you see, and am +not. The EMIGRANT 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. + +The VENDETTA you will not much like, I dare say: and that must be +finished next; but I'll knock you with THE FOREST STATE: A +ROMANCE. + +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 NEWS, 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. + +My health is better, my spirits steadier, I am not the least cast +down. If THE EMIGRANT was a failure, the PAVILION, 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 other than about people. It bored me hellishly to +write the EMIGRANT; well, it's going to bore others to read it; +that's only fair. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL., FEBRUARY 1880. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - Before my work or anything I sit down to answer +your long and kind letter. + +I am well, cheerful, busy, hopeful; I cannot be knocked down; I do +not mind about the EMIGRANT. 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. + +(1) As to STUDIES. There are two more already gone to Stephen. +YOSHIDA TORAJIRO, which I think temperate and adequate; and +THOREAU, which will want a really Balzacian effort over the proofs. +But I want BENJAMIN FRANKLIN AND THE ART OF VIRTUE to follow; and +perhaps also WILLIAM PENN, but this last may be perhaps delayed for +another volume - I think not, though. The STUDIES 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 ORDERED SOUTH +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 soon as the EMIGRANT is +done. (4) EMIGRANT. 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 +VENDETTA, which falls next to be finished, is not entirely +pleasant. But it has points. THE FOREST STATE or THE GREENWOOD +STATE: A ROMANCE, 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 +DENOUEMENT is unfortunately absolutely undramatic, which will be +our only trouble in quarrying out the play. I mean we shall quarry +from it. CHARACTERS - Otto Frederick John, hereditary Prince of +Grunwald; 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 Z. +Certain scenes are, in conception, the best I have ever made, +except for HESTER NOBLE. 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 EMIGRANT +stops the way; then a reassured scenario for HESTER; then the +VENDETTA; then two (or three) Essays - Benjamin Franklin, Thoughts +on Literature as an Art, Dialogue on Character and Destiny between +two Puppets, The Human Compromise; 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 SLATE both Fanny and I +have damned utterly; it is too morbid, ugly, and unkind; better +starvation. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, [MARCH 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +SAN FRANCISCO, CAL., APRIL 16 [1880]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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 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 pinewoods, +3000 feet, sir, from the disputatious sea. - I am, dear Weg, most +truly yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO DR. W. BAMFORD + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 1880.] + +MY DEAR SIR, - 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. + +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 me. - I am, my dear sir, gratefully yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 H. James's HAWTHORNE, for my +BURNS, 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 THOREAU 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 Burns; but the +style, though quite manly, never attains any melody or lenity. So +much for consumption: I begin to appreciate what the EMIGRANT must +be. As soon as I have done the last few pages of the EMIGRANT they +shall go to you. But when will that be? I know not quite yet - I +have to be so careful. - Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 EMIGRANT, +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 HAD 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 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, MAY 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I received your letter and proof to-day, and was +greatly delighted with the last. + +I am now out of danger; in but a short while (I.E. 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 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 'Al Monte!' 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO C. W. STODDARD + + + +EAST OAKLAND, CAL., MAY 1880. + +MY DEAR STODDARD, - 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 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. + +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. + +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. + +At least, Stoddard, you now see that, although so costive, when I +once begin I am a copious letter-writer. I thank you, and AU +REVOIR. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, MAY 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 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. + +CALISTOGA, NAPA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA. + +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 AMATEUR EMIGRANT; 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. + +Received James's HAWTHORNE, on which I meditate a blast, Miss Bird, +Dixon's PENN, a WRONG CORNHILL (like my luck) and COQUELIN: 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 +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 +VENDETTA first, for it really could not come after PRINCE OTTO. +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: '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 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 REGIBUS 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, + +R. L. S. + + + + +CHAPTER V - ALPINE WINTERS AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS, AUGUST 1880- +OCTOBER 1882 + + + + +Letter: TO A. G. DEW-SMITH + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, NOVEMBER 1880.] + +Figure me to yourself, I pray - +A man of my peculiar cut - +Apart from dancing and deray, +Into an Alpine valley shut; + +Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, +Discountenanced by God and man; +The food? - Sir, you would do as well +To cram your belly full of bran. + +The company? Alas, the day +That I should dwell with such a crew, +With devil anything to say, +Nor any one to say it to! + +The place? Although they call it Platz, +I will be bold and state my view; +It's not a place at all - and that's +The bottom verity, my Dew. + +There are, as I will not deny, +Innumerable inns; a road; +Several Alps indifferent high; +The snow's inviolable abode; + +Eleven English parsons, all +Entirely inoffensive; four +True human beings - what I call +Human - the deuce a cipher more; + +A climate of surprising worth; +Innumerable dogs that bark; +Some air, some weather, and some earth; +A native race - God save the mark! - + +A race that works, yet cannot work, +Yodels, but cannot yodel right, +Such as, unhelp'd, with rusty dirk, +I vow that I could wholly smite. + +A river that from morn to night +Down all the valley plays the fool; +Not once she pauses in her flight, +Nor knows the comfort of a pool; + +But still keeps up, by straight or bend, +The selfsame pace she hath begun - +Still hurry, hurry, to the end - +Good God, is that the way to run? + +If I a river were, I hope +That I should better realise +The opportunities and scope +Of that romantic enterprise. + +I should not ape the merely strange, +But aim besides at the divine; +And continuity and change +I still should labour to combine. + +Here should I gallop down the race, +Here charge the sterling like a bull; +There, as a man might wipe his face, +Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool. + +But what, my Dew, in idle mood, +What prate I, minding not my debt? +What do I talk of bad or good? +The best is still a cigarette. + +Me whether evil fate assault, +Or smiling providences crown - +Whether on high the eternal vault +Be blue, or crash with thunder down - + +I judge the best, whate'er befall, +Is still to sit on one's behind, +And, having duly moistened all, +Smoke with an unperturbed mind. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE], DAVOS, DECEMBER 12 [1880]. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - 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. + +I. THIRTY YEARS' INTERVAL + +(1) Rob Roy. +(2) The Independent Companies: the Watches. +(3) Story of Lady Grange. +(4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: Wade and +(5) Burt. + +II. THE HEROIC AGE + +(1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden. +(2) Flora Macdonald. +(3) The Forfeited Estates; including Hereditary Jurisdictions; and +the admirable conduct of the tenants. + +III. LITERATURE HERE INTERVENES + +(1) The Ossianic Controversy. +(2) Boswell and Johnson. +(3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan. + +IV. ECONOMY + +(1) Highland Economics. +(2) The Reinstatement of the Proprietors. +(3) The Evictions. +(4) Emigration. +(5) Present State. + +V. RELIGION + +(1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and Soc. Prop. Christ. +Knowledge. +(2) The Men. +(3) The Disruption. + +All this, of course, will greatly change in form, scope, and order; +this is just a bird's-eye glance. Thank you for BURT, which came, +and for your Union notes. I have read one-half (about 900 pages) +of Wodrow's CORRESPONDENCE, 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. + +My Essays are going through the press, and should be out in January +or February. - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS PLATZ [DEC. 6, 1880]. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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, and another about +either Charles or 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE], DAVOS, DEC. 19, 1880. + +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. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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. + +(2) Byron: if anything: PROMETHEUS. + +(3) Shelley (1) THE WORLD'S GREAT AGE from Hellas; we are both dead +on. After that you have, of course, THE WEST WIND thing. But we +think (1) would maybe be enough; no more than two any way. + +(4) Herrick. MEDDOWES and COME, MY CORINNA. After that MR. +WICKES: two any way. + +(5) Leave out stanza 3rd of Congreve's thing, like a dear; we can't +stand the 'sigh' nor the 'peruke.' + +(6) Milton. TIME and the SOLEMN MUSIC. 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. + +(7) Is the ROYAL GEORGE an ode, or only an elegy? It's so good. + +(8) We leave Campbell to you. + +(9) If you take anything from Clough, but we don't either of us +fancy you will, let it be COME BACK. + +(10) Quite right about Dryden. I had a hankering after THRENODIA +AUGUSTALIS; but I find it long and with very prosaic holes: +though, O! what fine stuff between whiles. + +(11) Right with Collins. + +(12) Right about Pope's Ode. But what can you give? THE DYING +CHRISTIAN? or one of his inimitable courtesies? These last are +fairly odes, by the Horatian model, just as my dear MEDDOWES is an +ode in the name and for the sake of Bandusia. + +(13) Whatever you do, you'll give us the Greek Vase. + +(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. + +We will have the Duke of Wellington by God. Pro Symonds and +Stevenson. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES WARREN STODDARD + + + +HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS PLATZ, SWITZERLAND [DECEMBER 1880]. + +DEAR CHARLES WARREN STODDARD, - 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 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. will be complete. The edition, +briefly, SINE QUA NON. 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +DECEMBER 21, 1880. DAVOS. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - 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 +then; 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 AD HOC 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. + +The bazaar is over, 160 pounds gained, and everybody's health lost: +altogether, I never had a more uncomfortable time; apply to Fanny +for further details of the discomfort. + +We have our Wogg in somewhat better trim now, and 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. + +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 EVICTIONS; 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 +HISTORY OF MODERN SCOTLAND. Probably Tulloch will never carry it +out. And, you see, once I have studied and written these two +vols., THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS and SCOTLAND +AND THE UNION, 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, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, Christmas 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - Thanks for yours; I waited, as 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CHRISTMAS SERMON. +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, DECEMBER 26, 1880.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 +my father's extraordinary kindness about this book; he is a brick; +I vote for him freely. + +. . . 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 +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 DESIGN TO DO RIGHT 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 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. + +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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, SPRING 1881.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN. - 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. + +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. SUFFICIT; EXPLICIT. + +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, A LA BONNE HEURE! 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! 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. + +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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + +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. + +Woggin sends his love. + + + +Letter: TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + +DAVOS, 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN. - Here it is, with the mark of a San Francisco +BOUQUINISTE. 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + +DAVOS, 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN. - 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + +HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, SPRING 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN, - Nine years I have conded them. + +Brave lads in olden musical centuries +Sang, night by night, adorable choruses, +Sat late by alehouse doors in April +Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising: + +Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises, +Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables; +Spring scents inspired, old wine diluted; +Love and Apollo were there to chorus. + +Now these, the songs, remain to eternity, +Those, only those, the bountiful choristers +Gone - those are gone, those unremembered +Sleep and are silent in earth for ever. + +So man himself appears and evanishes, +So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at +Some green-embowered house, play their music, +Play and are gone on the windy highway; + +Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory +Long after they departed eternally, +Forth-faring tow'rd far mountain summits, +Cities of men on the sounding Ocean. + +Youth sang the song in years immemorial; +Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful; +Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtime +Heard and were pleased by the voice of singing; + +Youth goes, and leaves behind him a prodigy - +Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian +Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven highways, +Dear to me here in my Alpine exile. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Monte Generoso in May; here, I think, till the end of April; write +again, to prove you are forgiving. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DU PAVILLON HENRY IV., ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE, SUNDAY, MAY 1ST, +1881. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - 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 STAR and +GARTER (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 PIASSEUR, 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 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 STAR AND GARTER. My throat is quite cured, appetite +and strength on the mend. Fanny seems also picking up. + +If we are to come to Scotland, I WILL have fir-trees, and I want a +burn, the firs for my physical, the water for my moral health. - +Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE, JUNE 6, 1881. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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 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, GROUNDY 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. + +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 will reach you soon, for I write about it to-day - Yours +ever, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE, JUNE 1881. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - THE BLACK MAN AND OTHER TALES. + +The Black Man: + +I. Thrawn Janet. +II. The Devil on Cramond Sands. +The Shadow on the Bed. +The Body Snatchers. +The Case Bottle. +The King's Horn. +The Actor's Wife. +The Wreck of the SUSANNA. + +This is the new work on which I am engaged with Fanny; they are all +supernatural. 'Thrawn Janet' is off to Stephen, but as it is all +in Scotch he cannot take it, I know. It was SO GOOD, 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. + +Write me a word about Bob's professoriate and Landor, and what you +think of THE BLACK MAN. The tales are all ghastly. 'Thrawn Janet' +frightened me to death. There will maybe be another - 'The Dead +Man's A Letter.' I believe I shall recover; and I am, in this +blessed hope, yours exuberantly, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO PROFESSOR AENEAS MACKAY + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 21, 1881. + +MY DEAR MACKAY, - What is this I hear? - that you are retiring from +your chair. It is not, I hope, from ill-health? + +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. + +Please let me hear a word in answer, and believe me, yours very +sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO PROFESSOR AENEAS MACKAY + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE [JUNE 1881]. + +MY DEAR MACKAY, - 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. + +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 declines a plurality of offices, +makes it perceptibly more difficult for the next man to accept +them. + +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 Constitutional Law were involved; +but this is to look too far forward. + +I understand (1ST) that no overt steps can be taken till your +resignation is accepted; and (2ND) that in the meantime I may, +without offence, mention my design to stand. + +If I am mistaken about these, please correct me, as I do not wish +to appear where I should not. + +Again thanking you very heartily for your coals of fire I remain +yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, JUNE 24, 1881. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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, QUORUM PARS; 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 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. + +Heavens! JE ME SAUVE, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY [JULY 1881]. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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. + +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 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. +QU'EN DIS TU? VIENS. - Yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY [JULY 1881]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMMERTON, - (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. + +It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I was married; it +was a sort of marriage IN EXTREMIS; 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. + +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 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. 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. + +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. + +I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; you have my +warmest wishes for a good cruise down the Saone; 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 Saone. + +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: I fear it is +characteristic of her manners. It was because you did not call +upon the electors! + +Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son? - And believe +me, etc., etc., + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, [JULY 1881]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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, 'Thrawn Janet,' all in Scotch, is accepted +by Stephen; my second, 'The Body Snatchers,' is laid aside in a +justifiable disgust, the tale being horrid; my third, 'The Merry +Men,' 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. + +Fanny has finished one of hers, 'The Shadow on the Bed,' and is now +hammering at a second, for which we have 'no name' as yet - not by +Wilkie Collins. + +TALES FOR WINTER NIGHTS. Yes, that, I think, we will call the lot +of them when republished. + +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. + +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 pounds and its light work, would make me. + +It looks as if we should take Cater's chalet after all; but O! to +go back to that place, it seems cruel. I have not yet received the +Landor; but it may be at home, detained by my mother, who returns +to-morrow. + +Believe me, dear Colvin, ever yours, + +R. L. S. + +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 HAVE 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. + +'The Merry Men' + +Chap. I. Eilean Aros. } +II. What the Wreck had brought to Aros. } Tip +III. Past and Present in Sandag Bay. } Top +IV. The Gale. } Tale. +V. A Man out of the Sea. } + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, JULY 1881. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - I hope, then, to have a visit from you. If +before August, here; if later, at Braemar. Tupe! + +And now, MON BON, I must babble about 'The Merry Men,' 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, Santma Trinid - the +grave in the heather - strangers 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 PIRATE in it, as how should there not? He had +the root of romance in such places. Aros is Earraid, where I lived +lang syne; 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. + +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:- + +1830: A CHAPTER OF ARTISTIC HISTORY, by William Ernest Henley (or +OF SOCIAL AND ARTISTIC HISTORY, as the thing might grow to you). +Sir, you might be in the Athenaeum yet with that; and, believe me, +you might and would be far better, the author of a readable book. - +Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + +The following names have been invented for Wogg by his dear papa:- + +Grunty-pig (when he is scratched), +Rose-mouth (when he comes flying up with his rose-leaf tongue +depending), and +Hoofen-boots (when he has had his foots wet). +How would TALES FOR WINTER NIGHTS do? + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +PITLOCHRY, IF YOU PLEASE, [AUGUST] 1881. + +DEAR HENLEY, - 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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +PITLOCHRY, AUGUST 1881. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +MONDAY, AUGUST (2ND, 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. + +. . . 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. + +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. + +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, +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.' + +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! + +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 snake a good volume. We have now + +Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day. +The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny's copying). +The Merry Men (scrolled). +The Body Snatchers (scrolled). + +IN GERMIS + +The Travelling Companion. +The Torn Surplice (NOT FINAL TITLE). + +Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, SUNDAY, AUGUST 1881. + +MY DEAR SIR, - I should long ago have written to thank you for your +kind and frank letter; but in my state of health papers are apt to +get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this +(Sunday) morning. + +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. + +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. + +The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such +short paper is essentially only a SECTION THROUGH 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 is, as I dare say you know, the +very 'wale' of Scotland - bar Tummelside. - Yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, AUGUST 1881. + +... WELL, 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. + +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 I little flesh in +the meanwhile. I was WONDERFULLY 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. + +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. + +Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under the +blow. - Ever your faithful friend, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +THE COTTAGE (LATE THE LATE MISS M'GREGOR'S), CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, +AUGUST 10, 1881. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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. + +You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, +sir - Your obedient, humble servant. + +We have family worship in the home of, sir - Yours respectfully. + +Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also see) +the maps of, sir - Yours in the Lord. + +A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of two +before the house of, sir - Yours truly. + +The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the late +Miss Macgregor and of, sir - Yours affectionately. + +It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know the +halls of, sir - Yours emphatically. + +All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir - Yours ever. + +You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual collapse of, +sir - Yours indeed. + +And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir - Yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +N.B. - 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. + +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. + +The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending as it does to +foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from the +address, which would therefore run - The Cottage, Castleton of +Braemar. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, AUGUST 19, 1881. + +IF you had an uncle who was a sea captain and went to the North +Pole, you had better bring his outfit. VERBUM SAPIENTIBUS. I look +towards you. + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[BRAEMAR], AUGUST 19, 1881. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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. + +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. + +The sooner the better after Tuesday. - Yours ever, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BRAEMAR [AUGUST 25, 1881]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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, 'The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A +Story for Boys.' + +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 ROUTLEDGE? 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 parient have to be consulted. + +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 BEST 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 'The Sea Cook's' sake. + +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 the 'Sea Cook' 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! + +R. L. S. + +Author of BOYS' STORIES. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +BRAEMAR, 1881. + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP, - My father has gone, but I think 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. + +I do not know how to thank you for all your kind trouble in the +matter of 'The Sea-Cook,' 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! + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BRAEMAR, SEPTEMBER 1881. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - Thanks for your last. The 100 pounds fell +through, or dwindled at least into somewhere about 30 pounds. +However, that I've taken as a mouthful, so you may look out for +'The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Tale of the Buccaneers,' in +YOUNG FOLKS. (The terms are 2 pounds, 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.) + +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 'Sea Cook' will do to reprint, +and bring something decent at that. + +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.' (13) He is now extending over adjacent parts of +Scotland. + +I propose to follow up the 'Sea Cook' at proper intervals by 'Jerry +Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath' (which or its site I must +visit), 'The Leading Light: A Tale of the Coast,' 'The Squaw Men: +or the Wild West,' and other instructive and entertaining work. +'Jerry Abershaw' 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 the 'Sea Cook.' + +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. The 'Sea Cook' is now in its sixteenth +chapter, and bids for well up in the thirties. Each three chapters +is worth 2 pounds, 10s. So we've 12 pounds, 10s. already. + +Don't read Marryat's' PIRATE anyhow; it is written in sand with a +salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, tottering production. But then +we're not always all there. He was all somewhere else that trip. +It's DAMNABLE, Henley. I don't go much on the 'Sea Cook'; but, +Lord, it's a little fruitier than the PIRATE by Cap'n. Marryat. + +Since this was written 'The Cook' is in his nineteenth chapter. +Yo-heave ho! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, AUTUMN 1881.] + +MY DEAR FATHER, - It occurred to me last night in bed that I could +write + +The Murder of Red Colin, +A Story of the Forfeited Estates. + +This I have all that is necessary for, with the following +exceptions:- + +TRIALS OF THE SONS OF ROY ROB WITH ANECDOTES: Edinburgh, 1818, and + +The second volume of BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. + +You might also look in Arnot's CRIMINAL TRIALS 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, AUTUMN [1881]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON, - 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. + +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 NIL. 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. + +Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? 'Hardly one of +us,' said my CONFRERES at the bar. + +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 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. + +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 THE 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. + +How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and +your son, and believe me, yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN], DAVOS, DECEMBER 5, 1881. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - 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 much for solitude as I used to; +results, I suppose, of marriage. + +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 blight at Bonny mainhead? the compass near +the sign of the TWINKLING EYE? the night I lay on the pavement in +misery? + +I swear it by the eternal sky +Johnson - nor Thomson - ne'er shall die! + +Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CHALET BUOL, DAVOS-PLATZ, DECEMBER 26, 1881. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Yesterday, Sunday and Christmas, we finished this +eventful journey by a drive in an OPEN 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. It was a clear, sunny day, but the sun even at noon +falls, at this season, only here and there into the Prattigau. I +kept up as long as I could in an imitation of a street singer:- + +Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, etc. + +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. + +Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd's cold better; I, +with a twinge of the rheumatic; and Fanny better than her ordinary. + +General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the journey: A +prolonged visit to the dentist's, complicated with the fear of +death. + +Never, O never, do you get me there again. - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS-PLATZ, FEBRUARY 1882.] + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - 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 - THE 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS], 22ND FEBRUARY '82. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - Your most welcome letter has raised clouds of +sulphur from my horizon. . . . + +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. + +In an article which will appear sometime in the CORNHILL, 'Talk and +Talkers,' 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. + +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. + +My wife is better again. . . . But we take it by turns; it is the +dog that is ill now. - Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS-PLATZ, FEBRUARY 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 DOGS, by return if it can be +managed. + +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 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. + +I have just finished a paper, 'A Gossip on Romance,' 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. + +To-morrow, having once finished off the touches still due on this, +I shall tackle SAN FRANCISCO 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 Romance, 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, MARCH 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - . . . Last night we had a dinner-party, +consisting of the John Addington, curry, onions (lovely 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. + +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. + +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 - QUEL COUP D'OEIL! but +was it not over-done, 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.) + +Your list of books that Cassells have refused in these weeks is not +quite complete; they also refused:- + +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. + +2. The journals and Private Correspondence of David, King of +Israel. + +3. Poetical Works of Arthur, Iron Dook of Wellington, including a +Monody on Napoleon. + +4. Eight books of an unfinished novel, SOLOMON CRABB. By Henry +Fielding. + +5. Stevenson's Moral Emblems. + +You also neglected to mention, as PER CONTRA, that they had during +the same time accepted and triumphantly published Brown's HANDBOOK +TO CRICKET, Jones's FIRST FRENCH READER, and Robinson's PICTURESQUE +CHESHIRE, uniform with the same author's STATELY HOMES OF SALOP. + +O if that list could come true! How we would tear at Solomon +Crabb! 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 - DAVID - was written in his third +period - much about the same time as Lear? The comedy, APRIL RAIN, +is also a late work. BECKETT is a fine ranting piece, like RICHARD +II., 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. RUFUS is not so good; I am not pleased with +RUFUS; plainly a RIFACCIMENTO of some inferior work; but there are +some damned fine lines. As for the purely satiric ill-minded +ABELARD AND HELOISE, another TROILUS, QUOI! 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. + +I am enjoying SOLOMON CRABB 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 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. + +Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin crack - +This here's a dream, return and study BLACK! + +- Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO ALEXANDER IRELAND + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, MARCH 1882.] + +MY DEAR SIR, - 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 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. + +You ask about Davos; I have discoursed about it already, rather +sillily I think, in the PALL MALL, 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. + +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. + +The best of the present French novelists seems to me, incomparably, +Daudet. LES ROIS EN EXIL 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 +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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - 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.P.S. - 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE. + + + +DAVOS, MARCH 23, 1882. + +MY DEAR WEG, - And I had just written the best note to Mrs. Gosse +that was in my power. Most blameable. + +I now send (for Mrs. Gosse). + +BLACK CANYON. + +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 WASTE, so aptly rendered by the hartis. + +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. + +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 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, MARCH 1882.] + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP, - 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 FAMILIAR STUDIES. 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +CHALET BUOL, DAVOS, APRIL 1, 1882. + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP, - 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; 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. + +Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and I +communicated your remarks. . . . He is a far better and more +interesting thing than any of his books. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +SIMPLY THE FIRST TIME HE HAS EVER GIVEN ONE AWAY. I have to buy my +own works, I can tell you. - Yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, APRIL 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 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. + +If Chatto should take both, CUI DEDICARE? I am running out of +dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is stranded. TREASURE +ISLAND, if it comes out, and I mean it shall, of course goes to +Lloyd. Lemme see, I have now dedicated to + +W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley]. + +S. C. [Sidney Colvin]. + +T. S. [Thomas Stevenson]. + +Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson]. + +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 PRINCE OTTO - Jenkin I suppose sometime - 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. + +Talking of Meredith, I have just re-read for the third and fourth +time THE EGOIST. 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 greatly justify themselves on further study. +Only Dr. Middleton does not hang together; and Ladies Busshe and +Culmer SONT DES MONSTRUOSITES. Vernon's conduct makes a wonderful +odd contrast with Daniel Deronda's. I see more and more that +Meredith is built for immortality. + +Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an immortalet, +claims some attention. THE WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 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 FORTUNE +BY SEA AND LAND 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. + +Byron not only wrote DON JUAN; 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. + +Here is a strange gossip. - I am yours loquaciously, + +R. L. S. + +My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel examination, +an exaNIMation I may call it, had this brave result. TAIAUT! +Hillo! Hey! Stand by! Avast! Hurrah! + + + +Letter: TO MRS. T. STEVENSON + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, APRIL 9, 1882.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Herewith please find belated birthday present. +Fanny has another. + +Cockshot=Jenkin. But +Jack=Bob. pray +Burly=Henley. regard +Athelred=Simpson. these +Opalstein=Symonds. as +Purcel=Gosse. secrets. + +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. + +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. + +I have this winter finished TREASURE ISLAND, written the preface to +the STUDIES, a small book about the INLAND VOYAGE size, THE +SILVERADO SQUATTERS, 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[EDINBURGH] SUNDAY [JUNE 1882]. + +. . . NOTE 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. + +I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have written before, +INTER ALIA, to tell you that I had visited my murder place and +found LIVING TRADITIONS 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 yesterdays - 1+4+7.5 = 12.5 hours and being (9 +A.M.) very anxious to sleep again. The arms of Porpus, quoi! A +poppy gules, etc. + +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 PEEBLES! 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: PERSONAL ADVENTURES IN PEEBLESSHIRE. JE LA TROUVE +MECHANTE. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + +- Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers? I did, +and CA-Y-EST. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +STOBO MANSE, PEEBLESSHIRE [JULY 1882]. + +I would shoot you, but I have no bow: +The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo. +As Gallic Kids complain of 'Bobo,' +I mourn for your mistake of Stobo. + +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. + +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. + +I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence brevity. Answer +about the house. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[STOBO MANSE, JULY 1882.] + +DEAR HENLEY, . . . 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. + +I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, damp, and +MAUCHY; the rain it raineth every day; and the glass goes tol-de- +rol-de riddle. + +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. + +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 aesthAtic,' he +said. 'Pooh!' 'Fishin' and releegion - these are my aysthatics,' +he wound up. + +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 IT.' He is seventy-nine! but may +well last to a hundred! - Yours ever, + +R. L S. + + + + +CHAPTER VI - MARSEILLES AND HYERES, OCTOBER 1882-AUGUST 1884 + + + + +Letter: TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'NEW YORK TRIBUNE' + + + +TERMINUS HOTEL, MARSEILLES, OCTOBER 16, 1882. + +SIR, - It has come to my ears that you have lent the authority of +your columns to an error. + +More than half in pleasantry - and I now think the pleasantry ill- +judged - I complained in a note to my NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS that some +one, who shall remain nameless for me, had borrowed the idea of a +story from one of mine. As if I had not borrowed the ideas of the +half of my own! As if any one who had written a story ill had a +right to complain of any other who should have written it better! +I am indeed thoroughly ashamed of the note, and of the principle +which it implies. + +But it is no mere abstract penitence which leads me to beg a corner +of your paper - it is the desire to defend the honour of a man of +letters equally known in America and England, of a man who could +afford to lend to me and yet be none the poorer; and who, if he +would so far condescend, has my free permission to borrow from me +all that he can find worth borrowing. + +Indeed, sir, I am doubly surprised at your correspondent's error. +That James Payn should have borrowed from me is already a strange +conception. The author of LOST SIR MASSINGBERD and BY PROXY may be +trusted to invent his own stories. The author of A GRAPE FROM A +THORN knows enough, in his own right, of the humorous and pathetic +sides of human nature. + +But what is far more monstrous - what argues total ignorance of the +man in question - is the idea that James Payn could ever have +transgressed the limits of professional propriety. I may tell his +thousands of readers on your side of the Atlantic that there +breathes no man of letters more inspired by kindness and generosity +to his brethren of the profession, and, to put an end to any +possibility of error, I may be allowed to add that I often have +recourse, and that I had recourse once more but a few weeks ago, to +the valuable practical help which he makes it his pleasure to +extend to younger men. + +I send a duplicate of this letter to a London weekly; for the +mistake, first set forth in your columns, has already reached +England, and my wanderings have made me perhaps last of the persons +interested to hear a word of it. - I am, etc., + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + +TERMINUS HOTEL, MARSEILLE, SATURDAY (OCTOBER 1882). + +MY DEAR BOB, - We have found a house! - at Saint Marcel, Banlieue +de Marseille. In a lovely valley between hills part wooded, part +white cliffs; a house of a dining-room, of a fine salon - one side +lined with a long divan - three good bedrooms (two of them with +dressing-rooms), three small rooms (chambers of BONNE and sich), a +large kitchen, a lumber room, many cupboards, a back court, a +large, large olive yard, cultivated by a resident PAYSAN, a well, a +berceau, a good deal of rockery, a little pine shrubbery, a railway +station in front, two lines of omnibus to Marseille. + +48 pounds per annum. + +It is called Campagne Defli! query Campagne Debug? The Campagne +Demosquito goes on here nightly, and is very deadly. Ere we can +get installed, we shall be beggared to the door, I see. + +I vote for separations; F.'s arrival here, after our separation, +was better fun to me than being married was by far. A separation +completed is a most valuable property; worth piles. - Ever your +affectionate cousin, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +TERMINUS HOTEL, MARSEILLE, LE 17TH OCTOBER 1882. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - . . We grow, every time we see it, more +delighted with our house. It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a +lovely spot, among lovely wooded and cliffy hills - most +mountainous in line - far lovelier, to my eyes, than any Alps. To- +day we have been out inventorying; and though a mistral blew, it +was delightful in an open cab, and our house with the windows open +was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear there are fleas - +it is called Campagne Defli - and I look forward to tons of +insecticide being employed. + +I have had to write a letter to the NEW YORK TRIBUNE and the +ATHENAEUM. Payn was accused of stealing my stories! I think I +have put things handsomely for him. + +Just got a servant! ! ! - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +Our servant is a Muckle Hash of a Weedy! + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CAMPAGNE DEFLI, ST. MARCEL, BANLIEUE DE MARSEILLE, NOVEMBER 13, +1882. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Your delightful letters duly arrived this +morning. They were the only good feature of the day, which was not +a success. Fanny was in bed - she begged I would not split upon +her, she felt so guilty; but as I believe she is better this +evening, and has a good chance to be right again in a day or two, I +will disregard her orders. I do not go back, but do not go forward +- or not much. It is, in one way, miserable - for I can do no +work; a very little wood-cutting, the newspapers, and a note about +every two days to write, completely exhausts my surplus energy; +even Patience I have to cultivate with parsimony. I see, if I +could only get to work, that we could live here with comfort, +almost with luxury. Even as it is, we should be able to get +through a considerable time of idleness. I like the place +immensely, though I have seen so little of it - I have only been +once outside the gate since I was here! It puts me in mind of a +summer at Prestonpans and a sickly child you once told me of. + +Thirty-two years now finished! My twenty-ninth was in San +Francisco, I remember - rather a bleak birthday. The twenty-eighth +was not much better; but the rest have been usually pleasant days +in pleasant circumstances. + +Love to you and to my father and to Cummy. + +From me and Fanny and Wogg. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +GRAND HOTEL, NICE, 12TH JANUARY '83. + +DEAR CHARLES, - Thanks for your good letter. It is true, man, +God's truth, what ye say about the body Stevison. The deil himsel, +it's my belief, couldnae get the soul harled oot o' the creature's +wame, or he had seen the hinder end o' they proofs. Ye crack o' +Maecenas, he's naebody by you! He gied the lad Horace a rax forrit +by all accounts; but he never gied him proofs like yon. Horace may +hae been a better hand at the clink than Stevison - mind, I'm no +sayin' 't - but onyway he was never sae weel prentit. Damned, but +it's bonny! Hoo mony pages will there be, think ye? Stevison maun +hae sent ye the feck o' twenty sangs - fifteen I'se warrant. Weel, +that'll can make thretty pages, gin ye were to prent on ae side +only, whilk wad be perhaps what a man o' your GREAT idees would be +ettlin' at, man Johnson. Then there wad be the Pre-face, an' prose +ye ken prents oot langer than po'try at the hinder end, for ye hae +to say things in't. An' then there'll be a title-page and a +dedication and an index wi' the first lines like, and the deil an' +a'. Man, it'll be grand. Nae copies to be given to the Liberys. + +I am alane myself, in Nice, they ca't, but damned, I think they +micht as well ca't Nesty. The Pile-on, 's they ca't, 's aboot as +big as the river Tay at Perth; and it's rainin' maist like +Greenock. Dod, I've seen 's had mair o' what they ca' the I-talian +at Muttonhole. I-talian! I haenae seen the sun for eicht and +forty hours. Thomson's better, I believe. But the body's fair +attenyated. He's doon to seeven stane eleeven, an' he sooks awa' +at cod liver ile, till it's a fair disgrace. Ye see he tak's it on +a drap brandy; and it's my belief, it's just an excuse for a dram. +He an' Stevison gang aboot their lane, maistly; they're company to +either, like, an' whiles they'll speak o'Johnson. But HE'S far +awa', losh me! Stevison's last book's in a third edeetion; an' +it's bein' translated (like the psaulms o' David, nae less) into +French; and an eediot they ca' Asher - a kind o' rival of Tauchnitz +- is bringin' him oot in a paper book for the Frenchies and the +German folk in twa volumes. Sae he's in luck, ye see. - Yours, + +THOMSON. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +[NICE FEBRUARY 1883.] + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - You must think, and quite justly, that I am one of +the meanest rogues in creation. But though I do not write (which +is a thing I hate), it by no means follows that people are out of +my mind. It is natural that I should always think more or less +about you, and still more natural that I should think of you when I +went back to Nice. But the real reason why you have been more in +my mind than usual is because of some little verses that I have +been writing, and that I mean to make a book of; and the real +reason of this letter (although I ought to have written to you +anyway) is that I have just seen that the book in question must be +dedicated to + +ALISON CUNNINGHAM, + +the only person who will really understand it. I don't know when +it may be ready, for it has to be illustrated, but I hope in the +meantime you may like the idea of what is to be; and when the time +comes, I shall try to make the dedication as pretty as I can make +it. Of course, this is only a flourish, like taking off one's hat; +but still, a person who has taken the trouble to write things does +not dedicate them to any one without meaning it; and you must just +try to take this dedication in place of a great many things that I +might have said, and that I ought to have done, to prove that I am +not altogether unconscious of the great debt of gratitude I owe +you. This little book, which is all about my childhood, should +indeed go to no other person but you, who did so much to make that +childhood happy. + +Do you know, we came very near sending for you this winter. If we +had not had news that you were ill too, I almost believe we should +have done so, we were so much in trouble. + +I am now very well; but my wife has had a very, very bad spell, +through overwork and anxiety, when I was LOST! I suppose you heard +of that. She sends you her love, and hopes you will write to her, +though she no more than I deserves it. She would add a word +herself, but she is too played out. - I am, ever your old boy, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[NICE, MARCH 1883.] + +MY DEAR LAD, - This is to announce to you the MS. of Nursery +Verses, now numbering XLVIII. pieces or 599 verses, which, of +course, one might augment AD INFINITUM. + +But here is my notion to make all clear. + +I do not want a big ugly quarto; my soul sickens at the look of a +quarto. I want a refined octavo, not large - not LARGER than the +DONKEY BOOK, at any price. + +I think the full page might hold four verses of four lines, that is +to say, counting their blanks at two, of twenty-two lines in +height. The first page of each number would only hold two verses +or ten lines, the title being low down. At this rate, we should +have seventy-eight or eighty pages of letterpress. + +The designs should not be in the text, but facing the poem; so that +if the artist liked, he might give two pages of design to every +poem that turned the leaf, I.E. longer than eight lines, I.E. to +twenty-eight out of the forty-six. I should say he would not use +this privilege (?) above five times, and some he might scorn to +illustrate at all, so we may say fifty drawings. I shall come to +the drawings next. + +But now you see my book of the thickness, since the drawings count +two pages, of 180 pages; and since the paper will perhaps be +thicker, of near two hundred by bulk. It is bound in a quiet green +with the words in thin gilt. Its shape is a slender, tall octavo. +And it sells for the publisher's fancy, and it will be a darling to +look at; in short, it would be like one of the original Heine books +in type and spacing. + +Now for the pictures. I take another sheet and begin to jot notes +for them when my imagination serves: I will run through the book, +writing when I have an idea. There, I have jotted enough to give +the artist a notion. Of course, I don't do more than contribute +ideas, but I will be happy to help in any and every way. I may as +well add another idea; when the artist finds nothing much to +illustrate, a good drawing of any OBJECT mentioned in the text, +were it only a loaf of bread or a candlestick, is a most delightful +thing to a young child. I remember this keenly. + +Of course, if the artist insists on a larger form, I must I +suppose, bow my head. But my idea I am convinced is the best, and +would make the book truly, not fashionably pretty. + +I forgot to mention that I shall have a dedication; I am going to +dedicate 'em to Cummy; it will please her, and lighten a little my +burthen of ingratitude. A low affair is the Muse business. + +I will add no more to this lest you should want to communicate with +the artist; try another sheet. I wonder how many I'll keep +wandering to. + +O I forgot. As for the title, I think 'Nursery Verses' the best. +Poetry is not the strong point of the text, and I shrink from any +title that might seem to claim that quality; otherwise we might +have 'Nursery Muses' or 'New Songs of Innocence' (but that were a +blasphemy), or 'Rimes of Innocence': the last not bad, or - an +idea - 'The Jews' Harp,' or - now I have it - 'The Penny Whistle.' + + +THE PENNY WHISTLE: +NURSERY VERSES +BY +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. +ILLUSTRATED BY - - - + + +And here we have an excellent frontispiece, of a party playing on a +P. W. to a little ring of dancing children. + + +THE PENNY WHISTLE +is the name for me. + + +Fool! this is all wrong, here is the true name:- + + +PENNY WHISTLES +FOR SMALL WHISTLERS. + + +The second title is queried, it is perhaps better, as simply PENNY +WHISTLES. + + +Nor you, O Penny Whistler, grudge +That I your instrument debase: +By worse performers still we judge, +And give that fife a second place! + +Crossed penny whistles on the cover, or else a sheaf of 'em. + + +SUGGESTIONS. + + +IV. The procession - the child running behind it. The procession +tailing off through the gates of a cloudy city. + +IX. FOREIGN LANDS. - This will, I think, want two plates - the +child climbing, his first glimpse over the garden wall, with what +he sees - the tree shooting higher and higher like the beanstalk, +and the view widening. The river slipping in. The road arriving +in Fairyland. + +X. WINDY NIGHTS. - The child in bed listening - the horseman +galloping. + +XII. The child helplessly watching his ship - then he gets smaller, +and the doll joyfully comes alive - the pair landing on the island +- the ship's deck with the doll steering and the child firing the +penny canon. Query two plates? The doll should never come +properly alive. + +XV. Building of the ship - storing her - Navigation - Tom's +accident, the other child paying no attention. + +XXXI. THE WIND. - I sent you my notion of already. + +XXXVII. FOREIGN CHILDREN. - The foreign types dancing in a jing-a- +ring, with the English child pushing in the middle. The foreign +children looking at and showing each other marvels. The English +child at the leeside of a roast of beef. The English child sitting +thinking with his picture-books all round him, and the jing-a-ring +of the foreign children in miniature dancing over the picture- +books. + +XXXIX. Dear artist, can you do me that? + +XLII. The child being started off - the bed sailing, curtains and +all, upon the sea - the child waking and finding himself at home; +the corner of toilette might be worked in to look like the pier. + +XLVII. The lighted part of the room, to be carefully distinguished +from my child's dark hunting grounds. A shaded lamp. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DES ILES D'OR, HYERES, VAR, MARCH 2, [1883]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - It must be at least a fortnight since we have had +a scratch of a pen from you; and if it had not been for Cummy's +letter, I should have feared you were worse again: as it is, I +hope we shall hear from you to-day or to-morrow at latest. + +HEALTH. + +Our news is good: Fanny never got so bad as we feared, and we hope +now that this attack may pass off in threatenings. I am greatly +better, have gained flesh, strength, spirits; eat well, walk a good +deal, and do some work without fatigue. I am off the sick list. + +LODGING. + +We have found a house up the hill, close to the town, an excellent +place though very, very little. If I can get the landlord to agree +to let us take it by the month just now, and let our month's rent +count for the year in case we take it on, you may expect to hear we +are again installed, and to receive a letter dated thus:- + + +La Solitude, +Hyeres-les-Palmiers, +Var. + + +If the man won't agree to that, of course I must just give it up, +as the house would be dear enough anyway at 2000 f. However, I +hope we may get it, as it is healthy, cheerful, and close to shops, +and society, and civilisation. The garden, which is above, is +lovely, and will be cool in summer. There are two rooms below with +a kitchen, and four rooms above, all told. - Ever your affectionate +son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DES ILES D'OR, BUT MY ADDRESS WILL BE CHALET LA SOLITUDE, +HYERES-LE-PALMIERS, VAR, FRANCE, MARCH 17, 1883. + +DEAR SIR, - Your undated favour from Eastbourne came to hand in +course of post, and I now hasten to acknowledge its receipt. We +must ask you in future, for the convenience of our business +arrangements, to struggle with and tread below your feet this most +unsatisfactory and uncommercial habit. Our Mr. Cassandra is +better; our Mr. Wogg expresses himself dissatisfied with our new +place of business; when left alone in the front shop, he bawled +like a parrot; it is supposed the offices are haunted. + +To turn to the matter of your letter, your remarks on GREAT +EXPECTATIONS are very good. We have both re-read it this winter, +and I, in a manner, twice. The object being a play; the play, in +its rough outline, I now see: and it is extraordinary how much of +Dickens had to be discarded as unhuman, impossible, and +ineffective: all that really remains is the loan of a file (but +from a grown-up young man who knows what he was doing, and to a +convict who, although he does not know it is his father - the +father knows it is his son), and the fact of the convict-father's +return and disclosure of himself to the son whom he has made rich. +Everything else has been thrown aside; and the position has had to +be explained by a prologue which is pretty strong. I have great +hopes of this piece, which is very amiable and, in places, very +strong indeed: but it was curious how Dickens had to be rolled +away; he had made his story turn on such improbabilities, such +fantastic trifles, not on a good human basis, such as I recognised. +You are right about the casts, they were a capital idea; a good +description of them at first, and then afterwards, say second, for +the lawyer to have illustrated points out of the history of the +originals, dusting the particular bust - that was all the +development the thing would bear. Dickens killed them. The only +really well EXECUTED scenes are the riverside ones; the escape in +particular is excellent; and I may add, the capture of the two +convicts at the beginning. Miss Havisham is, probably, the worst +thing in human fiction. But Wemmick I like; and I like Trabb's +boy; and Mr. Wopsle as Hamlet is splendid. + +The weather here is greatly improved, and I hope in three days to +be in the chalet. That is, if I get some money to float me there. + +I hope you are all right again, and will keep better. The month of +March is past its mid career; it must soon begin to turn toward the +lamb; here it has already begun to do so; and I hope milder weather +will pick you up. Wogg has eaten a forpet of rice and milk, his +beard is streaming, his eyes wild. I am besieged by demands of +work from America. + +The 50 pounds has just arrived; many thanks; I am now at ease. - +Ever your affectionate son, PRO Cassandra, Wogg and Co., + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 1883]. + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - I am one of the lowest of the - but that's +understood. I received the copy, excellently written, with I think +only one slip from first to last. I have struck out two, and added +five or six; so they now number forty-five; when they are fifty, +they shall out on the world. I have not written a letter for a +cruel time; I have been, and am, so busy, drafting a long story +(for me, I mean), about a hundred CORNHILL pages, or say about as +long as the Donkey book: PRINCE OTTO it is called, and is, at the +present hour, a sore burthen but a hopeful. If I had him all +drafted, I should whistle and sing. But no: then I'll have to +rewrite him; and then there will be the publishers, alas! But some +time or other, I shall whistle and sing, I make no doubt. + +I am going to make a fortune, it has not yet begun, for I am not +yet clear of debt; but as soon as I can, I begin upon the fortune. +I shall begin it with a halfpenny, and it shall end with horses and +yachts and all the fun of the fair. This is the first real grey +hair in my character: rapacity has begun to show, the greed of the +protuberant guttler. Well, doubtless, when the hour strikes, we +must all guttle and protube. But it comes hard on one who was +always so willow-slender and as careless as the daisies. + +Truly I am in excellent spirits. I have crushed through a +financial crisis; Fanny is much better; I am in excellent health, +and work from four to five hours a day - from one to two above my +average, that is; and we all dwell together and make fortunes in +the loveliest house you ever saw, with a garden like a fairy story, +and a view like a classical landscape. + +Little? Well, it is not large. And when you come to see us, you +will probably have to bed at the hotel, which is hard by. But it +is Eden, madam, Eden and Beulah and the Delectable Mountains and +Eldorado and the Hesperidean Isles and Bimini. + +We both look forward, my dear friend, with the greatest eagerness +to have you here. It seems it is not to be this season; but I +appoint you with an appointment for next season. You cannot see us +else: remember that. Till my health has grown solid like an oak- +tree, till my fortune begins really to spread its boughs like the +same monarch of the woods (and the acorn, ay de mi! is not yet +planted), I expect to be a prisoner among the palms. + +Yes, it is like old times to be writing you from the Riviera, and +after all that has come and gone who can predict anything? How +fortune tumbles men about! Yet I have not found that they change +their friends, thank God. + +Both of our loves to your sister and yourself. As for me, if I am +here and happy, I know to whom I owe it; I know who made my way for +me in life, if that were all, and I remain, with love, your +faithful friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I am very guilty; I should have written to you +long ago; and now, though it must be done, I am so stupid that I +can only boldly recapitulate. A phrase of three members is the +outside of my syntax. + +First, I liked the ROVER better than any of your other verse. I +believe you are right, and can make stories in verse. The last two +stanzas and one or two in the beginning - but the two last above +all - I thought excellent. I suggest a pursuit of the vein. If +you want a good story to treat, get the MEMOIRS OF THE CHEVALIER +JOHNSTONE, and do his passage of the Tay; it would be excellent: +the dinner in the field, the woman he has to follow, the dragoons, +the timid boatmen, the brave lasses. It would go like a charm; +look at it, and you will say you owe me one. + +Second, Gilder asking me for fiction, I suddenly took a great +resolve, and have packed off to him my new work, THE SILVERADO +SQUATTERS. I do not for a moment suppose he will take it; but pray +say all the good words you can for it. I should be awfully glad to +get it taken. But if it does not mean dibbs at once, I shall be +ruined for life. Pray write soon and beg Gilder your prettiest for +a poor gentleman in pecuniary sloughs. + +Fourth, next time I am supposed to be at death's door, write to me +like a Christian, and let not your correspondence attend on +business. - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + +P.S. - I see I have led you to conceive the SQUATTERS are fiction. +They are not, alas! + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CHALET SOLITUDE, MAY 5, [1883]. + +MY DEAREST PEOPLE, - I have had a great piece of news. There has +been offered for TREASURE ISLAND - how much do you suppose? I +believe it would be an excellent jest to keep the answer till my +next letter. For two cents I would do so. Shall I? Anyway, I'll +turn the page first. No - well - A hundred pounds, all alive, O! +A hundred jingling, tingling, golden, minted quid. Is not this +wonderful? Add that I have now finished, in draft, the fifteenth +chapter of my novel, and have only five before me, and you will see +what cause of gratitude I have. + +The weather, to look at the per contra sheet, continues vomitable; +and Fanny is quite out of sorts. But, really, with such cause of +gladness, I have not the heart to be dispirited by anything. My +child's verse book is finished, dedication and all, and out of my +hands - you may tell Cummy; SILVERADO is done, too, and cast upon +the waters; and this novel so near completion, it does look as if I +should support myself without trouble in the future. If I have +only health, I can, I thank God. It is dreadful to be a great, big +man, and not be able to buy bread. + +O that this may last! + +I have to-day paid my rent for the half year, till the middle of +September, and got my lease: why they have been so long, I know +not. + +I wish you all sorts of good things. + +When is our marriage day? - Your loving and ecstatic son, + +TREESURE EILAAN, + +It has been for me a Treasure Island verily. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, MAY 8, 1883. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - I was disgusted to hear my father was not so +well. I have a most troubled existence of work and business. But +the work goes well, which is the great affair. I meant to have +written a most delightful letter; too tired, however, and must +stop. Perhaps I'll find time to add to it ere post. + +I have returned refreshed from eating, but have little time, as +Lloyd will go soon with the letters on his way to his tutor, Louis +Robert (!!!!), with whom he learns Latin in French, and French, I +suppose, in Latin, which seems to me a capital education. He, +Lloyd, is a great bicycler already, and has been long distances; he +is most new-fangled over his instrument, and does not willingly +converse on other subjects. + +Our lovely garden is a prey to snails; I have gathered about a +bushel, which, not having the heart to slay, I steal forth withal +and deposit near my neighbour's garden wall. As a case of +casuistry, this presents many points of interest. I loathe the +snails, but from loathing to actual butchery, trucidation of +multitudes, there is still a step that I hesitate to take. What, +then, to do with them? My neighbour's vineyard, pardy! It is a +rich, villa, pleasure-garden of course; if it were a peasant's +patch, the snails, I suppose, would have to perish. + +The weather these last three days has been much better, though it +is still windy and unkind. I keep splendidly well, and am cruelly +busy, with mighty little time even for a walk. And to write at +all, under such pressure, must be held to lean to virtue's side. + +My financial prospects are shining. O if the health will hold, I +should easily support myself. - Your ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [MAY 20, 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I enclose the receipt and the corrections. As for +your letter and Gilder's, I must take an hour or so to think; the +matter much importing - to me. The 40 pounds was a heavenly thing. + +I send the MS. by Henley, because he acts for me in all matters, +and had the thing, like all my other books, in his detention. He +is my unpaid agent - an admirable arrangement for me, and one that +has rather more than doubled my income on the spot. + +If I have been long silent, think how long you were so and blush, +sir, blush. + +I was rendered unwell by the arrival of your cheque, and, like +Pepys, 'my hand still shakes to write of it.' To this grateful +emotion, and not to D.T., please attribute the raggedness of my +hand. + +This year I should be able to live and keep my family on my own +earnings, and that in spite of eight months and more of perfect +idleness at the end of last and beginning of this. It is a sweet +thought. + +This spot, our garden and our view, are sub-celestial. I sing +daily with my Bunyan, that great bard, + + +'I dwell already the next door to Heaven!' + + +If you could see my roses, and my aloes, and my fig-marigolds, and +my olives, and my view over a plain, and my view of certain +mountains as graceful as Apollo, as severe as Zeus, you would not +think the phrase exaggerated. + +It is blowing to-day a HOT mistral, which is the devil or a near +connection of his. + +This to catch the post. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, FRANCE, MAY 21, 1883. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - The night giveth advice, generally bad advice; but +I have taken it. And I have written direct to Gilder to tell him +to keep the book back and go on with it in November at his leisure. +I do not know if this will come in time; if it doesn't, of course +things will go on in the way proposed. The 40 pounds, or, as I +prefer to put it, the 1000 francs, has been such a piercing sun-ray +as my whole grey life is gilt withal. On the back of it I can +endure. If these good days of LONGMAN and the CENTURY only last, +it will be a very green world, this that we dwell in and that +philosophers miscall. I have no taste for that philosophy; give me +large sums paid on the receipt of the MS. and copyright reserved, +and what do I care about the non-beent? Only I know it can't last. +The devil always has an imp or two in every house, and my imps are +getting lively. The good lady, the dear, kind lady, the sweet, +excellent lady, Nemesis, whom alone I adore, has fixed her wooden +eye upon me. I fall prone; spare me, Mother Nemesis! But catch +her! + +I must now go to bed; for I have had a whoreson influenza cold, and +have to lie down all day, and get up only to meals and the +delights, June delights, of business correspondence. + +You said nothing about my subject for a poem. Don't you like it? +My own fishy eye has been fixed on it for prose, but I believe it +could be thrown out finely in verse, and hence I resign and pass +the hand. Twig the compliment? - Yours affectionately + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[HYERES, MAY 1883.] + +. . . THE influenza has busted me a good deal; I have no spring, +and am headachy. So, as my good Red Lion Counter begged me for +another Butcher's Boy - I turned me to - what thinkest 'ou? - to +Tushery, by the mass! Ay, friend, a whole tale of tushery. And +every tusher tushes me so free, that may I be tushed if the whole +thing is worth a tush. THE BLACK ARROW: A TALE OF TUNSTALL FOREST +is his name: tush! a poor thing! + +Will TREASURE ISLAND proofs be coming soon, think you? + +I will now make a confession. It was the sight of your maimed +strength and masterfulness that begot John Silver in TREASURE +ISLAND. Of course, he is not in any other quality or feature the +least like you; but the idea of the maimed man, ruling and dreaded +by the sound, was entirely taken from you. + +Otto is, as you say, not a thing to extend my public on. It is +queer and a little, little bit free; and some of the parties are +immoral; and the whole thing is not a romance, nor yet a comedy; +nor yet a romantic comedy; but a kind of preparation of some of the +elements of all three in a glass jar. I think it is not without +merit, but I am not always on the level of my argument, and some +parts are false, and much of the rest is thin; it is more a triumph +for myself than anything else; for I see, beyond it, better stuff. +I have nine chapters ready, or almost ready, for press. My feeling +would be to get it placed anywhere for as much as could be got for +it, and rather in the shadow, till one saw the look of it in print. +- Ever yours, + +PRETTY SICK. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, MAY 1883. + +MY DEAR LAD, - The books came some time since, but I have not had +the pluck to answer: a shower of small troubles having fallen in, +or troubles that may be very large. + +I have had to incur a huge vague debt for cleaning sewers; our +house was (of course) riddled with hidden cesspools, but that was +infallible. I have the fever, and feel the duty to work very heavy +on me at times; yet go it must. I have had to leave FONTAINEBLEAU, +when three hours would finish it, and go full-tilt at tushery for a +while. But it will come soon. + +I think I can give you a good article on Hokusai; but that is for +afterwards; FONTAINEBLEAU is first in hand + +By the way, my view is to give the PENNY WHISTLES to Crane or +Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is a fellow who, +at least, always does his best. + +Shall I ever have money enough to write a play? O dire necessity! + +A word in your ear: I don't like trying to support myself. I hate +the strain and the anxiety; and when unexpected expenses are +foisted on me, I feel the world is playing with false dice. - Now I +must Tush, adieu, + +AN ACHING, FEVERED, PENNY-JOURNALIST. + +A lytle Jape of TUSHERIE. + +By A. Tusher. + +The pleasant river gushes +Among the meadows green; +At home the author tushes; +For him it flows unseen. + +The Birds among the Bushes +May wanton on the spray; +But vain for him who tushes +The brightness of the day! + +The frog among the rushes +Sits singing in the blue. +By'r la'kin! but these tushes +Are wearisome to do! + +The task entirely crushes +The spirit of the bard: +God pity him who tushes - +His task is very hard. + +The filthy gutter slushes, +The clouds are full of rain, +But doomed is he who tushes +To tush and tush again. + +At morn with his hair-brUshes, +Still, 'tush' he says, and weeps; +At night again he tushes, +And tushes till he sleeps. + +And when at length he pushes +Beyond the river dark - +'Las, to the man who tushes, +'Tush' shall be God's remark! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, MAY 1883.] + +DEAR HENLEY, - You may be surprised to hear that I am now a great +writer of verses; that is, however, so. I have the mania now like +my betters, and faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a +book of rhymes like Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. Really, I +have begun to learn some of the rudiments of that trade, and have +written three or four pretty enough pieces of octosyllabic +nonsense, semi-serious, semi-smiling. A kind of prose Herrick, +divested of the gift of verse, and you behold the Bard. But I like +it. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +HYERES [JUNE 1883]. + +DEAR LAD, - I was delighted to hear the good news about -. Bravo, +he goes uphill fast. Let him beware of vanity, and he will go +higher; let him be still discontented, and let him (if it might be) +see the merits and not the faults of his rivals, and he may swarm +at last to the top-gallant. There is no other way. Admiration is +the only road to excellence; and the critical spirit kills, but +envy and injustice are putrefaction on its feet. + +Thus far the moralist. The eager author now begs to know whether +you may have got the other Whistles, and whether a fresh proof is +to be taken; also whether in that case the dedication should not be +printed therewith; Bulk Delights Publishers (original aphorism; to +be said sixteen times in succession as a test of sobriety). + +Your wild and ravening commands were received; but cannot be +obeyed. And anyway, I do assure you I am getting better every day; +and if the weather would but turn, I should soon be observed to +walk in hornpipes. Truly I am on the mend. I am still very +careful. I have the new dictionary; a joy, a thing of beauty, and +- bulk. I shall be raked i' the mools before it's finished; that +is the only pity; but meanwhile I sing. + +I beg to inform you that I, Robert Louis Stevenson, author of +BRASHIANA and other works, am merely beginning to commence to +prepare to make a first start at trying to understand my +profession. O the height and depth of novelty and worth in any +art! and O that I am privileged to swim and shoulder through such +oceans! Could one get out of sight of land - all in the blue? +Alas not, being anchored here in flesh, and the bonds of logic +being still about us. + +But what a great space and a great air there is in these small +shallows where alone we venture! and how new each sight, squall, +calm, or sunrise! An art is a fine fortune, a palace in a park, a +band of music, health, and physical beauty; all but love - to any +worthy practiser. I sleep upon my art for a pillow; I waken in my +art; I am unready for death, because I hate to leave it. I love my +wife, I do not know how much, nor can, nor shall, unless I lost +her; but while I can conceive my being widowed, I refuse the +offering of life without my art. I AM not but in my art; it is me; +I am the body of it merely. + +And yet I produce nothing, am the author of BRASHIANA and other +works: tiddy-iddity - as if the works one wrote were anything but +'prentice's experiments. Dear reader, I deceive you with husks, +the real works and all the pleasure are still mine and +incommunicable. After this break in my work, beginning to return +to it, as from light sleep, I wax exclamatory, as you see. + +Sursum Corda: +Heave ahead: +Here's luck. +Art and Blue Heaven, +April and God's Larks. +Green reeds and the sky-scattering river. +A stately music. +Enter God! + +R. L. S. + +Ay, but you know, until a man can write that 'Enter God,' he has +made no art! None! Come, let us take counsel together and make +some! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES [SUMMER 1883]. + +DEAR LAD, - Glad you like FONTAINEBLEAU. I am going to be the +means, under heaven, of aerating or liberating your pages. The +idea that because a thing is a picture-book all the writing should +be on the wrong tack is TRISTE but widespread. Thus Hokusai will +be really a gossip on convention, or in great part. And the Skelt +will be as like a Charles Lamb as I can get it. The writer should +write, and not illustrate pictures: else it's bosh. . . . + +Your remarks about the ugly are my eye. Ugliness is only the prose +of horror. It is when you are not able to write MACBETH that you +write THERESE RAQUIN. Fashions are external: the essence of art +only varies in so far as fashion widens the field of its +application; art is a mill whose thirlage, in different ages, +widens and contracts; but, in any case and under any fashion, the +great man produces beauty, terror, and mirth, and the little man +produces cleverness (personalities, psychology) instead of beauty, +ugliness instead of terror, and jokes instead of mirth. As it was +in the beginning, is now, and shall be ever, world without end. +Amen! + +And even as you read, you say, 'Of course, QUELLE RENGAINE!' + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES [SUMMER 1883]. + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - Yes, I own I am a real bad correspondent, and am +as bad as can be in most directions. + +I have been adding some more poems to your book. I wish they would +look sharp about it; but, you see, they are trying to find a good +artist to make the illustrations, without which no child would give +a kick for it. It will be quite a fine work, I hope. The +dedication is a poem too, and has been quite a long while written, +but I do not mean you to see it till you get the book; keep the +jelly for the last, you know, as you would often recommend in +former days, so now you can take your own medicine. + +I am very sorry to hear you have been so poorly; I have been very +well; it used to be quite the other way, used it not? Do you +remember making the whistle at Mount Chessie? I do not think it +WAS my knife; I believe it was yours; but rhyme is a very great +monarch, and goes before honesty, in these affairs at least. Do +you remember, at Warriston, one autumn Sunday, when the beech nuts +were on the ground, seeing heaven open? I would like to make a +rhyme of that, but cannot. + +Is it not strange to think of all the changes: Bob, Cramond, +Delhi, Minnie, and Henrietta, all married, and fathers and mothers, +and your humble servant just the one point better off? And such a +little while ago all children together! The time goes swift and +wonderfully even; and if we are no worse than we are, we should be +grateful to the power that guides us. For more than a generation I +have now been to the fore in this rough world, and been most +tenderly helped, and done cruelly wrong, and yet escaped; and here +I am still, the worse for wear, but with some fight in me still, +and not unthankful - no, surely not unthankful, or I were then the +worst of human beings! + +My little dog is a very much better child in every way, both more +loving and more amiable; but he is not fond of strangers, and is, +like most of his kind, a great, specious humbug. + +Fanny has been ill, but is much better again; she now goes donkey +rides with an old woman, who compliments her on her French. That +old woman - seventy odd - is in a parlous spiritual state. + +Pretty soon, in the new sixpenny illustrated magazine, Wogg's +picture is to appear: this is a great honour! And the poor soul +whose vanity would just explode if he could understand it, will +never be a bit the wiser! - With much love, in which Fanny joins, +believe me, your affectionate boy, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, SUMMER 1883. + +DEAR LAD, - Snatches in return for yours; for this little once, I'm +well to windward of you. + +Seventeen chapters of OTTO are now drafted, and finding I was +working through my voice and getting screechy, I have turned back +again to rewrite the earlier part. It has, I do believe, some +merit: of what order, of course, I am the last to know; and, +triumph of triumphs, my wife - my wife who hates and loathes and +slates my women - admits a great part of my Countess to be on the +spot. + +Yes, I could borrow, but it is the joy of being before the public, +for once. Really, 100 pounds is a sight more than TREASURE ISLAND +is worth. + +The reason of my DECHE? Well, if you begin one house, have to +desert it, begin another, and are eight months without doing any +work, you will be in a DECHE too. I am not in a DECHE, however; +DISTINGUO - I would fain distinguish; I am rather a swell, but NOT +SOLVENT. At a touch the edifice, AEDIFICIUM, might collapse. If +my creditors began to babble around me, I would sink with a slow +strain of music into the crimson west. The difficulty in my +elegant villa is to find oil, OLEUM, for the dam axles. But I've +paid my rent until September; and beyond the chemist, the grocer, +the baker, the doctor, the gardener, Lloyd's teacher, and the great +thief creditor Death, I can snap my fingers at all men. Why will +people spring bills on you? I try to make 'em charge me at the +moment; they won't, the money goes, the debt remains. - The +Required Play is in the MERRY MEN. + +Q. E. F. + +I thus render honour to your FLAIR; it came on me of a clap; I do +not see it yet beyond a kind of sunset glory. But it's there: +passion, romance, the picturesque, involved: startling, simple, +horrid: a sea-pink in sea-froth! S'AGIT DE LA DESENTERRER. +'Help!' cries a buried masterpiece. + +Once I see my way to the year's end, clear, I turn to plays; till +then I grind at letters; finish OTTO; write, say, a couple of my +TRAVELLER'S TALES; and then, if all my ships come home, I will +attack the drama in earnest. I cannot mix the skeins. Thus, +though I'm morally sure there is a play in OTTO, I dare not look +for it: I shoot straight at the story. + +As a story, a comedy, I think OTTO very well constructed; the +echoes are very good, all the sentiments change round, and the +points of view are continually, and, I think (if you please), +happily contrasted. None of it is exactly funny, but some of it is +smiling. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES [SUMMER 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I have now leisurely read your volume; pretty +soon, by the way, you will receive one of mine. + +It is a pleasant, instructive, and scholarly volume. The three +best being, quite out of sight - Crashaw, Otway, and Etherege. +They are excellent; I hesitate between them; but perhaps Crashaw is +the most brilliant + +Your Webster is not my Webster; nor your Herrick my Herrick. On +these matters we must fire a gun to leeward, show our colours, and +go by. Argument is impossible. They are two of my favourite +authors: Herrick above all: I suppose they are two of yours. +Well, Janus-like, they do behold us two with diverse countenances, +few features are common to these different avatars; and we can but +agree to differ, but still with gratitude to our entertainers, like +two guests at the same dinner, one of whom takes clear and one +white soup. By my way of thinking, neither of us need be wrong. + +The other papers are all interesting, adequate, clear, and with a +pleasant spice of the romantic. It is a book you may be well +pleased to have so finished, and will do you much good. The +Crashaw is capital: capital; I like the taste of it. Preface +clean and dignified. The handling throughout workmanlike, with +some four or five touches of preciosity, which I regret. + +With my thanks for information, entertainment, and a pleasurable +envy here and there. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, SEPTEMBER 19, 1883. + +DEAR BOY, - Our letters vigorously cross: you will ere this have +received a note to Coggie: God knows what was in it. + +It is strange, a little before the first word you sent me - so late +- kindly late, I know and feel - I was thinking in my bed, when I +knew you I had six friends - Bob I had by nature; then came the +good James Walter - with all his failings - the GENTLEMAN of the +lot, alas to sink so low, alas to do so little, but now, thank God, +in his quiet rest; next I found Baxter - well do I remember telling +Walter I had unearthed 'a W.S. that I thought would do' - it was in +the Academy Lane, and he questioned me as to the Signet's +qualifications; fourth came Simpson; somewhere about the same time, +I began to get intimate with Jenkin; last came Colvin. Then, one +black winter afternoon, long Leslie Stephen, in his velvet jacket, +met me in the SPEC. by appointment, took me over to the infirmary, +and in the crackling, blighting gaslight showed me that old head +whose excellent representation I see before me in the photograph. +Now when a man has six friends, to introduce a seventh is usually +hopeless. Yet when you were presented, you took to them and they +to you upon the nail. You must have been a fine fellow; but what a +singular fortune I must have had in my six friends that you should +take to all. I don't know if it is good Latin, most probably not: +but this is enscrolled before my eye for Walter: TANDEM E NUBIBUS +IN APRICUM PROPERAT. Rest, I suppose, I know, was all that +remained; but O to look back, to remember all the mirth, all the +kindness, all the humorous limitations and loved defects of that +character; to think that he was young with me, sharing that +weather-beaten, Fergussonian youth, looking forward through the +clouds to the sunburst; and now clean gone from my path, silent - +well, well. This has been a strange awakening. Last night, when I +was alone in the house, with the window open on the lovely still +night, I could have sworn he was in the room with me; I could show +you the spot; and, what was very curious, I heard his rich +laughter, a thing I had not called to mind for I know not how long. + +I see his coral waistcoat studs that he wore the first time he +dined in my house; I see his attitude, leaning back a little, +already with something of a portly air, and laughing internally. +How I admired him! And now in the West Kirk. + +I am trying to write out this haunting bodily sense of absence; +besides, what else should I write of? + +Yes, looking back, I think of him as one who was good, though +sometimes clouded. He was the only gentle one of all my friends, +save perhaps the other Walter. And he was certainly the only +modest man among the lot. He never gave himself away; he kept back +his secret; there was always a gentle problem behind all. Dear, +dear, what a wreck; and yet how pleasant is the retrospect! God +doeth all things well, though by what strange, solemn, and +murderous contrivances! + +It is strange: he was the only man I ever loved who did not +habitually interrupt. The fact draws my own portrait. And it is +one of the many reasons why I count myself honoured by his +friendship. A man like you HAD to like me; you could not help +yourself; but Ferrier was above me, we were not equals; his true +self humoured and smiled paternally upon my failings, even as I +humoured and sorrowed over his. + +Well, first his mother, then himself, they are gone: 'in their +resting graves.' + +When I come to think of it, I do not know what I said to his +sister, and I fear to try again. Could you send her this? There +is too much both about yourself and me in it; but that, if you do +not mind, is but a mark of sincerity. It would let her know how +entirely, in the mind of (I suppose) his oldest friend, the good, +true Ferrier obliterates the memory of the other, who was only his +'lunatic brother.' + +Judge of this for me, and do as you please; anyway, I will try to +write to her again; my last was some kind of scrawl that I could +not see for crying. This came upon me, remember, with terrible +suddenness; I was surprised by this death; and it is fifteen or +sixteen years since first I saw the handsome face in the SPEC. I +made sure, besides, to have died first. Love to you, your wife, +and her sisters. + +- Ever yours, dear boy, + +R. L. S. + +I never knew any man so superior to himself as poor James Walter. +The best of him only came as a vision, like Corsica from the +Corniche. He never gave his measure either morally or +intellectually. The curse was on him. Even his friends did not +know him but by fits. I have passed hours with him when he was so +wise, good, and sweet, that I never knew the like of it in any +other. And for a beautiful good humour he had no match. I +remember breaking in upon him once with a whole red-hot story (in +my worst manner), pouring words upon him by the hour about some +truck not worth an egg that had befallen me; and suddenly, some +half hour after, finding that the sweet fellow had some concern of +his own of infinitely greater import, that he was patiently and +smilingly waiting to consult me on. It sounds nothing; but the +courtesy and the unselfishness were perfect. It makes me rage to +think how few knew him, and how many had the chance to sneer at +their better. + +Well, he was not wasted, that we know; though if anything looked +liker irony than this fitting of a man out with these rich +qualities and faculties to be wrecked and aborted from the very +stocks, I do not know the name of it. Yet we see that he has left +an influence; the memory of his patient courtesy has often checked +me in rudeness; has it not you? + +You can form no idea of how handsome Walter was. At twenty he was +splendid to see; then, too, he had the sense of power in him, and +great hopes; he looked forward, ever jesting of course, but he +looked to see himself where he had the right to expect. He +believed in himself profoundly; but HE NEVER DISBELIEVED IN OTHERS. +To the roughest Highland student he always had his fine, kind, open +dignity of manner; and a good word behind his back. + +The last time that I saw him before leaving for America - it was a +sad blow to both of us. When he heard I was leaving, and that +might be the last time we might meet - it almost was so - he was +terribly upset, and came round at once. We sat late, in Baxter's +empty house, where I was sleeping. My dear friend Walter Ferrier: +O if I had only written to him more! if only one of us in these +last days had been well! But I ever cherished the honour of his +friendship, and now when he is gone, I know what I have lost still +better. We live on, meaning to meet; but when the hope is gone, +the, pang comes. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, 26TH SEPTEMBER 1883. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - It appears a bolt from Transatlantica is necessary +to produce four lines from you. It is not flattering; but as I was +always a bad correspondent, 'tis a vice to which I am lenient. I +give you to know, however, that I have already twice (this makes +three times) sent you what I please to call a letter, and received +from you in return a subterfuge - or nothing. . . . + +My present purpose, however, which must not be postponed, is to ask +you to telegraph to the Americans. + +After a summer of good health of a very radiant order, toothache +and the death of a very old friend, which came upon me like a +thunderclap, have rather shelved my powers. I stare upon the +paper, not write. I wish I could write like your Sculptors; yet I +am well aware that I should not try in that direction. A certain +warmth (tepid enough) and a certain dash of the picturesque are my +poor essential qualities; and if I went fooling after the too +classical, I might lose even these. But I envied you that page. + +I am, of course, deep in schemes; I was so ever. Execution alone +somewhat halts. How much do you make per annum, I wonder? This +year, for the first time, I shall pass 300 pounds; I may even get +halfway to the next milestone. This seems but a faint +remuneration; and the devil of it is, that I manage, with sickness, +and moves, and education, and the like, to keep steadily in front +of my income. However, I console myself with this, that if I were +anything else under God's Heaven, and had the same crank health, I +should make an even zero. If I had, with my present knowledge, +twelve months of my old health, I would, could, and should do +something neat. As it is, I have to tinker at my things in little +sittings; and the rent, or the butcher, or something, is always +calling me off to rattle up a pot-boiler. And then comes a back- +set of my health, and I have to twiddle my fingers and play +patience. + +Well, I do not complain, but I do envy strong health where it is +squandered. Treasure your strength, and may you never learn by +experience the profound ENNUI and irritation of the shelved artist. +For then, what is life? All that one has done to make one's life +effective then doubles the itch of inefficiency. + +I trust also you may be long without finding out the devil that +there is in a bereavement. After love it is the one great surprise +that life preserves for us. Now I don't think I can be astonished +any more. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR [OCTOBER 1883]. + +COLVIN, COLVIN, COLVIN, - Yours received; also interesting copy of +P. WHISTLES. 'In the multitude of councillors the Bible declares +there is wisdom,' said my great-uncle, 'but I have always found in +them distraction.' It is extraordinary how tastes vary: these +proofs have been handed about, it appears, and I have had several +letters; and - distraction. 'AEsop: the Miller and the Ass.' +Notes on details:- + +1. I love the occasional trochaic line; and so did many excellent +writers before me. + +2. If you don't like 'A Good Boy,' I do. + +3. In 'Escape at Bedtime,' I found two suggestions. 'Shove' for +'above' is a correction of the press; it was so written. +'Twinkled' is just the error; to the child the stars appear to be +there; any word that suggests illusion is a horror. + +4. I don't care; I take a different view of the vocative. + +5. Bewildering and childering are good enough for me. These are +rhymes, jingles; I don't go for eternity and the three unities. + +I will delete some of those condemned, but not all. I don't care +for the name Penny Whistles; I sent a sheaf to Henley when I sent +'em. But I've forgot the others. I would just as soon call 'em +'Rimes for Children' as anything else. I am not proud nor +particular. + +Your remarks on the BLACK ARROW are to the point. I am pleased you +liked Crookback; he is a fellow whose hellish energy has always +fired my attention. I wish Shakespeare had written the play after +he had learned some of the rudiments of literature and art rather +than before. Some day, I will re-tickle the Sable Missile, and +shoot it, MOYENNANT FINANCES, once more into the air; I can lighten +it of much, and devote some more attention to Dick o' Gloucester. +It's great sport to write tushery. + +By this I reckon you will have heard of my proposed excursiolorum +to the Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, and kindred sites. If +the excursiolorum goes on, that is, if MOYENNANT FINANCES comes +off, I shall write to beg you to collect introductiolorums for me. + +Distinguo: 1. SILVERADO was not written in America, but in +Switzerland's icy mountains. 2. What you read is the bleeding and +disembowelled remains of what I wrote. 3. The good stuff is all to +come - so I think. 'The Sea Fogs,' 'The Hunter's Family,' 'Toils +and Pleasures' - BELLES PAGES. - Yours ever, + +RAMNUGGER. + +O! - Seeley is too clever to live, and the book a gem. But why has +he read too much Arnold? Why will he avoid - obviously avoid - +fine writing up to which he has led? This is a winking, curled- +and-oiled, ultra-cultured, Oxford-don sort of an affectation that +infuriates my honest soul. 'You see' - they say - 'how unbombastic +WE are; we come right up to eloquence, and, when it's hanging on +the pen, dammy, we scorn it!' It is literary Deronda-ism. If you +don't want the woman, the image, or the phrase, mortify your vanity +and avoid the appearance of wanting them. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, OCTOBER [1883]. + +MY DEAR LOW, - . . . Some day or other, in Cassell's MAGAZINE OF +ART, you will see a paper which will interest you, and where your +name appears. It is called 'Fontainebleau: Village Communities of +Artists,' and the signature of R. L. Stevenson will be found +annexed + +Please tell the editor of MANHATTAN the following secrets for me: +1ST, That I am a beast; 2ND, that I owe him a letter; 3RD, that I +have lost his, and cannot recall either his name or address; 4TH, +that I am very deep in engagements, which my absurd health makes it +hard for me to overtake; but 5TH, that I will bear him in mind; 6TH +and last, that I am a brute. + +My address is still the same, and I live in a most sweet corner of +the universe, sea and fine hills before me, and a rich variegated +plain; and at my back a craggy hill, loaded with vast feudal ruins. +I am very quiet; a person passing by my door half startles me; but +I enjoy the most aromatic airs, and at night the most wonderful +view into a moonlit garden. By day this garden fades into nothing, +overpowered by its surroundings and the luminous distance; but at +night and when the moon is out, that garden, the arbour, the flight +of stairs that mount the artificial hillock, the plumed blue gum- +trees that hang trembling, become the very skirts of Paradise. +Angels I know frequent it; and it thrills all night with the flutes +of silence. Damn that garden;- and by day it is gone. + +Continue to testify boldly against realism. Down with Dagon, the +fish god! All art swings down towards imitation, in these days, +fatally. But the man who loves art with wisdom sees the joke; it +is the lustful that tremble and respect her ladyship; but the +honest and romantic lovers of the Muse can see a joke and sit down +to laugh with Apollo. + +The prospect of your return to Europe is very agreeable; and I was +pleased by what you said about your parents. One of my oldest +friends died recently, and this has given me new thoughts of death. +Up to now I had rather thought of him as a mere personal enemy of +my own; but now that I see him hunting after my friends, he looks +altogether darker. My own father is not well; and Henley, of whom +you must have heard me speak, is in a questionable state of health. +These things are very solemn, and take some of the colour out of +life. It is a great thing, after all, to be a man of reasonable +honour and kindness. Do you remember once consulting me in Paris +whether you had not better sacrifice honesty to art; and how, after +much confabulation, we agreed that your art would suffer if you +did? We decided better than we knew. In this strange welter where +we live, all hangs together by a million filaments; and to do +reasonably well by others, is the first prerequisite of art. Art +is a virtue; and if I were the man I should be, my art would rise +in the proportion of my life. + +If you were privileged to give some happiness to your parents, I +know your art will gain by it. BY GOD, IT WILL! SIC SUBSCRIBITUR, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS [OCTOBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR BOB, - Yes, I got both your letters at Lyons, but have been +since then decading in several steps Toothache; fever; Ferrier's +death; lung. Now it is decided I am to leave to-morrow, penniless, +for Nice to see Dr. Williams. + +I was much struck by your last. I have written a breathless note +on Realism for Henley; a fifth part of the subject, hurriedly +touched, which will show you how my thoughts are driving. You are +now at last beginning to think upon the problems of executive, +plastic art, for you are now for the first time attacking them. +Hitherto you have spoken and thought of two things - technique and +the ARS ARTIUM, or common background of all arts. Studio work is +the real touch. That is the genial error of the present French +teaching. Realism I regard as a mere question of method. The +'brown foreground,' 'old mastery,' and the like, ranking with +villanelles, as technical sports and pastimes. Real art, whether +ideal or realistic, addresses precisely the same feeling, and seeks +the same qualities - significance or charm. And the same - very +same - inspiration is only methodically differentiated according as +the artist is an arrant realist or an arrant idealist. Each, by +his own method, seeks to save and perpetuate the same significance +or charm; the one by suppressing, the other by forcing, detail. +All other idealism is the brown foreground over again, and hence +only art in the sense of a game, like cup and ball. All other +realism is not art at all - but not at all. It is, then, an +insincere and showy handicraft. + +Were you to re-read some Balzac, as I have been doing, it would +greatly help to clear your eyes. He was a man who never found his +method. An inarticulate Shakespeare, smothered under forcible- +feeble detail. It is astounding to the riper mind how bad he is, +how feeble, how untrue, how tedious; and, of course, when he +surrendered to his temperament, how good and powerful. And yet +never plain nor clear. He could not consent to be dull, and thus +became so. He would leave nothing undeveloped, and thus drowned +out of sight of land amid the multitude of crying and incongruous +details. There is but one art - to omit! O if I knew how to omit, +I would ask no other knowledge. A man who knew how to omit would +make an ILIAD of a daily paper. + +Your definition of seeing is quite right. It is the first part of +omission to be partly blind. Artistic sight is judicious +blindness. Sam Bough must have been a jolly blind old boy. He +would turn a corner, look for one-half or quarter minute, and then +say, 'This'll do, lad.' Down he sat, there and then, with whole +artistic plan, scheme of colour, and the like, and begin by laying +a foundation of powerful and seemingly incongruous colour on the +block. He saw, not the scene, but the water-colour sketch. Every +artist by sixty should so behold nature. Where does he learn that? +In the studio, I swear. He goes to nature for facts, relations, +values - material; as a man, before writing a historical novel, +reads up memoirs. But it is not by reading memoirs that he has +learned the selective criterion. He has learned that in the +practice of his art; and he will never learn it well, but when +disengaged from the ardent struggle of immediate representation, of +realistic and EX FACTO art. He learns it in the crystallisation of +day-dreams; in changing, not in copying, fact; in the pursuit of +the ideal, not in the study of nature. These temples of art are, +as you say, inaccessible to the realistic climber. It is not by +looking at the sea that you get + + +'The multitudinous seas incarnadine,' + + +nor by looking at Mont Blanc that you find + + +'And visited all night by troops of stars.' + + +A kind of ardour of the blood is the mother of all this; and +according as this ardour is swayed by knowledge and seconded by +craft, the art expression flows clear, and significance and charm, +like a moon rising, are born above the barren juggle of mere +symbols. + +The painter must study more from nature than the man of words. But +why? Because literature deals with men's business and passions +which, in the game of life, we are irresistibly obliged to study; +but painting with relations of light, and colour, and +significances, and form, which, from the immemorial habit of the +race, we pass over with an unregardful eye. Hence this crouching +upon camp-stools, and these crusts. But neither one nor other is a +part of art, only preliminary studies. + +I want you to help me to get people to understand that realism is a +method, and only methodic in its consequences; when the realist is +an artist, that is, and supposing the idealist with whom you +compare him to be anything but a FARCEUR and a DILETTANTE. The two +schools of working do, and should, lead to the choice of different +subjects. But that is a consequence, not a cause. See my chaotic +note, which will appear, I fancy, in November in Henley's sheet. + +Poor Ferrier, it bust me horrid. He was, after you, the oldest of +my friends. + +I am now very tired, and will go to bed having prelected freely. +Fanny will finish. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, 12TH OCTOBER 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I have just lunched; the day is exquisite, the +air comes though the open window rich with odour, and I am by no +means spiritually minded. Your letter, however, was very much +valued, and has been read oftener than once. What you say about +yourself I was glad to hear; a little decent resignation is not +only becoming a Christian, but is likely to be excellent for the +health of a Stevenson. To fret and fume is undignified, suicidally +foolish, and theologically unpardonable; we are here not to make, +but to tread predestined, pathways; we are the foam of a wave, and +to preserve a proper equanimity is not merely the first part of +submission to God, but the chief of possible kindnesses to those +about us. I am lecturing myself, but you also. To do our best is +one part, but to wash our hands smilingly of the consequence is the +next part, of any sensible virtue. + +I have come, for the moment, to a pause in my moral works; for I +have many irons in the fire, and I wish to finish something to +bring coin before I can afford to go on with what I think +doubtfully to be a duty. It is a most difficult work; a touch of +the parson will drive off those I hope to influence; a touch of +overstrained laxity, besides disgusting, like a grimace, may do +harm. Nothing that I have ever seen yet speaks directly and +efficaciously to young men; and I do hope I may find the art and +wisdom to fill up a gap. The great point, as I see it, is to ask +as little as possible, and meet, if it may be, every view or +absence of view; and it should be, must be, easy. Honesty is the +one desideratum; but think how hard a one to meet. I think all the +time of Ferrier and myself; these are the pair that I address. +Poor Ferrier, so much a better man than I, and such a temporal +wreck. But the thing of which we must divest our minds is to look +partially upon others; all is to be viewed; and the creature +judged, as he must be by his Creator, not dissected through a prism +of morals, but in the unrefracted ray. So seen, and in relation to +the almost omnipotent surroundings, who is to distinguish between +F. and such a man as Dr. Candlish, or between such a man as David +Hume and such an one as Robert Burns? To compare my poor and good +Walter with myself is to make me startle; he, upon all grounds +above the merely expedient, was the nobler being. Yet wrecked +utterly ere the full age of manhood; and the last skirmishes so +well fought, so humanly useless, so pathetically brave, only the +leaps of an expiring lamp. All this is a very pointed instance. +It shuts the mouth. I have learned more, in some ways, from him +than from any other soul I ever met; and he, strange to think, was +the best gentleman, in all kinder senses, that I ever knew. - Ever +your affectionate son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W H LOW + + + +[CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, OCT. 23, 1883.] + +MY DEAR LOW, - C'EST D'UN BON CAMARADE; and I am much obliged to +you for your two letters and the inclosure. Times are a lityle +changed with all of us since the ever memorable days of Lavenue: +hallowed be his name! hallowed his old Fleury! - of which you did +not see - I think - as I did - the glorious apotheosis: advanced +on a Tuesday to three francs, on the Thursday to six, and on Friday +swept off, holus bolus, for the proprietor's private consumption. +Well, we had the start of that proprietor. Many a good bottle came +our way, and was, I think, worthily made welcome. + +I am pleased that Mr. Gilder should like my literature; and I ask +you particularly to thank Mr. Bunner (have I the name right?) for +his notice, which was of that friendly, headlong sort that really +pleases an author like what the French call a 'shake-hands.' It +pleased me the more coming from the States, where I have met not +much recognition, save from the buccaneers, and above all from +pirates who misspell my name. I saw my book advertised in a number +of the CRITIC as the work of one R. L. Stephenson; and, I own, I +boiled. It is so easy to know the name of the man whose book you +have stolen; for there it is, at full length, on the title-page of +your booty. But no, damn him, not he! He calls me Stephenson. +These woes I only refer to by the way, as they set a higher value +on the CENTURY notice. + +I am now a person with an established ill-health - a wife - a dog +possessed with an evil, a Gadarene spirit - a chalet on a hill, +looking out over the Mediterranean - a certain reputation - and +very obscure finances. Otherwise, very much the same, I guess; and +were a bottle of Fleury a thing to be obtained, capable of +developing theories along with a fit spirit even as of yore. Yet I +now draw near to the Middle Ages; nearly three years ago, that +fatal Thirty struck; and yet the great work is not yet done - not +yet even conceived. But so, as one goes on, the wood seems to +thicken, the footpath to narrow, and the House Beautiful on the +hill's summit to draw further and further away. We learn, indeed, +to use our means; but only to learn, along with it, the paralysing +knowledge that these means are only applicable to two or three poor +commonplace motives. Eight years ago, if I could have slung ink as +I can now, I should have thought myself well on the road after +Shakespeare; and now - I find I have only got a pair of walking- +shoes and not yet begun to travel. And art is still away there on +the mountain summit. But I need not continue; for, of course, this +is your story just as much as it is mine; and, strange to think, it +was Shakespeare's too, and Beethoven's, and Phidias's. It is a +blessed thing that, in this forest of art, we can pursue our wood- +lice and sparrows, AND NOT CATCH THEM, with almost the same fervour +of exhilaration as that with which Sophocles hunted and brought +down the Mastodon. + +Tell me something of your work, and your wife. - My dear fellow, I +am yours ever, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +My wife begs to be remembered to both of you; I cannot say as much +for my dog, who has never seen you, but he would like, on general +principles, to bite you. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[HYERES, NOVEMBER 1883.] + +MY DEAR LAD, - . . . Of course, my seamanship is jimmy: did I not +beseech you I know not how often to find me an ancient mariner - +and you, whose own wife's own brother is one of the ancientest, did +nothing for me? As for my seamen, did Runciman ever know +eighteenth century buccaneers? No? Well, no more did I. But I +have known and sailed with seamen too, and lived and eaten with +them; and I made my put-up shot in no great ignorance, but as a +put-up thing has to be made, I.E. to be coherent and picturesque, +and damn the expense. Are they fairly lively on the wires? Then, +favour me with your tongues. Are they wooden, and dim, and no +sport? Then it is I that am silent, otherwise not. The work, +strange as it may sound in the ear, is not a work of realism. The +next thing I shall hear is that the etiquette is wrong in Otto's +Court! With a warrant, and I mean it to be so, and the whole +matter never cost me half a thought. I make these paper people to +please myself, and Skelt, and God Almighty, and with no ulterior +purpose. Yet am I mortal myself; for, as I remind you, I begged +for a supervising mariner. However, my heart is in the right +place. I have been to sea, but I never crossed the threshold of a +court; and the courts shall be the way I want 'em. + +I'm glad to think I owe you the review that pleased me best of all +the reviews I ever had; the one I liked best before that was -'s on +the ARABIANS. These two are the flowers of the collection, +according to me. To live reading such reviews and die eating +ortolans - sich is my aspiration. + +Whenever you come you will be equally welcome. I am trying to +finish OTTO ere you shall arrive, so as to take and be able to +enjoy a well-earned - O yes, a well-earned - holiday. Longman +fetched by Otto: is it a spoon or a spoilt horn? Momentous, if +the latter; if the former, a spoon to dip much praise and pudding, +and to give, I do think, much pleasure. The last part, now in +hand, much smiles upon me. - Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [NOVEMBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - You must not blame me too much for my silence; I +am over head and ears in work, and do not know what to do first. I +have been hard at OTTO, hard at SILVERADO proofs, which I have +worked over again to a tremendous extent; cutting, adding, +rewriting, until some of the worst chapters of the original are +now, to my mind, as good as any. I was the more bound to make it +good, as I had such liberal terms; it's not for want of trying if I +have failed. + +I got your letter on my birthday; indeed, that was how I found it +out about three in the afternoon, when postie comes. Thank you for +all you said. As for my wife, that was the best investment ever +made by man; but 'in our branch of the family' we seem to marry +well. I, considering my piles of work, am wonderfully well; I have +not been so busy for I know not how long. I hope you will send me +the money I asked however, as I am not only penniless, but shall +remain so in all human probability for some considerable time. I +have got in the mass of my expectations; and the 100 pounds which +is to float us on the new year can not come due till SILVERADO is +all ready; I am delaying it myself for the moment; then will follow +the binders and the travellers and an infinity of other nuisances; +and only at the last, the jingling-tingling. + +Do you know that TREASURE ISLAND has appeared? In the November +number of Henley's Magazine, a capital number anyway, there is a +funny publisher's puff of it for your book; also a bad article by +me. Lang dotes on TREASURE ISLAND: 'Except TOM SAWYER and the +ODYSSEY,' he writes, 'I never liked any romance so much.' I will +inclose the letter though. The Bogue is angelic, although very +dirty. It has rained - at last! It was jolly cold when the rain +came. + +I was overjoyed to hear such good news of my father. Let him go on +at that! Ever your affectionate, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [NOVEMBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no +shame. I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self- +righteous spirit. + +I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and +indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy's ear. + +I suppose you heard of Ferrier's death: my oldest friend, except +Bob. It has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am +strangely concerned about it. + +My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight +nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the +Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world - nest there +like mavises. + + +Here lies +The carcase +of +Robert Louis Stevenson, +An active, austere, and not inelegant +writer, +who, +at the termination of a long career, +wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by +the attention of two hemispheres, +yet owned it to have been his crowning favour +TO INHABIT +LA SOLITUDE. + + +(With the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyeres, he has been +interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden which he honoured +for so long with his poetic presence.) + +I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. Write. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. MILNE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [NOVEMBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR HENRIETTA, - Certainly; who else would they be? More by +token, on that particular occasion, you were sailing under the +title of Princess Royal; I, after a furious contest, under that of +Prince Alfred; and Willie, still a little sulky, as the Prince of +Wales. We were all in a buck basket about half-way between the +swing and the gate; and I can still see the Pirate Squadron heave +in sight upon the weather bow. + +I wrote a piece besides on Giant Bunker; but I was not happily +inspired, and it is condemned. Perhaps I'll try again; he was a +horrid fellow, Giant Bunker! and some of my happiest hours were +passed in pursuit of him. You were a capital fellow to play: how +few there were who could! None better than yourself. I shall +never forget some of the days at Bridge of Allan; they were one +golden dream. See 'A Good Boy' in the PENNY WHISTLES, much of the +sentiment of which is taken direct from one evening at B. of A. +when we had had a great play with the little Glasgow girl. +Hallowed be that fat book of fairy tales! Do you remember acting +the Fair One with Golden Locks? What a romantic drama! Generally +speaking, whenever I think of play, it is pretty certain that you +will come into my head. I wrote a paper called 'Child's Play' +once, where, I believe, you or Willie would recognise things. . . . + +Surely Willie is just the man to marry; and if his wife wasn't a +happy woman, I think I could tell her who was to blame. Is there +no word of it? Well, these things are beyond arrangement; and the +wind bloweth where it listeth - which, I observe, is generally +towards the west in Scotland. Here it prefers a south-easterly +course, and is called the Mistral - usually with an adjective in +front. But if you will remember my yesterday's toothache and this +morning's crick, you will be in a position to choose an adjective +for yourself. Not that the wind is unhealthy; only when it comes +strong, it is both very high and very cold, which makes it the d-v- +l. But as I am writing to a lady, I had better avoid this topic; +winds requiring a great scope of language. + +Please remember me to all at home; give Ramsay a pennyworth of +acidulated drops for his good taste. - And believe me, your +affectionate cousin, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MISS FERRIER + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, VAR, NOVEMBER 22, 1883. + +DEAR MISS FERRIER, - Many thanks for the photograph. It is - well, +it is like most photographs. The sun is an artist of too much +renown; and, at any rate, we who knew Walter 'in the brave days of +old' will be difficult to please. + +I was inexpressibly touched to get a letter from some lawyers as to +some money. I have never had any account with my friends; some +have gained and some lost; and I should feel there was something +dishonest in a partial liquidation even if I could recollect the +facts, WHICH I CANNOT. But the fact of his having put aside this +memorandum touched me greatly. + +The mystery of his life is great. Our chemist in this place, who +had been at Malvern, recognised the picture. You may remember +Walter had a romantic affection for all pharmacies? and the bottles +in the window were for him a poem? He said once that he knew no +pleasure like driving through a lamplit city, waiting for the +chemists to go by. + +All these things return now. + +He had a pretty full translation of Schiller's AESTHETIC LETTERS, +which we read together, as well as the second part of FAUST, in +Gladstone Terrace, he helping me with the German. There is no +keepsake I should more value than the MS. of that translation. +They were the best days I ever had with him, little dreaming all +would so soon be over. It needs a blow like this to convict a man +of mortality and its burthen. I always thought I should go by +myself; not to survive. But now I feel as if the earth were +undermined, and all my friends have lost one thickness of reality +since that one passed. Those are happy who can take it otherwise; +with that I found things all beginning to dislimn. Here we have no +abiding city, and one felt as though he had - and O too much acted. + +But if you tell me, he did not feel my silence. However, he must +have done so; and my guilt is irreparable now. I thank God at +least heartily that he did not resent it. + +Please remember me to Sir Alexander and Lady Grant, to whose care I +will address this. When next I am in Edinburgh I will take +flowers, alas! to the West Kirk. Many a long hour we passed in +graveyards, the man who has gone and I - or rather not that man - +but the beautiful, genial, witty youth who so betrayed him. - Dear +Miss Ferrier, I am yours most sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, VAR, 13TH DECEMBER 1883. + +MY DEAR LOW, - . . . I was much pleased with what you send about my +work. Ill-health is a great handicapper in the race. I have never +at command that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a +thing red-hot. SILVERADO is an example of stuff worried and pawed +about, God knows how often, in poor health, and you can see for +yourself the result: good pages, an imperfect fusion, a certain +languor of the whole. Not, in short, art. I have told Roberts to +send you a copy of the book when it appears, where there are some +fair passages that will be new to you. My brief romance, PRINCE +OTTO - far my most difficult adventure up to now - is near an end. +I have still one chapter to write DE FOND EN COMBLE, and three or +four to strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I do not know if +I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; but I am tempted to +hope the first. If the present bargain hold, it will not see the +light of day for some thirteen months. Then I shall be glad to +know how it strikes you. There is a good deal of stuff in it, both +dramatic and, I think, poetic; and the story is not like these +purposeless fables of to-day, but is, at least, intended to stand +FIRM upon a base of philosophy - or morals - as you please. It has +been long gestated, and is wrought with care. ENFIN, NOUS VERRONS. +My labours have this year for the first time been rewarded with +upwards of 350 pounds; that of itself, so base we are! encourages +me; and the better tenor of my health yet more. - Remember me to +Mrs. Low, and believe me, yours most sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, DECEMBER 20, 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I do not know which of us is to blame; I suspect +it is you this time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I +was pleased to see; I am, on the whole, very well - suffering a +little still from my fever and liver complications, but better. + +I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you above +all things NOT to read, as it has made me very ill, and would make +you worse - Lockhart's SCOTT. It is worth reading, as all things +are from time to time that keep us nose to nose with fact; though I +think such reading may be abused, and that a great deal of life is +better spent in reading of a light and yet chivalrous strain. +Thus, no Waverley novel approaches in power, blackness, bitterness, +and moral elevation to the diary and Lockhart's narrative of the +end; and yet the Waverley novels are better reading for every day +than the Life. You may take a tonic daily, but not phlebotomy. + +The great double danger of taking life too easily, and taking it +too hard, how difficult it is to balance that! But we are all too +little inclined to faith; we are all, in our serious moments, too +much inclined to forget that all are sinners, and fall justly by +their faults, and therefore that we have no more to do with that +than with the thunder-cloud; only to trust, and do our best, and +wear as smiling a face as may be for others and ourselves. But +there is no royal road among this complicated business. Hegel the +German got the best word of all philosophy with his antinomies: +the contrary of everything is its postulate. That is, of course, +grossly expressed, but gives a hint of the idea, which contains a +great deal of the mysteries of religion, and a vast amount of the +practical wisdom of life. For your part, there is no doubt as to +your duty - to take things easy and be as happy as you can, for +your sake, and my mother's, and that of many besides. Excuse this +sermon. - Ever your loving son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, DECEMBER 25, 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, - This it is supposed will reach you +about Christmas, and I believe I should include Lloyd in the +greeting. But I want to lecture my father; he is not grateful +enough; he is like Fanny; his resignation is not the 'true blue.' +A man who has gained a stone; whose son is better, and, after so +many fears to the contrary, I dare to say, a credit to him; whose +business is arranged; whose marriage is a picture - what I should +call resignation in such a case as his would be to 'take down his +fiddle and play as lood as ever he could.' That and nought else. +And now, you dear old pious ingrate, on this Christmas morning, +think what your mercies have been; and do not walk too far before +your breakfast - as far as to the top of India Street, then to the +top of Dundas Street, and then to your ain stair heid; and do not +forget that even as LABORARE, so JOCULARI, EST ORARE; and to be +happy the first step to being pious. + +I have as good as finished my novel, and a hard job it has been - +but now practically over, LAUS DEO! My financial prospects better +than ever before; my excellent wife a touch dolorous, like Mr. +Tommy; my Bogue quite converted, and myself in good spirits. O, +send Curry Powder per Baxter. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[LA SOLITUDE, HYERES], LAST SUNDAY OF '83. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - I give my father up. I give him a parable: that +the Waverley novels are better reading for every day than the +tragic Life. And he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his +head, and is gloomier than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I +don't want no such a parent. This is not the man for my money. I +do not call that by the name of religion which fills a man with +bile. I write him a whole letter, bidding him beware of extremes, +and telling him that his gloom is gallows-worthy; and I get back an +answer - Perish the thought of it. + +Here am I on the threshold of another year, when, according to all +human foresight, I should long ago have been resolved into my +elements; here am I, who you were persuaded was born to disgrace +you - and, I will do you the justice to add, on no such +insufficient grounds - no very burning discredit when all is done; +here am I married, and the marriage recognised to be a blessing of +the first order, A1 at Lloyd's. There is he, at his not first +youth, able to take more exercise than I at thirty-three, and +gaining a stone's weight, a thing of which I am incapable. There +are you; has the man no gratitude? There is Smeoroch: is he +blind? Tell him from me that all this is + +NOT THE TRUE BLUE! + +I will think more of his prayers when I see in him a spirit of +PRAISE. Piety is a more childlike and happy attitude than he +admits. Martha, Martha, do you hear the knocking at the door? But +Mary was happy. Even the Shorter Catechism, not the merriest +epitome of religion, and a work exactly as pious although not quite +so true as the multiplication table - even that dry-as-dust epitome +begins with a heroic note. What is man's chief end? Let him study +that; and ask himself if to refuse to enjoy God's kindest gifts is +in the spirit indicated. Up, Dullard! It is better service to +enjoy a novel than to mump. + +I have been most unjust to the Shorter Catechism, I perceive. I +wish to say that I keenly admire its merits as a performance; and +that all that was in my mind was its peculiarly unreligious and +unmoral texture; from which defect it can never, of course, +exercise the least influence on the minds of children. But they +learn fine style and some austere thinking unconsciously. - Ever +your loving son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, JANUARY 1 (1884). + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - A Good New Year to you. The year closes, leaving +me with 50 pounds in the bank, owing no man nothing, 100 pounds +more due to me in a week or so, and 150 pounds more in the course +of the month; and I can look back on a total receipt of 465 pounds, +0s. 6d. for the last twelve months! + +And yet I am not happy! + +Yet I beg! Here is my beggary:- + +1. Sellar's Trial. +2. George Borrow's Book about Wales. +3. My Grandfather's Trip to Holland. +4. And (but this is, I fear, impossible) the Bell Rock Book. + +When I think of how last year began, after four months of sickness +and idleness, all my plans gone to water, myself starting alone, a +kind of spectre, for Nice - should I not be grateful? Come, let us +sing unto the Lord! + +Nor should I forget the expected visit, but I will not believe in +that till it befall; I am no cultivator of disappointments, 'tis a +herb that does not grow in my garden; but I get some good crops +both of remorse and gratitude. The last I can recommend to all +gardeners; it grows best in shiny weather, but once well grown, is +very hardy; it does not require much labour; only that the +husbandman should smoke his pipe about the flower-plots and admire +God's pleasant wonders. Winter green (otherwise known as +Resignation, or the 'false gratitude plant') springs in much the +same soil; is little hardier, if at all; and requires to be so dug +about and dunged, that there is little margin left for profit. The +variety known as the Black Winter green (H. V. Stevensoniana) is +rather for ornament than profit. + +'John, do you see that bed of resignation?' - 'It's doin' bravely, +sir.' - 'John, I will not have it in my garden; it flatters not the +eye and comforts not the stomach; root it out.' - 'Sir, I ha'e seen +o' them that rase as high as nettles; gran' plants!' - 'What then? +Were they as tall as alps, if still unsavoury and bleak, what +matters it? Out with it, then; and in its place put Laughter and a +Good Conceit (that capital home evergreen), and a bush of Flowering +Piety - but see it be the flowering sort - the other species is no +ornament to any gentleman's Back Garden.' + +JNO. BUNYAN. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, 9TH MARCH 1884. + +MY DEAR S. C., - You will already have received a not very sane +note from me; so your patience was rewarded - may I say, your +patient silence? However, now comes a letter, which on receipt, I +thus acknowledge. + +I have already expressed myself as to the political aspect. About +Grahame, I feel happier; it does seem to have been really a good, +neat, honest piece of work. We do not seem to be so badly off for +commanders: Wolseley and Roberts, and this pile of Woods, +Stewarts, Alisons, Grahames, and the like. Had we but ONE +statesman on any side of the house! + +Two chapters of OTTO do remain: one to rewrite, one to create; and +I am not yet able to tackle them. For me it is my chief o' works; +hence probably not so for others, since it only means that I have +here attacked the greatest difficulties. But some chapters towards +the end: three in particular - I do think come off. I find them +stirring, dramatic, and not unpoetical. We shall see, however; as +like as not, the effort will be more obvious than the success. +For, of course, I strung myself hard to carry it out. The next +will come easier, and possibly be more popular. I believe in the +covering of much paper, each time with a definite and not too +difficult artistic purpose; and then, from time to time, drawing +oneself up and trying, in a superior effort, to combine the +facilities thus acquired or improved. Thus one progresses. But, +mind, it is very likely that the big effort, instead of being the +masterpiece, may be the blotted copy, the gymnastic exercise. This +no man can tell; only the brutal and licentious public, snouting in +Mudie's wash-trough, can return a dubious answer. + +I am to-day, thanks to a pure heaven and a beneficent, loud- +talking, antiseptic mistral, on the high places as to health and +spirits. Money holds out wonderfully. Fanny has gone for a drive +to certain meadows which are now one sheet of jonquils: sea-bound +meadows, the thought of which may freshen you in Bloomsbury. 'Ye +have been fresh and fair, Ye have been filled with flowers' - I +fear I misquote. Why do people babble? Surely Herrick, in his +true vein, is superior to Martial himself, though Martial is a very +pretty poet. + +Did you ever read St. Augustine? The first chapters of the +CONFESSIONS are marked by a commanding genius. Shakespearian in +depth. I was struck dumb, but, alas! when you begin to wander into +controversy, the poet drops out. His description of infancy is +most seizing. And how is this: 'Sed majorum nugae negotia +vocantur; puerorum autem talia cum sint puniuntur a majoribus.' +Which is quite after the heart of R. L. S. See also his splendid +passage about the 'luminosus limes amicitiae' and the 'nebulae de +limosa concupiscentia carnis'; going on 'UTRUMQUE in confuso +aestuabat et rapiebat imbecillam aetatem per abrupta cupiditatum.' +That 'Utrumque' is a real contribution to life's science. Lust +ALONE is but a pigmy; but it never, or rarely, attacks us single- +handed. + +Do you ever read (to go miles off, indeed) the incredible Barbey +d'Aurevilly? A psychological Poe - to be for a moment Henley. I +own with pleasure I prefer him with all his folly, rot, sentiment, +and mixed metaphors, to the whole modern school in France. It +makes me laugh when it's nonsense; and when he gets an effect +(though it's still nonsense and mere Poery, not poesy) it wakens +me. CE QUI NE MEURT PAS nearly killed me with laughing, and left +me - well, it left me very nearly admiring the old ass. At least, +it's the kind of thing one feels one couldn't do. The dreadful +moonlight, when they all three sit silent in the room - by George, +sir, it's imagined - and the brief scene between the husband and +wife is all there. QUANT AU FOND, the whole thing, of course, is a +fever dream, and worthy of eternal laughter. Had the young man +broken stones, and the two women been hard-working honest +prostitutes, there had been an end of the whole immoral and +baseless business: you could at least have respected them in that +case. + +I also read PETRONIUS ARBITER, which is a rum work, not so immoral +as most modern works, but singularly silly. I tackled some Tacitus +too. I got them with a dreadful French crib on the same page with +the text, which helps me along and drives me mad. The French do +not even try to translate. They try to be much more classical than +the classics, with astounding results of barrenness and tedium. +Tacitus, I fear, was too solid for me. I liked the war part; but +the dreary intriguing at Rome was too much. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. DICK + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, VAR, 12TH MARCH 1884. + +MY DEAR MR. DICK, - I have been a great while owing you a letter; +but I am not without excuses, as you have heard. I overworked to +get a piece of work finished before I had my holiday, thinking to +enjoy it more; and instead of that, the machinery near hand came +sundry in my hands! like Murdie's uniform. However, I am now, I +think, in a fair way of recovery; I think I was made, what there is +of me, of whipcord and thorn-switches; surely I am tough! But I +fancy I shall not overdrive again, or not so long. It is my theory +that work is highly beneficial, but that it should, if possible, +and certainly for such partially broken-down instruments as the +thing I call my body, be taken in batches, with a clear break and +breathing space between. I always do vary my work, laying one +thing aside to take up another, not merely because I believe it +rests the brain, but because I have found it most beneficial to the +result. Reading, Bacon says, makes a full man, but what makes me +full on any subject is to banish it for a time from all my +thoughts. However, what I now propose is, out of every quarter, to +work two months' and rest the third. I believe I shall get more +done, as I generally manage, on my present scheme, to have four +months' impotent illness and two of imperfect health - one before, +one after, I break down. This, at least, is not an economical +division of the year. + +I re-read the other day that heartbreaking book, the LIFE OF SCOTT. +One should read such works now and then, but O, not often. As I +live, I feel more and more that literature should be cheerful and +brave-spirited, even if it cannot be made beautiful and pious and +heroic. We wish it to be a green place; the WAVERLEY NOVELS are +better to re-read than the over-true life, fine as dear Sir Walter +was. The Bible, in most parts, is a cheerful book; it is our +little piping theologies, tracts, and sermons that are dull and +dowie; and even the Shorter Catechism, which is scarcely a work of +consolation, opens with the best and shortest and completest sermon +ever written - upon Man's chief end. - Believe me, my dear Mr. +Dick, very sincerely yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - You see I have changed my hand. I was threatened apparently +with scrivener's cramp, and at any rate had got to write so small, +that the revisal of my MS. tried my eyes, hence my signature alone +remains upon the old model; for it appears that if I changed that, +I should be cut off from my 'vivers.' + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO COSMO MONKHOUSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, MARCH 16, 1884. + +MY DEAR MONKHOUSE, - You see with what promptitude I plunge into +correspondence; but the truth is, I am condemned to a complete +inaction, stagnate dismally, and love a letter. Yours, which would +have been welcome at any time, was thus doubly precious. + +Dover sounds somewhat shiveringly in my ears. You should see the +weather I have - cloudless, clear as crystal, with just a punkah- +draft of the most aromatic air, all pine and gum tree. You would +be ashamed of Dover; you would scruple to refer, sir, to a spot so +paltry. To be idle at Dover is a strange pretension; pray, how do +you warm yourself? If I were there I should grind knives or write +blank verse, or - But at least you do not bathe? It is idle to +deny it: I have - I may say I nourish - a growing jealousy of the +robust, large-legged, healthy Britain-dwellers, patient of grog, +scorners of the timid umbrella, innocuously breathing fog: all +which I once was, and I am ashamed to say liked it. How ignorant +is youth! grossly rolling among unselected pleasures; and how +nobler, purer, sweeter, and lighter, to sip the choice tonic, to +recline in the luxurious invalid chair, and to tread, well-shawled, +the little round of the constitutional. Seriously, do you like to +repose? Ye gods, I hate it. I never rest with any acceptation; I +do not know what people mean who say they like sleep and that +damned bedtime which, since long ere I was breeched, has rung a +knell to all my day's doings and beings. And when a man, seemingly +sane, tells me he has 'fallen in love with stagnation,' I can only +say to him, 'You will never be a Pirate!' This may not cause any +regret to Mrs. Monkhouse; but in your own soul it will clang hollow +- think of it! Never! After all boyhood's aspirations and youth's +immoral day-dreams, you are condemned to sit down, grossly draw in +your chair to the fat board, and be a beastly Burgess till you die. +Can it be? Is there not some escape, some furlough from the Moral +Law, some holiday jaunt contrivable into a Better Land? Shall we +never shed blood? This prospect is too grey. + + +'Here lies a man who never did +Anything but what he was bid; +Who lived his life in paltry ease, +And died of commonplace disease.' + + +To confess plainly, I had intended to spend my life (or any leisure +I might have from Piracy upon the high seas) as the leader of a +great horde of irregular cavalry, devastating whole valleys. I can +still, looking back, see myself in many favourite attitudes; +signalling for a boat from my pirate ship with a pocket- +handkerchief, I at the jetty end, and one or two of my bold blades +keeping the crowd at bay; or else turning in the saddle to look +back at my whole command (some five thousand strong) following me +at the hand-gallop up the road out of the burning valley: this +last by moonlight. + +ET POINT DU TOUT. I am a poor scribe, and have scarce broken a +commandment to mention, and have recently dined upon cold veal! As +for you (who probably had some ambitions), I hear of you living at +Dover, in lodgings, like the beasts of the field. But in heaven, +when we get there, we shall have a good time, and see some real +carnage. For heaven is - must be - that great Kingdom of +Antinomia, which Lamb saw dimly adumbrated in the COUNTRY WIFE, +where the worm which never dies (the conscience) peacefully +expires, and the sinner lies down beside the Ten Commandments. +Till then, here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, with neither +health nor vice for anything more spirited than procrastination, +which I may well call the Consolation Stakes of Wickedness; and by +whose diligent practice, without the least amusement to ourselves, +we can rob the orphan and bring down grey hairs with sorrow to the +dust. + +This astonishing gush of nonsense I now hasten to close, envelope, +and expedite to Shakespeare's Cliff. Remember me to Shakespeare, +and believe me, yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, MARCH 17, 1884. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - Your office - office is profanely said - your +bower upon the leads is divine. Have you, like Pepys, 'the right +to fiddle' there? I see you mount the companion, barbiton in hand, +and, fluttered about by city sparrows, pour forth your spirit in a +voluntary. Now when the spring begins, you must lay in your +flowers: how do you say about a potted hawthorn? Would it bloom? +Wallflower is a choice pot-herb; lily-of-the-valley, too, and +carnation, and Indian cress trailed about the window, is not only +beautiful by colour, but the leaves are good to eat. I recommend +thyme and rosemary for the aroma, which should not be left upon one +side; they are good quiet growths. + +On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is still +better - it takes one further - the havens with their little +anchors, the rocks, banks, and soundings, are adorably marine; and +such furniture will suit your ship-shape habitation. I wish I +could see those cabins; they smile upon me with the most intimate +charm. From your leads, do you behold St. Paul's? I always like +to see the Foolscap; it is London PER SE and no spot from which it +is visible is without romance. Then it is good company for the man +of letters, whose veritable nursing Pater-Noster is so near at +hand. + +I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so +pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the +writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a few +days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that structure. +I have worked very hard at it, and so do not expect any great +public favour. IN MOMENTS OF EFFORT, ONE LEARNS TO DO THE EASY +THINGS THAT PEOPLE LIKE. There is the golden maxim; thus one +should strain and then play, strain again and play again. The +strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and +pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two +contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers +would have called 'rank conformity,' and to pour forth cheap +replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, and still more +insidiously present, to forget that art is a diversion and a +decoration, that no triumph or effort is of value, nor anything +worth reaching except charm. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MISS FERRIER + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [MARCH 22, 1884]. + +MY DEAR MISS FERRIER, - Are you really going to fall us? This +seems a dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for +friends on this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have +been promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has +failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know how +delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a visit. Look +at the names: 'The Solitude' - is that romantic? The palm-trees? +- how is that for the gorgeous East? 'Var'? the name of a river - +'the quiet waters by'! 'Tis true, they are in another department, +and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a music, what +a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we have +skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by +the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English +May - for, considering we are in France and serve up our song- +birds, I am ashamed to say, on a little field of toast and with a +sprig of thyme (my own receipt) in their most innocent and now +unvocal bellies - considering all this, we have a wonderfully fair +wood-music round this Solitude of ours. What can I say more? - All +this awaits you. KENNST DU DAS LAND, in short. - Your sincere +friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [APRIL 1884]. + +MY DEAR LOW, - The blind man in these sprawled lines sends +greeting. I have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The +news - 'great news - glorious news - sec-ond ed-ition!' - went the +round in England. + +Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the +Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me) +much liked. + +Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to send +to press. Then I thought of the MANHATTAN, towards whom I have +guilty and compunctious feelings. Last, I had the best thought of +all - to send them to you in case you might think them suitable for +illustration. It seemed to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if +not, hand them on to MANHATTAN, CENTURY, or LIPPINCOTT, at your +pleasure, as all three desire my work or pretend to. But I trust +the lines will not go unattended. Some riverside will haunt you; +and O! be tender to my bathing girls. The lines are copied in my +wife's hand, as I cannot see to write otherwise than with the pen +of Cormoran, Gargantua, or Nimrod. Love to your wife. - Yours +ever, + +R. L. S. + +Copied it myself. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, APRIL 19, 1884. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - Yesterday I very powerfully stated the HERESIS +STEVENSONIANA, or the complete body of divinity of the family +theologian, to Miss Ferrier. She was much impressed; so was I. +You are a great heresiarch; and I know no better. Whaur the devil +did ye get thon about the soap? Is it altogether your own? I +never heard it elsewhere; and yet I suspect it must have been held +at some time or other, and if you were to look up you would +probably find yourself condemned by some Council. + +I am glad to hear you are so well. The hear is excellent. The +CORNHILLS came; I made Miss Ferrier read us 'Thrawn Janet,' and was +quite bowled over by my own works. The 'Merry Men' I mean to make +much longer, with a whole new denouement, not yet quite clear to +me. 'The Story of a Lie,' I must rewrite entirely also, as it is +too weak and ragged, yet is worth saving for the Admiral. Did I +ever tell you that the Admiral was recognised in America? + +When they are all on their legs this will make an excellent +collection. + +Has Davie never read GUY MANNERING, ROB ROY, or THE ANTIQUARY? All +of which are worth three WAVERLEYS. I think KENILWORTH better than +WAVERLEY; NIGEL, too; and QUENTIN DURWARD about as good. But it +shows a true piece of insight to prefer WAVERLEY, for it IS +different; and though not quite coherent, better worked in parts +than almost any other: surely more carefully. It is undeniable +that the love of the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with +success. Perhaps it does on many of us, which may be the granite +on which D.'s opinion stands. However, I hold it, in Patrick +Walker's phrase, for an 'old, condemned, damnable error.' Dr. +Simson was condemned by P. W. as being 'a bagful of' such. One of +Patrick's amenities! + +Another ground there may be to D.'s opinion; those who avoid (or +seek to avoid) Scott's facility are apt to be continually straining +and torturing their style to get in more of life. And to many the +extra significance does not redeem the strain. + +DOCTOR STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO COSMO MONKHOUSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 24, 1884]. + +DEAR MONKHOUSE, - If you are in love with repose, here is your +occasion: change with me. I am too blind to read, hence no +reading; I am too weak to walk, hence no walking; I am not allowed +to speak, hence no talking; but the great simplification has yet to +be named; for, if this goes on, I shall soon have nothing to eat - +and hence, O Hallelujah! hence no eating. The offer is a fair one: +I have not sold myself to the devil, for I could never find him. I +am married, but so are you. I sometimes write verses, but so do +you. Come! HIC QUIES! As for the commandments, I have broken +them so small that they are the dust of my chambers; you walk upon +them, triturate and toothless; and with the Golosh of Philosophy, +they shall not bite your heel. True, the tenement is falling. Ay, +friend, but yours also. Take a larger view; what is a year or two? +dust in the balance! 'Tis done, behold you Cosmo Stevenson, and me +R. L. Monkhouse; you at Hyeres, I in London; you rejoicing in the +clammiest repose, me proceeding to tear your tabernacle into rags, +as I have already so admirably torn my own. + +My place to which I now introduce you - it is yours - is like a +London house, high and very narrow; upon the lungs I will not +linger; the heart is large enough for a ballroom; the belly greedy +and inefficient; the brain stocked with the most damnable +explosives, like a dynamiter's den. The whole place is well +furnished, though not in a very pure taste; Corinthian much of it; +showy and not strong. + +About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an interesting +exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, falling over a blood- +stained remorse; opening that cupboard in the cerebellum and being +welcomed by the spirit of your murdered uncle. I should probably +not like your remorses; I wonder if you will like mine; I have a +spirited assortment; they whistle in my ear o' nights like a north- +easter. I trust yours don't dine with the family; mine are better +mannered; you will hear nought of them till, 2 A.M., except one, to +be sure, that I have made a pet of, but he is small; I keep him in +buttons, so as to avoid commentaries; you will like him much - if +you like what is genuine. + +Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good article, with a +trick of stopping; cathedral bell note; ornamental dial; supported +by Venus and the Graces; quite a summer-parlour piety. Of yours, +since your last, I fear there is little to be said. + +There is one article I wish to take away with me: my spirits. +They suit me. I don't want yours; I like my own; I have had them a +long while in bottle. It is my only reservation. - Yours (as you +decide), + +R. L. MONKHOUSE. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +HYERES, MAY 1884. + +DEAR BOY, - OLD MORTALITY is out, and I am glad to say Coggie likes +it. We like her immensely. + +I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot work - cannot: that +is flat, not even verses: as for prose, that more active place is +shut on me long since. + +My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically +comic. AS YOU LIKE IT is to me the most bird-haunted spot in +letters; TEMPEST and TWELFTH NIGHT follow. These are what I mean +by poetry and nature. I make an effort of my mind to be quite one +with Moliere, except upon the stage, where his inimitable JEUX DE +SCENE beggar belief; but you will observe they are stage-plays - +things AD HOC; not great Olympian debauches of the heart and fancy; +hence more perfect, and not so great. Then I come, after great +wanderings, to Carmosine and to Fantasio; to one part of La +Derniere Aldini (which, by the by, we might dramatise in a week), +to the notes that Meredith has found, Evan and the postillion, Evan +and Rose, Harry in Germany. And to me these things are the good; +beauty, touched with sex and laughter; beauty with God's earth for +the background. Tragedy does not seem to me to come off; and when +it does, it does so by the heroic illusion; the anti-masque has +been omitted; laughter, which attends on all our steps in life, and +sits by the deathbed, and certainly redacts the epitaph, laughter +has been lost from these great-hearted lies. But the comedy which +keeps the beauty and touches the terrors of our life (laughter and +tragedy-in-a-good-humour having kissed), that is the last word of +moved representation; embracing the greatest number of elements of +fate and character; and telling its story, not with the one eye of +pity, but with the two of pity and mirth. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +FROM MY BED, MAY 29, 1884. + +DEAR GOSSE, - The news of the Professorate found me in the article +of - well, of heads or tails; I am still in bed, and a very poor +person. You must thus excuse my damned delay; but, I assure you, I +was delighted. You will believe me the more, if I confess to you +that my first sentiment was envy; yes, sir, on my blood-boltered +couch I envied the professor. However, it was not of long +duration; the double thought that you deserved and that you would +thoroughly enjoy your success fell like balsam on my wounds. How +came it that you never communicated my rejection of Gilder's offer +for the Rhone? But it matters not. Such earthly vanities are over +for the present. This has been a fine well-conducted illness. A +month in bed; a month of silence; a fortnight of not stirring my +right hand; a month of not moving without being lifted. Come! CA +Y EST: devilish like being dead. - Yours, dear Professor, +academically, + +R. L. S. + +I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with me! I +got him cheap - second-hand. + +In turning over my late friend Ferrier's commonplace book, I find +three poems from VIOL AND FLUTE copied out in his hand: 'When +Flower-time,' 'Love in Winter,' and 'Mistrust.' They are capital +too. But I thought the fact would interest you. He was no poetist +either; so it means the more. 'Love in W.!' I like the best. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL CHABASSIERE, ROYAT, [JULY 1884]. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff +of cold, and was finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day, +however, it has cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to + +(SEVERAL DAYS AFTER.) + +I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am better, and +keep better, but the weather is a mere injustice. The imitation of +Edinburgh is, at times, deceptive; there is a note among the +chimney pots that suggests Howe Street; though I think the +shrillest spot in Christendom was not upon the Howe Street side, +but in front, just under the Miss Graemes' big chimney stack. It +had a fine alto character - a sort of bleat that used to divide the +marrow in my joints - say in the wee, slack hours. That music is +now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, not +regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; a +knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I mind it +above all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was blue and +spotted with rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold evening +was seen blue all over, with the lamps of Queen's and Frederick's +Street dotting it with yellow, and flaring east-ward in the +squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I have been in such circumstances - +I, who have now positively forgotten the colour of unhappiness; who +am full like a fed ox, and dull like a fresh turf, and have no more +spiritual life, for good or evil, than a French bagman. + +We are at Chabassiere's, for of course it was nonsense to go up the +hill when we could not walk. + +The child's poems in a far extended form are likely soon to be +heard of - which Cummy I dare say will be glad to know. They will +make a book of about one hundred pages. - Ever your affectionate, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[ROYAT, JULY 1884.] + +. . . HERE is a quaint thing, I have read ROBINSON, COLONEL JACK, +MOLL FLANDERS, MEMOIRS OF A CAVALIER, HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE, +HISTORY OF THE GREAT STORM, SCOTCH CHURCH AND UNION. And there my +knowledge of Defoe ends - except a book, the name of which I +forget, about Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not +write, and could not have written if he wanted. To which of these +does B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish +Church. I jest; for, of course, I KNOW it must be a book I have +never read, and which this makes me keen to read - I mean CAPTAIN +SINGLETON. Can it be got and sent to me? If TREASURE ISLAND is at +all like it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day +wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing T. +I., as a mine for pirate tips. T. I. came out of Kingsley's AT +LAST, where I got the Dead Man's Chest - and that was the seed - +and out of the great Captain Johnson's HISTORY OF NOTORIOUS +PIRATES. The scenery is Californian in part, and in part CHIC. + +I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made man - till the next +time. + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +If it was CAPTAIN SINGLETON, send it to me, won't you? + +LATER. - My life dwindles into a kind of valley of the shadow +picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as to-day) I must not +speak above my breath, that to play patience, or to see my wife +play it, is become the be-all and the end-all of my dim career. To +add to my gaiety, I may write letters, but there are few to answer. +Patience and Poesy are thus my rod and staff; with these I not +unpleasantly support my days. + +I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be silenced; +and if to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to understand +them cannot be my wife's. Do not think me unhappy; I have not been +so for years; but I am blurred, inhabit the debatable frontier of +sleep, and have but dim designs upon activity. All is at a +standstill; books closed, paper put aside, the voice, the eternal +voice of R. L. S., well silenced. Hence this plaint reaches you +with no very great meaning, no very great purpose, and written part +in slumber by a heavy, dull, somnolent, superannuated son of a +bedpost. + + + + +CHAPTER VII - LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH, SEPTEMBER 1884-DECEMBER 1885 + + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, SUNDAY, 28TH SEPTEMBER 1884. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - I keep better, and am to-day downstairs for the +first time. I find the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the +front. Will you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale, +and has blown for nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping wind, +lashing rain; the sea is a fine colour, and wind-bound ships lie at +anchor under the Old Harry rocks, to make one glad to be ashore. + +The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I hope they +may produce some of the ready. - I am, ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 1884?] + +DEAR BOY, - I trust this finds you well; it leaves me so-so. The +weather is so cold that I must stick to bed, which is rotten and +tedious, but can't be helped. + +I find in the blotting book the enclosed, which I wrote to you the +eve of my blood. Is it not strange? That night, when I naturally +thought I was coopered, the thought of it was much in my mind; I +thought it had gone; and I thought what a strange prophecy I had +made in jest, and how it was indeed like to be the end of many +letters. But I have written a good few since, and the spell is +broken. I am just as pleased, for I earnestly desire to live. +This pleasant middle age into whose port we are steering is quite +to my fancy. I would cast anchor here, and go ashore for twenty +years, and see the manners of the place. Youth was a great time, +but somewhat fussy. Now in middle age (bar lucre) all seems mighty +placid. It likes me; I spy a little bright cafe in one corner of +the port, in front of which I now propose we should sit down. +There is just enough of the bustle of the harbour and no more; and +the ships are close in, regarding us with stern-windows - the ships +that bring deals from Norway and parrots from the Indies. Let us +sit down here for twenty years, with a packet of tobacco and a +drink, and talk of art and women. By-and-by, the whole city will +sink, and the ships too, and the table, and we also; but we shall +have sat for twenty years and had a fine talk; and by that time, +who knows? exhausted the subject. + +I send you a book which (or I am mistook) will please you; it +pleased me. But I do desire a book of adventure - a romance - and +no man will get or write me one. Dumas I have read and re-read too +often; Scott, too, and I am short. I want to hear swords clash. I +want a book to begin in a good way; a book, I guess, like TREASURE +ISLAND, alas! which I have never read, and cannot though I live to +ninety. I would God that some one else had written it! By all +that I can learn, it is the very book for my complaint. I like the +way I hear it opens; and they tell me John Silver is good fun. And +to me it is, and must ever be, a dream unrealised, a book +unwritten. O my sighings after romance, or even Skeltery, and O! +the weary age which will produce me neither! + + +CHAPTER I + + +The night was damp and cloudy, the ways foul. The single horseman, +cloaked and booted, who pursued his way across Willesden Common, +had not met a traveller, when the sound of wheels - + + +CHAPTER I + + +'Yes, sir,' said the old pilot, 'she must have dropped into the bay +a little afore dawn. A queer craft she looks.' + +'She shows no colours,' returned the young gentleman musingly. + +'They're a-lowering of a quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,' resumed the old +salt. 'We shall soon know more of her.' + +'Ay,' replied the young gentleman called Mark, 'and here, Mr. +Seadrift, comes your sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.' + +'God bless her kind heart, sir,' ejaculated old Seadrift. + + +CHAPTER I + + +The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great +house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties +finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging +from one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way. +Little did he think what strange adventures were to befall him! - + +That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead. + +What should be: What is: +The Filibuster's Cache. Aunt Anne's Tea Cosy. +Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly's Niece. +Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THE REV. PROFESSOR LEWIS CAMPBELL + + + +[WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884.] + +MY DEAR CAMPBELL, - The books came duly to hand. My wife has +occupied the translation ever since, nor have I yet been able to +dislodge her. As for the primer, I have read it with a very +strange result: that I find no fault. If you knew how, dogmatic +and pugnacious, I stand warden on the literary art, you would the +more appreciate your success and my - well, I will own it - +disappointment. For I love to put people right (or wrong) about +the arts. But what you say of Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply +satisfies me; it is well felt and well said; a little less +technically than it is my weakness to desire to see it put, but +clear and adequate. You are very right to express your admiration +for the resource displayed in OEdipus King; it is a miracle. Would +it not have been well to mention Voltaire's interesting onslaught, +a thing which gives the best lesson of the difference of neighbour +arts? - since all his criticisms, which had been fatal to a +narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw in this +masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though such a +fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, so +imperfect, so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required of +these conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts. + +I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by hoping for +better luck next time. My wife begs to be remembered to both of +you. - Yours sincerely, + + + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO ANDREW CHATTO + + + +WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 3, 1884. + +DEAR MR. CHATTO, - I have an offer of 25 pounds for OTTO from +America. I do not know if you mean to have the American rights; +from the nature of the contract, I think not; but if you understood +that you were to sell the sheets, I will either hand over the +bargain to you, or finish it myself and hand you over the money if +you are pleased with the amount. You see, I leave this quite in +your hands. To parody an old Scotch story of servant and master: +if you don't know that you have a good author, I know that I have a +good publisher. Your fair, open, and handsome dealings are a good +point in my life, and do more for my crazy health than has yet been +done by any doctor. - Very truly yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, HANTS, ENGLAND, FIRST +WEEK IN NOVEMBER, I GUESS, 1884. + +MY DEAR LOW, - NOW, look here, the above is my address for three +months, I hope; continue, on your part, if you please, to write to +Edinburgh, which is safe; but if Mrs. Low thinks of coming to +England, she might take a run down from London (four hours from +Waterloo, main line) and stay a day or two with us among the pines. +If not, I hope it will be only a pleasure deferred till you can +join her. + +My Children's Verses will be published here in a volume called A +CHILD'S GARDEN. The sheets are in hand; I will see if I cannot +send you the lot, so that you might have a bit of a start. In that +case I would do nothing to publish in the States, and you might try +an illustrated edition there; which, if the book went fairly over +here, might, when ready, be imported. But of this more fully ere +long. You will see some verses of mine in the last MAGAZINE OF +ART, with pictures by a young lady; rather pretty, I think. If we +find a market for PHASELLULUS LOQUITUR, we can try another. I hope +it isn't necessary to put the verse into that rustic printing. I +am Philistine enough to prefer clean printer's type; indeed, I can +form no idea of the verses thus transcribed by the incult and +tottering hand of the draughtsman, nor gather any impression beyond +one of weariness to the eyes. Yet the other day, in the CENTURY, I +saw it imputed as a crime to Vedder that he had not thus travestied +Omar Khayyam. We live in a rum age of music without airs, stories +without incident, pictures without beauty, American wood engravings +that should have been etchings, and dry-point etchings that ought +to have been mezzo-tints. I think of giving 'em literature without +words; and I believe if you were to try invisible illustration, it +would enjoy a considerable vogue. So long as an artist is on his +head, is painting with a flute, or writes with an etcher's needle, +or conducts the orchestra with a meat-axe, all is well; and +plaudits shower along with roses. But any plain man who tries to +follow the obtrusive canons of his art, is but a commonplace +figure. To hell with him is the motto, or at least not that; for +he will have his reward, but he will never be thought a person of +parts. + +JANUARY 3, 1885. + +And here has this been lying near two months. I have failed to get +together a preliminary copy of the Child's Verses for you, in spite +of doughty efforts; but yesterday I sent you the first sheet of the +definitive edition, and shall continue to send the others as they +come. If you can, and care to, work them - why so, well. If not, +I send you fodder. But the time presses; for though I will delay a +little over the proofs, and though - it is even possible they may +delay the English issue until Easter, it will certainly not be +later. Therefore perpend, and do not get caught out. Of course, +if you can do pictures, it will be a great pleasure to me to see +our names joined; and more than that, a great advantage, as I +daresay you may be able to make a bargain for some share a little +less spectral than the common for the poor author. But this is all +as you shall choose; I give you CARTE BLANCHE to do or not to do. - +Yours most sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +O, Sargent has been and painted my portrait; a very nice fellow he +is, and is supposed to have done well; it is a poetical but very +chicken-boned figure-head, as thus represented. R. L. S. Go on. + +P.P.S. - Your picture came; and let me thank you for it very much. +I am so hunted I had near forgotten. I find it very graceful; and +I mean to have it framed. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I have no hesitation in recommending you to let +your name go up; please yourself about an address; though I think, +if we could meet, we could arrange something suitable. What you +propose would be well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest +a whine. From that point of view it would be better to change a +little; but this, whether we meet or not, we must discuss. Tait, +Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, all think you amply deserve +this honour and far more; it is not the True Blue to call this +serious compliment a 'trial'; you should be glad of this +recognition. As for resigning, that is easy enough if found +necessary; but to refuse would be husky and unsatisfactory. SIC +SUBS. + +R. L. S. + +My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well. Fanny is very +very much out of sorts, principally through perpetual misery with +me. I fear I have been a little in the dumps, which, AS YOU KNOW, +SIR, is a very great sin. I must try to be more cheerful; but my +cough is so severe that I have sometimes most exhausting nights and +very peevish wakenings. However, this shall be remedied, and last +night I was distinctly better than the night before. There is, my +dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise blandly as we sit together on the +devil's garden-wall), no more abominable sin than this gloom, this +plaguey peevishness; why (say I) what matters it if we be a little +uncomfortable - that is no reason for mangling our unhappy wives. +And then I turn and GIRN on the unfortunate Cassandra. - Your +fellow culprit, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884. + +DEAR HENLEY, - We are all to pieces in health, and heavily +handicapped with Arabs. I have a dreadful cough, whose attacks +leave me AETAT. 90. I never let up on the Arabs, all the same, and +rarely get less than eight pages out of hand, though hardly able to +come downstairs for twittering knees. + +I shall put in -'s letter. He says so little of his circumstances +that I am in an impossibility to give him advice more specific than +a copybook. Give him my love, however, and tell him it is the mark +of the parochial gentleman who has never travelled to find all +wrong in a foreign land. Let him hold on, and he will find one +country as good as another; and in the meanwhile let him resist the +fatal British tendency to communicate his dissatisfaction with a +country to its inhabitants. 'Tis a good idea, but it somehow fails +to please. In a fortnight, if I can keep my spirit in the box at +all, I should be nearly through this Arabian desert; so can tackle +something fresh. - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH (THE THREE B'S) +[NOVEMBER 5, 1884]. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, +that you are a silly fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I +be offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you had +the same impression of the DEACON; and yet, when you saw it played, +were less revolted than you looked for; and I will still hope that +the ADMIRAL also is not so bad as you suppose. There is one point, +however, where I differ from you very frankly. Religion is in the +world; I do not think you are the man to deny the importance of its +role; and I have long decided not to leave it on one side in art. +The opposition of the Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, +either horrible or irreverent; but it may be, and it probably is, +very ill done: what then? This is a failure; better luck next +time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, more wisdom in the +design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the new victory. +Concern yourself about no failure; they do not cost lives, as in +engineering; they are the PIERRES PERDUES of successes. Fame is +(truly) a vapour; do not think of it; if the writer means well and +tries hard, no failure will injure him, whether with God or man. + +I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am +inclined to acquit the ADMIRAL of having a share in the +responsibility. My very heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; and +the change to this charming house in the forest will, I hope, +complete my re-establishment. - With love to all, believe me, your +ever affectionate, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 11, [1884]. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - I am in my new house, thus proudly styled, as +you perceive; but the deevil a tower ava' can be perceived (except +out of window); this is not as it should be; one might have hoped, +at least, a turret. We are all vilely unwell. I put in the dark +watches imitating a donkey with some success, but little pleasure; +and in the afternoon I indulge in a smart fever, accompanied by +aches and shivers. There is thus little monotony to be deplored. +I at least am a REGULAR invalid; I would scorn to bray in the +afternoon; I would indignantly refuse the proposal to fever in the +night. What is bred in the bone will come out, sir, in the flesh; +and the same spirit that prompted me to date my letter regulates +the hour and character of my attacks. - I am, sir, yours, + +THOMSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +POSTMARK, BOURNEMOUTH, 13TH NOVEMBER 1884. + +MY DEAR THOMSON, - It's a maist remarkable fac', but nae shuner had +I written yon braggin', blawin' letter aboot ma business habits, +when bang! that very day, ma hoast begude in the aifternune. It is +really remaurkable; it's providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae +fair dry, the words werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got +the lee. The mair ye think o't, Thomson, the less ye'll like the +looks o't. Proavidence (I'm no' sayin') is all verra weel IN ITS +PLACE; but if Proavidence has nae mainners, wha's to learn't? +Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo would you like Proavidence to +keep your till for ye? The richt place for Proavidence is in the +kirk; it has naething to do wi' private correspondence between twa +gentlemen, nor freendly cracks, nor a wee bit word of sculduddery +ahint the door, nor, in shoart, wi' ony HOLE-AND-CORNER WARK, what +I would call. I'm pairfec'ly willin' to meet in wi' Proavidence, +I'll be prood to meet in wi' him, when my time's come and I cannae +dae nae better; but if he's to come skinking aboot my stair-fit, +damned, I micht as weel be deid for a' the comfort I'll can get in +life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it's beneath him? +Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae steir my heid for a +plain, auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he taks himsel,' 's just +aboot as honest as he can weel afford, an' but for a wheen auld +scandals, near forgotten noo, is a pairfec'ly respectable and +thoroughly decent man. Or if I fashed wi' him ava', it wad be kind +o' handsome like; a pun'-note under his stair door, or a bottle o' +auld, blended malt to his bit marnin', as a teshtymonial like yon +ye ken sae weel aboot, but mair successfu'. + +Dear Thomson, have I ony money? If I have, SEND IT, for the +loard's sake. + +JOHNSON. + + + +Letter: TO MISS FERRIER + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 12, 1884. + +MY DEAR COGGIE, - Many thanks for the two photos which now decorate +my room. I was particularly glad to have the Bell Rock. I wonder +if you saw me plunge, lance in rest, into a controversy thereanent? +It was a very one-sided affair. I slept upon the field of battle, +paraded, sang Te Deum, and came home after a review rather than a +campaign. + +Please tell Campbell I got his letter. The Wild Woman of the West +has been much amiss and complaining sorely. I hope nothing more +serious is wrong with her than just my ill-health, and consequent +anxiety and labour; but the deuce of it is, that the cause +continues. I am about knocked out of time now: a miserable, +snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee- +jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting shadow and remains of man. But +we'll no gie ower jist yet a bittie. We've seen waur; and dod, +mem, it's my belief that we'll see better. I dinna ken 'at I've +muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but jist here's +guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale o' guid fortune to your +bonny sel'; and my respecs to the Perfessor and his wife, and the +Prinshiple, an' the Bell Rock, an' ony ither public chara'ters that +I'm acquaunt wi'. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, NOV. 15, 1884. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - This Mr. Morley of yours is a most desperate +fellow. He has sent me (for my opinion) the most truculent +advertisement I ever saw, in which the white hairs of Gladstone are +dragged round Troy behind my chariot wheels. What can I say? I +say nothing to him; and to you, I content myself with remarking +that he seems a desperate fellow. + +All luck to you on your American adventure; may you find health, +wealth, and entertainment! If you see, as you likely will, Frank +R. Stockton, pray greet him from me in words to this effect:- + + +My Stockton if I failed to like, +It were a sheer depravity, +For I went down with the THOMAS HYKE +And up with the NEGATIVE GRAVITY! + + +I adore these tales. + +I hear flourishing accounts of your success at Cambridge, so you +leave with a good omen. Remember me to GREEN CORN if it is in +season; if not, you had better hang yourself on a sour apple tree, +for your voyage has been lost. - Yours affectionately, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO AUSTIN DOBSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH [DECEMBER 1884?]. + +DEAR DOBSON, - Set down my delay to your own fault; I wished to +acknowledge such a gift from you in some of my inapt and slovenly +rhymes; but you should have sent me your pen and not your desk. +The verses stand up to the axles in a miry cross-road, whence the +coursers of the sun shall never draw them; hence I am constrained +to this uncourtliness, that I must appear before one of the kings +of that country of rhyme without my singing robes. For less than +this, if we may trust the book of Esther, favourites have tasted +death; but I conceive the kingdom of the Muses mildlier mannered; +and in particular that county which you administer and which I seem +to see as a half-suburban land; a land of holly-hocks and country +houses; a land where at night, in thorny and sequestered bypaths, +you will meet masqueraders going to a ball in their sedans, and the +rector steering homeward by the light of his lantern; a land of the +windmill, and the west wind, and the flowering hawthorn with a +little scented letter in the hollow of its trunk, and the kites +flying over all in the season of kites, and the far away blue +spires of a cathedral city. + +Will you forgive me, then, for my delay and accept my thanks not +only for your present, but for the letter which followed it, and +which perhaps I more particularly value, and believe me to be, with +much admiration, yours very truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO HENRY JAMES + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 8, 1884. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES, - This is a very brave hearing from more +points than one. The first point is that there is a hope of a +sequel. For this I laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of +information and thoughtful interest in the art of literature, those +who try to practise it with any deliberate purpose run the risk of +finding no fit audience. People suppose it is 'the stuff' that +interests them; they think, for instance, that the prodigious fine +thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare impress by their own weight, +not understanding that the unpolished diamond is but a stone. They +think that striking situations, or good dialogue, are got by +studying life; they will not rise to understand that they are +prepared by deliberate artifice and set off by painful +suppressions. Now, I want the whole thing well ventilated, for my +own education and the public's; and I beg you to look as quick as +you can, to follow me up with every circumstance of defeat where we +differ, and (to prevent the flouting of the laity) to emphasise the +points where we agree. I trust your paper will show me the way to +a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I shall hope to make with so much +art as to woo or drive you from your threatened silence. I would +not ask better than to pass my life in beating out this quarter of +corn with such a seconder as yourself. + +Point the second - I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak so kindly +of my work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to myself a very rude, +left-handed countryman; not fit to be read, far less complimented, +by a man so accomplished, so adroit, so craftsmanlike as you. You +will happily never have cause to understand the despair with which +a writer like myself considers (say) the park scene in Lady +Barberina. Every touch surprises me by its intangible precision; +and the effect when done, as light as syllabub, as distinct as a +picture, fills me with envy. Each man among us prefers his own +aim, and I prefer mine; but when we come to speak of performance, I +recognise myself, compared with you, to be a lout and slouch of the +first water. + +Where we differ, both as to the design of stories and the +delineation of character, I begin to lament. Of course, I am not +so dull as to ask you to desert your walk; but could you not, in +one novel, to oblige a sincere admirer, and to enrich his shelves +with a beloved volume, could you not, and might you not, cast your +characters in a mould a little more abstract and academic (dear +Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your other work, a taste of what I +mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not say in any stronger, but +in a slightly more emphatic key - as it were an episode from one of +the old (so-called) novels of adventure? I fear you will not; and +I suppose I must sighingly admit you to be right. And yet, when I +see, as it were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite +precision and shot through with those side-lights of reflection in +which you excel, I relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think +upon it. + +As you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid: +this puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is possible +that some day you may feel that a day near the sea and among +pinewoods would be a pleasant change from town. If so, please let +us know; and my wife and I will be delighted to put you up, and +give you what we can to eat and drink (I have a fair bottle of +claret). - On the back of which, believe me, yours sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - I reopen this to say that I have re-read my paper, and +cannot think I have at all succeeded in being either veracious or +polite. I knew, of course, that I took your paper merely as a pin +to hang my own remarks upon; but, alas! what a thing is any paper! +What fine remarks can you not hang on mine! How I have sinned +against proportion, and with every effort to the contrary, against +the merest rudiments of courtesy to you! You are indeed a very +acute reader to have divined the real attitude of my mind; and I +can only conclude, not without closed eyes and shrinking shoulders, +in the well-worn words + +Lay on, Macduff! + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 9, 1884. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The dreadful tragedy of the PALL MALL has come to +a happy but ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale +writ for them is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to +flash out before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, 'The +Body Snatcher.' When you come, please to bring - + +(1) My MONTAIGNE, or, at least, the two last volumes. +(2) My MILTON in the three vols. in green. +(3) The SHAKESPEARE that Babington sent me for a wedding-gift. +(4) Hazlitt's TABLE TALK AND PLAIN SPEAKER. + +If you care to get a box of books from Douglas and Foulis, let them +be SOLID. CROKER PAPERS, CORRESPONDENCE OF NAPOLEON, HISTORY OF +HENRY IV., Lang's FOLK LORE, would be my desires. + +I had a charming letter from Henry James about my LONGMAN paper. I +did not understand queries about the verses; the pictures to the +Seagull I thought charming; those to the second have left me with a +pain in my poor belly and a swimming in the head. + +About money, I am afloat and no more, and I warn you, unless I have +great luck, I shall have to fall upon you at the New Year like a +hundredweight of bricks. Doctor, rent, chemist, are all +threatening; sickness has bitterly delayed my work; and unless, as +I say, I have the mischief's luck, I shall completely break down. +VERBUM SAPIENTIBUS. I do not live cheaply, and I question if I +ever shall; but if only I had a halfpenny worth of health, I could +now easily suffice. The last breakdown of my head is what makes +this bankruptcy probable. + +Fanny is still out of sorts; Bogue better; self fair, but a +stranger to the blessings of sleep. - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, [DECEMBER 1884]. + +DEAR LAD, - I have made up my mind about the P. M. G., and send you +a copy, which please keep or return. As for not giving a +reduction, what are we? Are we artists or city men? Why do we +sneer at stock-brokers? O nary; I will not take the 40 pounds. I +took that as a fair price for my best work; I was not able to +produce my best; and I will be damned if I steal with my eyes open. +SUFFICIT. This is my lookout. As for the paper being rich, +certainly it is; but I am honourable. It is no more above me in +money than the poor slaveys and cads from whom I look for honesty +are below me. Am I Pepys, that because I can find the countenance +of 'some of our ablest merchants,' that because - and - pour forth +languid twaddle and get paid for it, I, too, should 'cheerfully +continue to steal'? I am not Pepys. I do not live much to God and +honour; but I will not wilfully turn my back on both. I am, like +all the rest of us, falling ever lower from the bright ideas I +began with, falling into greed, into idleness, into middle-aged and +slippered fireside cowardice; but is it you, my bold blade, that I +hear crying this sordid and rank twaddle in my ear? Preaching the +dankest Grundyism and upholding the rank customs of our trade - +you, who are so cruel hard upon the customs of the publishers? O +man, look at the Beam in our own Eyes; and whatever else you do, do +not plead Satan's cause, or plead it for all; either embrace the +bad, or respect the good when you see a poor devil trying for it. +If this is the honesty of authors - to take what you can get and +console yourself because publishers are rich - take my name from +the rolls of that association. 'Tis a caucus of weaker thieves, +jealous of the stronger. - Ever yours, + +THE ROARING R. L. S. + +You will see from the enclosed that I have stuck to what I think my +dues pretty tightly in spite of this flourish: these are my words +for a poor ten-pound note! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, [WINTER, 1884]. + +MY DEAR LAD, - Here was I in bed; not writing, not hearing, and +finding myself gently and agreeably ill used; and behold I learn +you are bad yourself. Get your wife to send us a word how you are. +I am better decidedly. Bogue got his Christmas card, and behaved +well for three days after. It may interest the cynical to learn +that I started my last haemorrhage by too sedulous attentions to my +dear Bogue. The stick was broken; and that night Bogue, who was +attracted by the extraordinary aching of his bones, and is always +inclined to a serious view of his own ailments, announced with his +customary pomp that he was dying. In this case, however, it was +not the dog that died. (He had tried to bite his mother's ankles.) +I have written a long and peculiarly solemn paper on the technical +elements of style. It is path-breaking and epoch-making; but I do +not think the public will be readily convoked to its perusal. Did +I tell you that S. C. had risen to the paper on James? At last! O +but I was pleased; he's (like Johnnie) been lang, lang o' comin', +but here he is. He will not object to my future manoeuvres in the +same field, as he has to my former. All the family are here; my +father better than I have seen him these two years; my mother the +same as ever. I do trust you are better, and I am yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO H. A. JONES + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, DEC. 30, 1884. + +DEAR SIR, - I am so accustomed to hear nonsense spoken about all +the arts, and the drama in particular, that I cannot refrain from +saying 'Thank you,' for your paper. In my answer to Mr. James, in +the December LONGMAN, you may see that I have merely touched, I +think in a parenthesis, on the drama; but I believe enough was said +to indicate our agreement in essentials. + +Wishing you power and health to further enunciate and to act upon +these principles, believe me, dear sir, yours truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, JAN. 4, 1885. + +DEAR S. C., - I am on my feet again, and getting on my boots to do +the IRON DUKE. Conceive my glee: I have refused the 100 pounds, +and am to get some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. 'Tis +for Longman's ENGLISH WORTHIES, edited by A. Lang. Aw haw, haw! + +Now, look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or is +that a dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and certainly +note pages on the fly. If you think it a dream, will Bain get me a +second-hand copy, or who would? The sooner, and cheaper, I can get +it the better. If there is anything in your weird library that +bears on either the man or the period, put it in a mortar and fire +it here instanter; I shall catch. I shall want, of course, an +infinity of books: among which, any lives there may be; a life of +the Marquis Marmont (the Marechal), MARMONT'S MEMOIRS, GREVILLE'S +MEMOIRS, PEEL'S MEMOIRS, NAPIER, that blind man's history of +England you once lent me, Hamley's WATERLOO; can you get me any of +these? Thiers, idle Thiers also. Can you help a man getting into +his boots for such a huge campaign? How are you? A Good New Year +to you. I mean to have a good one, but on whose funds I cannot +fancy: not mine leastways, as I am a mere derelict and drift beam- +on to bankruptcy. + +For God's sake, remember the man who set out for to conquer Arthur +Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty pocket. - Yours ever, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH,] 14TH JANUARY 1885. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I am glad you like the changes. I own I was +pleased with my hand's darg; you may observe, I have corrected +several errors which (you may tell Mr. Dick) he had allowed to pass +his eagle eye; I wish there may be none in mine; at least, the +order is better. The second title, 'Some new Engineering Questions +involved in the M. S. C. Scheme of last Session of P.', likes me +the best. I think it a very good paper; and I am vain enough to +think I have materially helped to polish the diamond. I ended by +feeling quite proud of the paper, as if it had been mine; the next +time you have as good a one, I will overhaul it for the wages of +feeling as clever as I did when I had managed to understand and +helped to set it clear. I wonder if I anywhere misapprehended you? +I rather think not at the last; at the first shot I know I missed a +point or two. Some of what may appear to you to be wanton changes, +a little study will show to be necessary. + +Yes, Carlyle was ashamed of himself as few men have been; and let +all carpers look at what he did. He prepared all these papers for +publication with his own hand; all his wife's complaints, all the +evidence of his own misconduct: who else would have done so much? +Is repentance, which God accepts, to have no avail with men? nor +even with the dead? I have heard too much against the thrawn, +discomfortable dog: dead he is, and we may be glad of it; but he +was a better man than most of us, no less patently than he was a +worse. To fill the world with whining is against all my views: I +do not like impiety. But - but - there are two sides to all +things, and the old scalded baby had his noble side. - Ever +affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, JANUARY 1885. + +DEAR S. C., - I have addressed a letter to the G. O. M., A PROPOS +of Wellington; and I became aware, you will be interested to hear, +of an overwhelming respect for the old gentleman. I can BLAGUER +his failures; but when you actually address him, and bring the two +statures and records to confrontation, dismay is the result. By +mere continuance of years, he must impose; the man who helped to +rule England before I was conceived, strikes me with a new sense of +greatness and antiquity, when I must actually beard him with the +cold forms of correspondence. I shied at the necessity of calling +him plain 'Sir'! Had he been 'My lord,' I had been happier; no, I +am no equalitarian. Honour to whom honour is due; and if to none, +why, then, honour to the old! + +These, O Slade Professor, are my unvarnished sentiments: I was a +little surprised to find them so extreme, and therefore I +communicate the fact. + +Belabour thy brains, as to whom it would be well to question. I +have a small space; I wish to make a popular book, nowhere obscure, +nowhere, if it can be helped, unhuman. It seems to me the most +hopeful plan to tell the tale, so far as may be, by anecdote. He +did not die till so recently, there must be hundreds who remember +him, and thousands who have still ungarnered stories. Dear man, to +the breach! Up, soldier of the iron dook, up, Slades, and at 'em! +(which, conclusively, he did not say: the at 'em-ic theory is to +be dismissed). You know piles of fellows who must reek with +matter; help! help! - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, FEBRUARY 1885. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - You are indeed a backward correspondent, and much +may be said against you. But in this weather, and O dear! in this +political scene of degradation, much must be forgiven. I fear +England is dead of Burgessry, and only walks about galvanised. I +do not love to think of my countrymen these days; nor to remember +myself. Why was I silent? I feel I have no right to blame any +one; but I won't write to the G. O. M. I do really not see my way +to any form of signature, unless 'your fellow criminal in the eyes +of God,' which might disquiet the proprieties. + +About your book, I have always said: go on. The drawing of +character is a different thing from publishing the details of a +private career. No one objects to the first, or should object, if +his name be not put upon it; at the other, I draw the line. In a +preface, if you chose, you might distinguish; it is, besides, a +thing for which you are eminently well equipped, and which you +would do with taste and incision. I long to see the book. People +like themselves (to explain a little more); no one likes his life, +which is a misbegotten issue, and a tale of failure. To see these +failures either touched upon, or COASTED, to get the idea of a +spying eye and blabbing tongue about the house, is to lose all +privacy in life. To see that thing, which we do love, our +character, set forth, is ever gratifying. See how my TALK AND +TALKERS went; every one liked his own portrait, and shrieked about +other people's; so it will be with yours. If you are the least +true to the essential, the sitter will be pleased; very likely not +his friends, and that from VARIOUS MOTIVES. + +R. L. S. + +When will your holiday be? I sent your letter to my wife, and +forget. Keep us in mind, and I hope we shall he able to receive +you. + + + +Letter: TO J. A. SYMONDS + + + +BOURNEMOUTH, FEBRUARY 1885. + +MY DEAR SYMONDS, - Yes, we have both been very neglectful. I had +horrid luck, catching two thundering influenzas in August and +November. I recovered from the last with difficulty, but have come +through this blustering winter with some general success; in the +house, up and down. My wife, however, has been painfully upset by +my health. Last year, of course, was cruelly trying to her nerves; +Nice and Hyeres are bad experiences; and though she is not ill, the +doctor tells me that prolonged anxiety may do her a real mischief. + +I feel a little old and fagged, and chary of speech, and not very +sure of spirit in my work; but considering what a year I have +passed, and how I have twice sat on Charon's pierhead, I am +surprising. + +My father has presented us with a very pretty home in this place, +into which we hope to move by May. My CHILD'S VERSES come out next +week. OTTO begins to appear in April; MORE NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS as +soon as possible. Moreover, I am neck deep in Wellington; also a +story on the stocks, GREAT NORTH ROAD. O, I am busy! Lloyd is at +college in Edinburgh. That is, I think, all that can be said by +way of news. + +Have you read HUCKLEBERRY FINN? It contains many excellent things; +above all, the whole story of a healthy boy's dealings with his +conscience, incredibly well done. + +My own conscience is badly seared; a want of piety; yet I pray for +it, tacitly, every day; believing it, after courage, the only gift +worth having; and its want, in a man of any claims to honour, quite +unpardonable. The tone of your letter seemed to me very sound. In +these dark days of public dishonour, I do not know that one can do +better than carry our private trials piously. What a picture is +this of a nation! No man that I can see, on any side or party, +seems to have the least sense of our ineffable shame: the +desertion of the garrisons. I tell my little parable that Germany +took England, and then there was an Indian Mutiny, and Bismarck +said: 'Quite right: let Delhi and Calcutta and Bombay fall; and +let the women and children be treated Sepoy fashion,' and people +say, 'O, but that is very different!' And then I wish I were dead. +Millais (I hear) was painting Gladstone when the news came of +Gordon's death; Millais was much affected, and Gladstone said, +'Why? IT IS THE MAN'S OWN TEMERITY!' Voila le Bourgeois! le voila +nu! But why should I blame Gladstone, when I too am a Bourgeois? +when I have held my peace? Why did I hold my peace? Because I am +a sceptic: I.E. a Bourgeois. We believe in nothing, Symonds; you +don't, and I don't; and these are two reasons, out of a handful of +millions, why England stands before the world dripping with blood +and daubed with dishonour. I will first try to take the beam out +of my own eye, trusting that even private effort somehow betters +and braces the general atmosphere. See, for example, if England +has shown (I put it hypothetically) one spark of manly sensibility, +they have been shamed into it by the spectacle of Gordon. Police- +Officer Cole is the only man that I see to admire. I dedicate my +NEW ARABS to him and Cox, in default of other great public +characters. - Yours ever most affectionately, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 12, 1885. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I was indeed much exercised how I could be worked +into Gray; and lo! when I saw it, the passage seemed to have been +written with a single eye to elucidate the - worst? - well, not a +very good poem of Gray's. Your little life is excellent, clean, +neat, efficient. I have read many of your notes, too, with +pleasure. Your connection with Gray was a happy circumstance; it +was a suitable conjunction. + +I did not answer your letter from the States, for what was I to +say? I liked getting it and reading it; I was rather flattered +that you wrote it to me; and then I'll tell you what I did - I put +it in the fire. Why? Well, just because it was very natural and +expansive; and thinks I to myself, if I die one of these fine +nights, this is just the letter that Gosse would not wish to go +into the hands of third parties. Was I well inspired? And I did +not answer it because you were in your high places, sailing with +supreme dominion, and seeing life in a particular glory; and I was +peddling in a corner, confined to the house, overwhelmed with +necessary work, which I was not always doing well, and, in the very +mild form in which the disease approaches me, touched with a sort +of bustling cynicism. Why throw cold water? How ape your +agreeable frame of mind? In short, I held my tongue. + +I have now published on 101 small pages THE COMPLETE PROOF OF MR. +R. L. STEVENSON'S INCAPACITY TO WRITE VERSE, in a series of +graduated examples with table of contents. I think I shall issue a +companion volume of exercises: 'Analyse this poem. Collect and +comminate the ugly words. Distinguish and condemn the CHEVILLES. +State Mr. Stevenson's faults of taste in regard to the measure. +What reasons can you gather from this example for your belief that +Mr. S. is unable to write any other measure?' + +They look ghastly in the cold light of print; but there is +something nice in the little ragged regiment for all; the +blackguards seem to me to smile, to have a kind of childish treble +note that sounds in my ears freshly; not song, if you will, but a +child's voice. + +I was glad you enjoyed your visit to the States. Most Englishmen +go there with a confirmed design of patronage, as they go to France +for that matter; and patronage will not pay. Besides, in this year +of - grace, said I? - of disgrace, who should creep so low as an +Englishman? 'It is not to be thought of that the flood' - ah, +Wordsworth, you would change your note were you alive to-day! + +I am now a beastly householder, but have not yet entered on my +domain. When I do, the social revolution will probably cast me +back upon my dung heap. There is a person called Hyndman whose eye +is on me; his step is beHynd me as I go. I shall call my house +Skerryvore when I get it: SKERRYVORE: C'EST BON POUR LA POESHIE. +I will conclude with my favourite sentiment: 'The world is too +much with me.' + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, +THE HERMIT OF SKERRYVORE. + +Author of 'John Vane Tempest: a Romance,' 'Herbert and Henrietta: +or the Nemesis of Sentiment,' 'The Life and Adventures of Colonel +Bludyer Fortescue,' 'Happy Homes and Hairy Faces,' 'A Pound of +Feathers and a Pound of Lead,' part author of 'Minn's Complete +Capricious Correspondent: a Manual of Natty, Natural, and Knowing +Letters,' and editor of the 'Poetical Remains of Samuel Burt +Crabbe, known as the melodious Bottle-Holder.' + +Uniform with the above: + +'The Life and Remains of the Reverend Jacob Degray Squah,' author +of 'Heave-yo for the New Jerusalem.' 'A Box of Candles; or the +Patent Spiritual Safety Match,' and 'A Day with the Heavenly +Harriers.' + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 13, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW, - Your success has been immense. I wish your letter +had come two days ago: OTTO, alas! has been disposed of a good +while ago; but it was only day before yesterday that I settled the +new volume of Arabs. However, for the future, you and the sons of +the deified Scribner are the men for me. Really they have behaved +most handsomely. I cannot lay my hand on the papers, or I would +tell you exactly how it compares with my English bargain; but it +compares well. Ah, if we had that copyright, I do believe it would +go far to make me solvent, ill-health and all. + +I wrote you a letter to the Rembrandt, in which I stated my views +about the dedication in a very brief form. It will give me sincere +pleasure, and will make the second dedication I have received, the +other being from John Addington Symonds. It is a compliment I +value much; I don't know any that I should prefer. + +I am glad to hear you have windows to do; that is a fine business, +I think; but, alas! the glass is so bad nowadays; realism invading +even that, as well as the huge inferiority of our technical +resource corrupting every tint. Still, anything that keeps a man +to decoration is, in this age, good for the artist's spirit. + +By the way, have you seen James and me on the novel? James, I +think in the August or September - R. L. S. in the December +LONGMAN. I own I think the ECOLE BETE, of which I am the champion, +has the whip hand of the argument; but as James is to make a +rejoinder, I must not boast. Anyway the controversy is amusing to +see. I was terribly tied down to space, which has made the end +congested and dull. I shall see if I can afford to send you the +April CONTEMPORARY - but I dare say you see it anyway - as it will +contain a paper of mine on style, a sort of continuation of old +arguments on art in which you have wagged a most effective tongue. +It is a sort of start upon my Treatise on the Art of Literature: a +small, arid book that shall some day appear. + +With every good wish from me and mine (should I not say 'she and +hers'?) to you and yours, believe me yours ever, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 16, 1885. + +MY DEAR HAMERTON, - Various things have been reminding me of my +misconduct: First, Swan's application for your address; second, a +sight of the sheets of your LANDSCAPE book; and last, your note to +Swan, which he was so kind as to forward. I trust you will never +suppose me to be guilty of anything more serious than an idleness, +partially excusable. My ill-health makes my rate of life heavier +than I can well meet, and yet stops me from earning more. My +conscience, sometimes perhaps too easily stifled, but still (for my +time of life and the public manners of the age) fairly well alive, +forces me to perpetual and almost endless transcriptions. On the +back of all this, my correspondence hangs like a thundercloud; and +just when I think I am getting through my troubles, crack, down +goes my health, I have a long, costly sickness, and begin the world +again. It is fortunate for me I have a father, or I should long +ago have died; but the opportunity of the aid makes the necessity +none the more welcome. My father has presented me with a beautiful +house here - or so I believe, for I have not yet seen it, being a +cage bird but for nocturnal sorties in the garden. I hope we shall +soon move into it, and I tell myself that some day perhaps we may +have the pleasure of seeing you as our guest. I trust at least +that you will take me as I am, a thoroughly bad correspondent, and +a man, a hater, indeed, of rudeness in others, but too often rude +in all unconsciousness himself; and that you will never cease to +believe the sincere sympathy and admiration that I feel for you and +for your work. + +About the LANDSCAPE, which I had a glimpse of while a friend of +mine was preparing a review, I was greatly interested, and could +write and wrangle for a year on every page; one passage +particularly delighted me, the part about Ulysses - jolly. Then, +you know, that is just what I fear I have come to think landscape +ought to be in literature; so there we should be at odds. Or +perhaps not so much as I suppose, as Montaigne says it is a pot +with two handles, and I own I am wedded to the technical handle, +which (I likewise own and freely) you do well to keep for a +mistress. I should much like to talk with you about some other +points; it is only in talk that one gets to understand. Your +delightful Wordsworth trap I have tried on two hardened +Wordsworthians, not that I am not one myself. By covering up the +context, and asking them to guess what the passage was, both (and +both are very clever people, one a writer, one a painter) +pronounced it a guide-book. 'Do you think it an unusually good +guide-book?' I asked, and both said, 'No, not at all!' Their +grimace was a picture when I showed the original. + +I trust your health and that of Mrs. Hamerton keep better; your +last account was a poor one. I was unable to make out the visit I +had hoped, as (I do not know if you heard of it) I had a very +violent and dangerous haemorrhage last spring. I am almost glad to +have seen death so close with all my wits about me, and not in the +customary lassitude and disenchantment of disease. Even thus +clearly beheld I find him not so terrible as we suppose. But, +indeed, with the passing of years, the decay of strength, the loss +of all my old active and pleasant habits, there grows more and more +upon me that belief in the kindness of this scheme of things, and +the goodness of our veiled God, which is an excellent and pacifying +compensation. I trust, if your health continues to trouble you, +you may find some of the same belief. But perhaps my fine +discovery is a piece of art, and belongs to a character cowardly, +intolerant of certain feelings, and apt to self-deception. I don't +think so, however; and when I feel what a weak and fallible vessel +I was thrust into this hurly-burly, and with what marvellous +kindness the wind has been tempered to my frailties, I think I +should be a strange kind of ass to feel anything but gratitude. + +I do not know why I should inflict this talk upon you; but when I +summon the rebellous pen, he must go his own way; I am no Michael +Scott, to rule the fiend of correspondence. Most days he will none +of me; and when he comes, it is to rape me where he will. - Yours +very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 29, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER, - Yes, I have heard of you and read some of your +work; but I am bound in particular to thank you for the notice of +my verses. 'There,' I said, throwing it over to the friend who was +staying with me, 'it's worth writing a book to draw an article like +that.' Had you been as hard upon me as you were amiable, I try to +tell myself I should have been no blinder to the merits of your +notice. For I saw there, to admire and to be very grateful for, a +most sober, agile pen; an enviable touch; the marks of a reader, +such as one imagines for one's self in dreams, thoughtful, +critical, and kind; and to put the top on this memorial column, a +greater readiness to describe the author criticised than to display +the talents of his censor. + +I am a man BLASE to injudicious praise (though I hope some of it +may be judicious too), but I have to thank you for THE BEST +CRITICISM I EVER HAD; and am therefore, dear Mr. Archer, the most +grateful critickee now extant. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - I congratulate you on living in the corner of all London +that I like best. A PROPOS, you are very right about my voluntary +aversion from the painful sides of life. My childhood was in +reality a very mixed experience, full of fever, nightmare, +insomnia, painful days and interminable nights; and I can speak +with less authority of gardens than of that other 'land of +counterpane.' But to what end should we renew these sorrows? The +sufferings of life may be handled by the very greatest in their +hours of insight; it is of its pleasures that our common poems +should be formed; these are the experiences that we should seek to +recall or to provoke; and I say with Thoreau, 'What right have I to +complain, who have not ceased to wonder?' and, to add a rider of my +own, who have no remedy to offer. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, JUNE 1885.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN, - You know how much and for how long I have +loved, respected, and admired him; I am only able to feel a little +with you. But I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never +knew a better man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel +the loss more greatly as time goes on. It scarce seems life to me; +what must it be to you? Yet one of the last things that he said to +me was, that from all these sad bereavements of yours he had +learned only more than ever to feel the goodness and what we, in +our feebleness, call the support of God; he had been ripening so +much - to other eyes than ours, we must suppose he was ripe, and +try to feel it. I feel it is better not to say much more. It will +be to me a great pride to write a notice of him: the last I can +now do. What more in any way I can do for you, please to think and +let me know. For his sake and for your own, I would not be a +useless friend: I know, you know me a most warm one; please +command me or my wife, in any way. Do not trouble to write to me; +Austin, I have no doubt, will do so, if you are, as I fear you will +be, unfit. + +My heart is sore for you. At least you know what you have been to +him; how he cherished and admired you; how he was never so pleased +as when he spoke of you; with what a boy's love, up to the last, he +loved you. This surely is a consolation. Yours is the cruel part +- to survive; you must try and not grudge to him his better +fortune, to go first. It is the sad part of such relations that +one must remain and suffer; I cannot see my poor Jenkin without +you. Nor you indeed without him; but you may try to rejoice that +he is spared that extremity. Perhaps I (as I was so much his +confidant) know even better than you can do what your loss would +have been to him; he never spoke of you but his face changed; it +was - you were - his religion. + +I write by this post to Austin and to the ACADEMY. - Yours most +sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, + + + +Letter: TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, JUNE 1885.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN, - I should have written sooner, but we are in +a bustle, and I have been very tired, though still well. Your very +kind note was most welcome to me. I shall be very much pleased to +have you call me Louis, as he has now done for so many years. +Sixteen, you say? is it so long? It seems too short now; but of +that we cannot judge, and must not complain. + +I wish that either I or my wife could do anything for you; when we +can, you will, I am sure, command us. + +I trust that my notice gave you as little pain as was possible. I +found I had so much to say, that I preferred to keep it for another +place and make but a note in the ACADEMY. To try to draw my friend +at greater length, and say what he was to me and his intimates, +what a good influence in life and what an example, is a desire that +grows upon me. It was strange, as I wrote the note, how his old +tests and criticisms haunted me; and it reminded me afresh with +every few words how much I owe to him. + +I had a note from Henley, very brief and very sad. We none of us +yet feel the loss; but we know what he would have said and wished. + +Do you know that Dew Smith has two photographs of him, neither very +bad? and one giving a lively, though not flattering air of him in +conversation? If you have not got them, would you like me to write +to Dew and ask him to give you proofs? + +I was so pleased that he and my wife made friends; that is a great +pleasure. We found and have preserved one fragment (the head) of +the drawing he made and tore up when he was last here. He had +promised to come and stay with us this summer. May we not hope, at +least, some time soon to have one from you? - Believe me, my dear +Mrs. Jenkin, with the most real sympathy, your sincere friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Dear me, what happiness I owe to both of you! + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 22, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW, - I trust you are not annoyed with me beyond +forgiveness; for indeed my silence has been devilish prolonged. I +can only tell you that I have been nearly six months (more than +six) in a strange condition of collapse, when it was impossible to +do any work, and difficult (more difficult than you would suppose) +to write the merest note. I am now better, but not yet my own man +in the way of brains, and in health only so-so. I suppose I shall +learn (I begin to think I am learning) to fight this vast, vague +feather-bed of an obsession that now overlies and smothers me; but +in the beginnings of these conflicts, the inexperienced wrestler is +always worsted, and I own I have been quite extinct. I wish you to +know, though it can be no excuse, that you are not the only one of +my friends by many whom I have thus neglected; and even now, having +come so very late into the possession of myself, with a substantial +capital of debts, and my work still moving with a desperate +slowness - as a child might fill a sandbag with its little handfuls +- and my future deeply pledged, there is almost a touch of virtue +in my borrowing these hours to write to you. Why I said 'hours' I +know not; it would look blue for both of us if I made good the +word. + +I was writing your address the other day, ordering a copy of my +next, PRINCE OTTO, to go your way. I hope you have not seen it in +parts; it was not meant to be so read; and only my poverty +(dishonourably) consented to the serial evolution. + +I will send you with this a copy of the English edition of the +CHILD'S GARDEN. I have heard there is some vile rule of the post- +office in the States against inscriptions; so I send herewith a +piece of doggerel which Mr. Bunner may, if he thinks fit, copy off +the fly leaf. + +Sargent was down again and painted a portrait of me walking about +in my own dining-room, in my own velveteen jacket, and twisting as +I go my own moustache; at one corner a glimpse of my wife, in an +Indian dress, and seated in a chair that was once my grandfather's; +but since some months goes by the name of Henry James's, for it was +there the novelist loved to sit - adds a touch of poesy and +comicality. It is, I think, excellent, but is too eccentric to be +exhibited. I am at one extreme corner; my wife, in this wild +dress, and looking like a ghost, is at the extreme other end; +between us an open door exhibits my palatial entrance hall and a +part of my respected staircase. All this is touched in lovely, +with that witty touch of Sargent's; but, of course, it looks dam +queer as a whole. + +Pray let me hear from you, and give me good news of yourself and +your wife, to whom please remember me. - + +Yours most sincerely, my dear Low, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, AUTUMN 1885.] + +DEAR LAD, - If there was any more praise in what you wrote, I think +[the editor] has done us both a service; some of it stops my +throat. What, it would not have been the same if Dumas or Musset +had done it, would it not? Well, no, I do not think it would, do +you know, now; I am really of opinion it would not; and a dam good +job too. Why, think what Musset would have made of Otto! Think +how gallantly Dumas would have carried his crowd through! And +whatever you do, don't quarrel with -. It gives me much pleasure +to see your work there; I think you do yourself great justice in +that field; and I would let no annoyance, petty or justifiable, +debar me from such a market. I think you do good there. Whether +(considering our intimate relations) you would not do better to +refrain from reviewing me, I will leave to yourself: were it all +on my side, you could foresee my answer; but there is your side +also, where you must be the judge. + +As for the SATURDAY. Otto is no 'fool,' the reader is left in no +doubt as to whether or not Seraphina was a Messalina (though much +it would matter, if you come to that); and therefore on both these +points the reviewer has been unjust. Secondly, the romance lies +precisely in the freeing of two spirits from these court intrigues; +and here I think the reviewer showed himself dull. Lastly, if +Otto's speech is offensive to him, he is one of the large class of +unmanly and ungenerous dogs who arrogate and defile the name of +manly. As for the passages quoted, I do confess that some of them +reek Gongorically; they are excessive, but they are not inelegant +after all. However, had he attacked me only there, he would have +scored. + +Your criticism on Gondremark is, I fancy, right. I thought all +your criticisms were indeed; only your praise - chokes me. - Yours +ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 28, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER, - I have read your paper with my customary +admiration; it is very witty, very adroit; it contains a great deal +that is excellently true (particularly the parts about my stories +and the description of me as an artist in life); but you will not +be surprised if I do not think it altogether just. It seems to me, +in particular, that you have wilfully read all my works in terms of +my earliest; my aim, even in style, has quite changed in the last +six or seven years; and this I should have thought you would have +noticed. Again, your first remark upon the affectation of the +italic names; a practice only followed in my two affected little +books of travel, where a typographical MINAUDERIE of the sort +appeared to me in character; and what you say of it, then, is quite +just. But why should you forget yourself and use these same +italics as an index to my theology some pages further on? This is +lightness of touch indeed; may I say, it is almost sharpness of +practice? + +Excuse these remarks. I have been on the whole much interested, +and sometimes amused. Are you aware that the praiser of this +'brave gymnasium' has not seen a canoe nor taken a long walk since +'79? that he is rarely out of the house nowadays, and carries his +arm in a sling? Can you imagine that he is a backslidden +communist, and is sure he will go to hell (if there be such an +excellent institution) for the luxury in which he lives? And can +you believe that, though it is gaily expressed, the thought is hag +and skeleton in every moment of vacuity or depression? Can you +conceive how profoundly I am irritated by the opposite affectation +to my own, when I see strong men and rich men bleating about their +sorrows and the burthen of life, in a world full of 'cancerous +paupers,' and poor sick children, and the fatally bereaved, ay, and +down even to such happy creatures as myself, who has yet been +obliged to strip himself, one after another, of all the pleasures +that he had chosen except smoking (and the days of that I know in +my heart ought to be over), I forgot eating, which I still enjoy, +and who sees the circle of impotence closing very slowly but quite +steadily around him? In my view, one dank, dispirited word is +harmful, a crime of LESE- HUMANITE, a piece of acquired evil; every +gay, every bright word or picture, like every pleasant air of +music, is a piece of pleasure set afloat; the reader catches it, +and, if he be healthy, goes on his way rejoicing; and it is the +business of art so to send him, as often as possible. + +For what you say, so kindly, so prettily, so precisely, of my +style, I must in particular thank you; though even here, I am vexed +you should not have remarked on my attempted change of manner: +seemingly this attempt is still quite unsuccessful! Well, we shall +fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. + +And now for my last word: Mrs. Stevenson is very anxious that you +should see me, and that she should see you, in the flesh. If you +at all share in these views, I am a fixture. Write or telegraph +(giving us time, however, to telegraph in reply, lest the day be +impossible), and come down here to a bed and a dinner. What do you +say, my dear critic? I shall be truly pleased to see you; and to +explain at greater length what I meant by saying narrative was the +most characteristic mood of literature, on which point I have great +hopes I shall persuade you. - Yours truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - My opinion about Thoreau, and the passage in THE WEEK, is +perhaps a fad, but it is sincere and stable. I am still of the +same mind five years later; did you observe that I had said +'modern' authors? and will you observe again that this passage +touches the very joint of our division? It is one that appeals to +me, deals with that part of life that I think the most important, +and you, if I gather rightly, so much less so? You believe in the +extreme moment of the facts that humanity has acquired and is +acquiring; I think them of moment, but still or much less than +those inherent or inherited brute principles and laws that sit upon +us (in the character of conscience) as heavy as a shirt of mail, +and that (in the character of the affections and the airy spirit of +pleasure) make all the light of our lives. The house is, indeed, a +great thing, and should be rearranged on sanitary principles; but +my heart and all my interest are with the dweller, that ancient of +days and day-old infant man. + +R. L. S. + +An excellent touch is p. 584. 'By instinct or design he eschews +what demands constructive patience.' I believe it is both; my +theory is that literature must always be most at home in treating +movement and change; hence I look for them. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH,] OCTOBER 28, 1885. + +MY DEAREST FATHER, - Get the November number of TIME, and you will +see a review of me by a very clever fellow, who is quite furious at +bottom because I am too orthodox, just as Purcell was savage +because I am not orthodox enough. I fall between two stools. It +is odd, too, to see how this man thinks me a full-blooded fox- +hunter, and tells me my philosophy would fail if I lost my health +or had to give up exercise! + +An illustrated TREASURE ISLAND will be out next month. I have had +an early copy, and the French pictures are admirable. The artist +has got his types up in Hogarth; he is full of fire and spirit, can +draw and can compose, and has understood the book as I meant it, +all but one or two little accidents, such as making the HISPANIOLA +a brig. I would send you my copy, BUT I CANNOT; it is my new toy, +and I cannot divorce myself from this enjoyment. + +I am keeping really better, and have been out about every second +day, though the weather is cold and very wild. + +I was delighted to hear you were keeping better; you and Archer +would agree, more shame to you! (Archer is my pessimist critic.) +Good-bye to all of you, with my best love. We had a dreadful +overhauling of my conduct as a son the other night; and my wife +stripped me of my illusions and made me admit I had been a +detestable bad one. Of one thing in particular she convicted me in +my own eyes: I mean, a most unkind reticence, which hung on me +then, and I confess still hangs on me now, when I try to assure you +that I do love you. - Ever your bad son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO HENRY JAMES + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 28, 1885. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES, - At last, my wife being at a concert, and a +story being done, I am at some liberty to write and give you of my +views. And first, many thanks for the works that came to my +sickbed. And second, and more important, as to the PRINCESS. +Well, I think you are going to do it this time; I cannot, of +course, foresee, but these two first numbers seem to me picturesque +and sound and full of lineament, and very much a new departure. As +for your young lady, she is all there; yes, sir, you can do low +life, I believe. The prison was excellent; it was of that nature +of touch that I sometimes achingly miss from your former work; with +some of the grime, that is, and some of the emphasis of skeleton +there is in nature. I pray you to take grime in a good sense; it +need not be ignoble: dirt may have dignity; in nature it usually +has; and your prison was imposing. + +And now to the main point: why do we not see you? Do not fail us. +Make an alarming sacrifice, and let us see 'Henry James's chair' +properly occupied. I never sit in it myself (though it was my +grandfather's); it has been consecrated to guests by your approval, +and now stands at my elbow gaping. We have a new room, too, to +introduce to you - our last baby, the drawing-room; it never cries, +and has cut its teeth. Likewise, there is a cat now. It promises +to be a monster of laziness and self-sufficiency. + +Pray see, in the November TIME (a dread name for a magazine of +light reading), a very clever fellow, W. Archer, stating his views +of me; the rosy-gilled 'athletico-aesthete'; and warning me, in a +fatherly manner, that a rheumatic fever would try my philosophy (as +indeed it would), and that my gospel would not do for 'those who +are shut out from the exercise of any manly virtue save +renunciation.' To those who know that rickety and cloistered +spectre, the real R. L. S., the paper, besides being clever in +itself, presents rare elements of sport. The critical parts are in +particular very bright and neat, and often excellently true. Get +it by all manner of means. + +I hear on all sides I am to be attacked as an immoral writer; this +is painful. Have I at last got, like you, to the pitch of being +attacked? 'Tis the consecration I lack - and could do without. +Not that Archer's paper is an attack, or what either he or I, I +believe, would call one; 'tis the attacks on my morality (which I +had thought a gem of the first water) I referred to. + +Now, my dear James, come - come - come. The spirit (that is me) +says, Come; and the bride (and that is my wife) says, Come; and the +best thing you can do for us and yourself and your work is to get +up and do so right away, - Yours affectionately, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH,] OCTOBER 30, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER. - It is possible my father may be soon down with +me; he is an old man and in bad health and spirits; and I could +neither leave him alone, nor could we talk freely before him. If +he should be here when you offer your visit, you will understand if +I have to say no, and put you off. + +I quite understand your not caring to refer to things of private +knowledge. What still puzzles me is how you ('in the witness box' +- ha! I like the phrase) should have made your argument actually +hinge on a contention which the facts answered. + +I am pleased to hear of the correctness of my guess. It is then as +I supposed; you are of the school of the generous and not the +sullen pessimists; and I can feel with you. I used myself to rage +when I saw sick folk going by in their Bath-chairs; since I have +been sick myself (and always when I was sick myself), I found life, +even in its rough places, to have a property of easiness. That +which we suffer ourselves has no longer the same air of monstrous +injustice and wanton cruelty that suffering wears when we see it in +the case of others. So we begin gradually to see that things are +not black, but have their strange compensations; and when they draw +towards their worst, the idea of death is like a bed to lie on. I +should bear false witness if I did not declare life happy. And +your wonderful statement that happiness tends to die out and misery +to continue, which was what put me on the track of your frame of +mind, is diagnostic of the happy man raging over the misery of +others; it could never be written by the man who had tried what +unhappiness was like. And at any rate, it was a slip of the pen: +the ugliest word that science has to declare is a reserved +indifference to happiness and misery in the individual; it declares +no leaning toward the black, no iniquity on the large scale in +fate's doings, rather a marble equality, dread not cruel, giving +and taking away and reconciling. + +Why have I not written my TIMON? Well, here is my worst quarrel +with you. You take my young books as my last word. The tendency +to try to say more has passed unperceived (my fault, that). And +you make no allowance for the slowness with which a man finds and +tries to learn his tools. I began with a neat brisk little style, +and a sharp little knack of partial observation; I have tried to +expand my means, but still I can only utter a part of what I wish +to say, and am bound to feel; and much of it will die unspoken. +But if I had the pen of Shakespeare, I have no TIMON to give forth. +I feel kindly to the powers that be; I marvel they should use me so +well; and when I think of the case of others, I wonder too, but in +another vein, whether they may not, whether they must not, be like +me, still with some compensation, some delight. To have suffered, +nay, to suffer, sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. +This is a great truth, and has to be learned in the fire. - Yours +very truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +We expect you, remember that. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER, - You will see that I had already had a sight of +your article and what were my thoughts. + +One thing in your letter puzzles me. Are you, too, not in the +witness-box? And if you are, why take a wilfully false hypothesis? +If you knew I was a chronic invalid, why say that my philosophy was +unsuitable to such a case? My call for facts is not so general as +yours, but an essential fact should not be put the other way about. + +The fact is, consciously or not, you doubt my honesty; you think I +am making faces, and at heart disbelieve my utterances. And this I +am disposed to think must spring from your not having had enough of +pain, sorrow, and trouble in your existence. It is easy to have +too much; easy also or possible to have too little; enough is +required that a man may appreciate what elements of consolation and +joy there are in everything but absolutely over-powering physical +pain or disgrace, and how in almost all circumstances the human +soul can play a fair part. You fear life, I fancy, on the +principle of the hand of little employment. But perhaps my +hypothesis is as unlike the truth as the one you chose. Well, if +it be so, if you have had trials, sickness, the approach of death, +the alienation of friends, poverty at the heels, and have not felt +your soul turn round upon these things and spurn them under - you +must be very differently made from me, and I earnestly believe from +the majority of men. But at least you are in the right to wonder +and complain. + +To 'say all'? Stay here. All at once? That would require a word +from the pen of Gargantua. We say each particular thing as it +comes up, and 'with that sort of emphasis that for the time there +seems to be no other.' Words will not otherwise serve us; no, nor +even Shakespeare, who could not have put AS YOU LIKE IT and TIMON +into one without ruinous loss both of emphasis and substance. Is +it quite fair then to keep your face so steadily on my most light- +hearted works, and then say I recognise no evil? Yet in the paper +on Burns, for instance, I show myself alive to some sorts of evil. +But then, perhaps, they are not your sorts. + +And again: 'to say all'? All: yes. Everything: no. The task +were endless, the effect nil. But my all, in such a vast field as +this of life, is what interests me, what stands out, what takes on +itself a presence for my imagination or makes a figure in that +little tricky abbreviation which is the best that my reason can +conceive. That I must treat, or I shall be fooling with my +readers. That, and not the all of some one else. + +And here we come to the division: not only do I believe that +literature should give joy, but I see a universe, I suppose, +eternally different from yours; a solemn, a terrible, but a very +joyous and noble universe, where suffering is not at least wantonly +inflicted, though it falls with dispassionate partiality, but where +it may be and generally is nobly borne; where, above all (this I +believe; probably you don't: I think he may, with cancer), ANY +BRAVE MAN MAY MAKE out a life which shall be happy for himself, +and, by so being, beneficent to those about him. And if he fails, +why should I hear him weeping? I mean if I fail, why should I +weep? Why should YOU hear ME? Then to me morals, the conscience, +the affections, and the passions are, I will own frankly and +sweepingly, so infinitely more important than the other parts of +life, that I conceive men rather triflers who become immersed in +the latter; and I will always think the man who keeps his lip +stiff, and makes 'a happy fireside clime,' and carries a pleasant +face about to friends and neighbours, infinitely greater (in the +abstract) than an atrabilious Shakespeare or a backbiting Kant or +Darwin. No offence to any of these gentlemen, two of whom probably +(one for certain) came up to my standard. + +And now enough said; it were hard if a poor man could not criticise +another without having so much ink shed against him. But I shall +still regret you should have written on an hypothesis you knew to +be untenable, and that you should thus have made your paper, for +those who do not know me, essentially unfair. The rich, fox- +hunting squire speaks with one voice; the sick man of letters with +another. - Yours very truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +(PROMETHEUS-HEINE IN MINIMIS). + +P.S. - Here I go again. To me, the medicine bottles on my chimney +and the blood on my handkerchief are accidents; they do not colour +my view of life, as you would know, I think, if you had experience +of sickness; they do not exist in my prospect; I would as soon drag +them under the eyes of my readers as I would mention a pimple I +might chance to have (saving your presence) on my posteriors. What +does it prove? what does it change? it has not hurt, it has not +changed me in any essential part; and I should think myself a +trifler and in bad taste if I introduced the world to these +unimportant privacies. + +But, again, there is this mountain-range between us - THAT YOU DO +NOT BELIEVE ME. It is not flattering, but the fault is probably in +my literary art. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 26, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW, - LAMIA has not yet turned up, but your letter came to +me this evening with a scent of the Boulevard Montparnasse that was +irresistible. The sand of Lavenue's crumbled under my heel; and +the bouquet of the old Fleury came back to me, and I remembered the +day when I found a twenty franc piece under my fetish. Have you +that fetish still? and has it brought you luck? I remembered, too, +my first sight of you in a frock coat and a smoking-cap, when we +passed the evening at the Cafe de Medicis; and my last when we sat +and talked in the Parc Monceau; and all these things made me feel a +little young again, which, to one who has been mostly in bed for a +month, was a vivifying change. + +Yes, you are lucky to have a bag that holds you comfortably. Mine +is a strange contrivance; I don't die, damme, and I can't get along +on both feet to save my soul; I am a chronic sickist; and my work +cripples along between bed and the parlour, between the medicine +bottle and the cupping glass. Well, I like my life all the same; +and should like it none the worse if I could have another talk with +you, though even my talks now are measured out to me by the minute +hand like poisons in a minim glass. + +A photograph will be taken of my ugly mug and sent to you for +ulterior purposes: I have another thing coming out, which I did +not put in the way of the Scribners, I can scarce tell how; but I +was sick and penniless and rather back on the world, and mismanaged +it. I trust they will forgive me. + +I am sorry to hear of Mrs. Low's illness, and glad to hear of her +recovery. I will announce the coming LAMIA to Bob: he steams away +at literature like smoke. I have a beautiful Bob on my walls, and +a good Sargent, and a delightful Lemon; and your etching now hangs +framed in the dining-room. So the arts surround me. - Yours, + +R. L. S. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, +Volume 1, by Robert Louis Stevenson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF STEVENSON *** + +***** This file should be named 622.txt or 622.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/622/ + +Produced by David Price + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, Volume 1 +Scanned and proofed by David Price +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + + +The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson - Volume 1 + + + + +CHAPTER I - STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH, TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS, +1868-1873 + + + + +Letter: SPRING GROVE SCHOOL, 12TH NOVEMBER 1863. + + + +MA CHERE MAMAN, - Jai recu votre lettre Aujourdhui et comme le jour +prochaine est mon jour de naisance je vous ecrit ce lettre. Ma +grande gatteaux est arrive il leve 12 livres et demi le prix etait +17 shillings. Sur la soiree 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'll est possible. I hope you will find your 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. + +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. + +R. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: 2 SULYARDE TERRACE, TORQUAY, THURSDAY (APRIL 1866). + + + +RESPECTED PATERNAL RELATIVE, - 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. + +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. + +Does not this deserve remuneration? + +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. + +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, + +R. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WICK, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1868. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - . . . Wick lies at the end or elbow of an open +triangular bay, hemmed on either side 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. + +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, +BLACK southerly wind, with occasional rising showers of rain; it +was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of it. + +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. + +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. + +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 ALWAYS drunk, simply and truthfully always. +From morning to evening the great villainous-looking 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. + +An EMEUTE 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. + +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 ME. + +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WICK, September 5, 1868. MONDAY. + + + +MY DEAR MAMMA, - This morning I got a delightful haul: your letter +of the fourth (surely mis-dated); Papa's of same day; Virgil's +BUCOLICS, very thankfully received; and Aikman's ANNALS, 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. + +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. + +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 - + + +'Carve or discourse; do not a famine fear. +Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.' + + +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. + +Do you remember condemning something of mine for being too +obtrusively didactic. Listen to Herbert - + + +'Is it not verse except enchanted groves +And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? +Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? +MUST ALL BE VEILED, WHILE HE THAT READS DIVINES +CATCHING THE SENSE AT TWO REMOVES?' + + +You see, 'except' was used for 'unless' before 1630. + + +TUESDAY. - The riots were a hum. No more has been heard; and one +of the war-steamers has deserted in disgust. + +The MOONSTONE 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. + +I thought to have gone on to Thurso to-night, but the coach was +full; so I go to-morrow instead. + +To-day I had a grouse: great glorification. + +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 P.M. to half-past one. At last I opened my +door. 'Are we to have no sleep at all for that DRUNKEN BRUTE?' 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WICK, SEPTEMBER 1868. SATURDAY, 10 A.M. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 SHOOT with considerable ECLAT; but, +wonderful to relate! I kept well. My hands are all skinned, +blistered, discoloured, and 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 ITS being so stiff +and YOUR 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. + +You see, I have been roughing it; and though some parts of the +letter may be neither very comprehensible nor very interesting to +YOU, I think that perhaps it might amuse Willie Traquair, who +delights in all such dirty jobs. + +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. + +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. + +We have got double weights at the guys, and hope to get it up like +a shot. + +What fun you three must be having! I hope the cold don't disagree +with you. - I remain, my dear mother, your affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +PULTENEY, WICK, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 1868. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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. + +Last week has been a blank one: always too much sea. + +I enjoyed myself very much last night at the R.'s. There was a +little dancing, much singing and supper. + +Are you not well that you do not write? I haven't heard from you +for more than a fortnight. + +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 Cummie +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 M- if he's disengaged, to the +R.'s if not. + +SUNDAY (LATER). - 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. + +Seven P.M. found me at Breadalbane Terrace, clad in spotless +blacks, white tie, shirt, et caetera, 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? + +Dramatis personae: pere R., amusing, long-winded, in many points +like papa; mere R., nice, delicate, likes hymns, knew Aunt Margaret +('t'ould man knew Uncle Alan); fille R., nommee Sara (no h), rather +nice, lights up well, good voice, INTERESTED face; Miss L., nice +also, washed out a little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils +R., 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.' CEST LA MERE QUI PARLE. + +I was back there again to-night. There was hymn-singing, and +general religious controversy till eight, after which talk was +secular. Mrs. S. 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. + +I have done with frivolity. This morning I was awakened by Mrs. S. +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. + + +C D ++------------------- +| +| ++------------------- + \ + A\ + \ + B\ + + +C D is the new pier. + +A the schooner ashore. B the salmon house. + +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 with wood: skipper owner of vessel and +cargo bottom out. + +I was in a great fright at first lest we should be liable; but it +seems that's all right. + +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. + +I am so sleepy I am writing nonsense. + +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:- + + +'But yet the Lord that is on high +Is more of might by far +Than noise of many waters is +Or great sea-billows are.' + + +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. + +MONDAY. - 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 NE SAIT PAS ENCORE. 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 spales 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 QUAIL as a huge roller +thundered on the work at the last year's cross wall. + +How could NOSTER AMICUS Q. MAXIMUS appreciate a storm at Wick? It +requires a little of the artistic temperament, of which Mr. T. S., +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. CHURCHILL BABINGTON + + + +[SWANSTON COTTAGE, LOTHIANBURN, SUMMER 1871.] + +MY DEAR MAUD, - If you have forgotten the hand-writing - 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. + +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 - ONE p or TWO?) and +pretty. All the same, we have been having shocking weather - cold +winds and grey skies. + +I have been reading heaps of nice books; but I can't go back so +far. I am reading Clarendon's HIST. REBELL. 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 THOUGHT 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, 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. + +I think this letter has turned into a sermon, but I had nothing +interesting to talk about. + +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. DO +reconsider it. - Believe me, my dear Maud, ever your most +affectionate cousin, + +LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +1871? + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - 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. 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. + +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, + +Louis. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +DUNBLANE, FRIDAY, 5TH MARCH 1872. + +MY DEAR BAXTER, - 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, TU-DIEU! 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 ECLOGUES. HIC CORULIS MISTOS INTER +CONSEDIMUS ULMOS, 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 MESSIEURS LES ARCADIENS would roll out those cloying +hexameters that sing themselves in one's mouth to such a curious +lifting chant. + +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 IOTA this forenoon, +in spite of all my idleness and Guthrie's lost paper, which is ever +present with me - a horrible phantom. + +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 SHALL 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +DUNBLANE, TUESDAY, 9TH APRIL 1872. + +MY DEAR BAXTER, - 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. THAT 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 +BUSINESS LETTERS: THE AFFAIR IS IN THE HANDS OF THE POLICE.' Do +you hear THAT, you evildoer? Sending business letters is surely a +far more hateful and slimy degree of wickedness than sending +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. + +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 EARTHLY PARADISE; you +can get it for me in Elliot's for two and tenpence (2s. 10d.) +(BUSINESS HABITS). Also bring an ounce of honeydew from Wilson's. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BRUSSELS, THURSDAY, 25TH JULY 1872. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 Gruyere cheese. + +We had a very good passage, which we certainly deserved, in +compensation for having to sleep on 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 (FIAT EXPERIMENTUM IN +CORPORE VILI) 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, ARTIFICIAL, 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. + +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 +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. + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +P.S. - The snake was about a yard long, but harmless, and now, he +says, quite tame. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL LANDSBERG, FRANKFURT, MONDAY, 29TH JULY 1872. + +... LAST 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 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. + +To-day I got rather a curiosity - LIEDER UND BALLADEN VON ROBERT +BURNS, 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 cafe, or at least the German +substitute for a cafe; but what a falling off after the heavenly +forenoons in Brussels! + +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL LANDSBERG, THURSDAY, 1ST AUGUST 1872. + +... YESTERDAY 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 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 - GROSS WIE DAS - had come nearly every +day out of Frankfurt to the ECKENHEIMER WIRTHSCHAFT, 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 COBIE (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 KLOSTER, with a +considerable slice of the mother's GELD. I told them we had no +klosters in Scotland, with a certain feeling of superiority. No +more had they, I was told - 'HIER IST UNSER KLOSTER!' 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 APROPOS of nothing and +with almost defiant conviction, 'ER WAR EIN FEINER MANN, DER HERR +DOCTOR,' and was answered by another with 'YAW, YAW, UND TRANK +IMMER ROTHEN WEIN.' + +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. - 'SIE SPRECHEN DA REIN' (clean), said one; and they all +nodded their heads together like as many mandarins, and repeated +REIN, SO REIN in chorus. + +Of course we got upon Scotland. The hostess said, 'DIE +SCHOTTLANDER TRINKEN GERN SCHNAPPS,' 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 HOT 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 'S IST +LANGE HER, the German version of Auld Lang Syne; so you see, +madame, the finest lyric ever written will make its way out of +whatsoever corner of patois it found its birth in. + + +'MEITZ HERZ IST IM HOCHLAND, MEAN HERZ IST NICHT HIER, +MEIN HERZ IST IM HOCHLAND IM GRUNEN REVIER. +IM GRUNEN REVIERE ZU JAGEN DAS REH; +MEIN HERZ IST IM HOCHLAND, WO IMMER ICH GEH.' + + +I don't think I need translate that for you. + +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 to +fall back again, after these political interludes, upon Burns, +toddy, and the Highlands. + +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. + +FRIDAY, AUGUST 2, 1872. - In the evening, at the theatre, I had a +great laugh. Lord Allcash in FRA DIAVOLO, with his white hat, red +guide-books, and bad German, was the PIECE-DE-RESISTANCE 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. + +I am just going off to do some German with Simpson. - Your +affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +FRANKFURT, ROSENGASSE 13, AUGUST 4, 1872. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - 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 SHADY, I should be +boasting. The people sit at their doors in shirt-sleeves, smoking +as they do in Seven Dials of a Sunday. + +Last night we went to bed about ten, for the first time +HOUSEHOLDERS 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 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, 'HIER ALLES RUHT - +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, +'FEUER, - IM SACHSENHAUSEN, 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 CAROL-ETS, 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. + +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 an awful joke to be living (two +would-be advocates, and one a baronet) in this supremely mean +abode. + +The abode is, however, a great improvement on the hotel, and I +think we shall grow quite fond of it. - Ever your affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +13 ROSENGASSE, FRANKFURT, TUESDAY MORNING, AUGUST 1872. + +. . . Last night I was at the theatre and heard DIE JUDIN (LA +JUIVE), 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 GALERE, 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 BIERHALLE, and sat and brooded +over a SCHNITT (half-glass) for nearly an hour. An opera is far +more REAL 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 LIVE 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 FLOURISHOUS aria. + +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 REZ-DE-CHAUSSEE: 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 +MUTTERSPRACHE; 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. + +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 DEAD PORRIDGE, 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +(RENTIER). + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1873. + +MY DEAR BAXTER, - 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.' + +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 DAMNED the happiness +of (probably) the only two people who care a damn about you in the +world. + +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 a worse than death, in +the eyes of my father and mother, what the DEVIL am I to do? + +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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + + +CHAPTER II - STUDENT DAYS - ORDERED SOUTH, SEPTEMBER 1873-JULY 1875 + + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +COCKFIELD RECTORY, SUDBURY, SUFFOLK, TUESDAY, JULY 28, 1873. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1873. + +I HAVE 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. + +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, DU HAST DIAMANTEN UND PERLEN, 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 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 +- DRUM IST SO WOHL MIR IN DER WELT! 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! + +SUNDAY, 11.20 A.M. - I wonder what you are doing now? - in church +likely, at the TE DEUM. 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 LISTEN. 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 ROADS until I feel as if I were standing +on my head; but I mean ROADS, and shall do something to them. + +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. + +MONDAY NIGHT. - 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 SCUTTLE) (?) and a +DEBRIS of broken pipes 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. + +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. + +These good booksellers of mine have at last got a WERTHER 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 ROADS, 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1873. + +. . . I WAS 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 +tumbledown 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 HEBETE, 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. + +SATURDAY. - This has been a charming day for me from morning to now +(5 P.M.). 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 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. + +I am, unhappily, off my style, and can do nothing well; indeed, I +fear I have marred ROADS 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. + +I have finished ROADS 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +MONDAY. - I have looked over ROADS 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 well? However, it shall go to +you, for the reasons given above. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +EDINBURGH, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1873. + +. . . I MUST 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. + +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. + +7.20 P.M. - 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 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. + +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. + +DUMFRIES, FRIDAY. - 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 SWISH, 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. + +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 +ADELAIDE. I have so perfect an idea out of that song! The great +Alps, a wonder in the starlight - the river, strong from the hills, +and turbulent, and loudly audible at night - the country, a scented +FRUHLINGSGARTEN of orchards and deep wood where the nightingales +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, EINST, O WUNDER, EINST, 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. + +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. + +SATURDAY. - 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 pounds) to the poor woman who +served him as heroine in the HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN, and the +inscription in its stiff, Jedediah Cleishbotham fashion is not +without something touching. We went up the stream a little further +to where two Covenanters lie buried in an oakwood; 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:- + + +'We died, their furious rage to stay, +Near to the kirk of Iron-gray.' + + +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 . . . + +SUNDAY. - 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH], SATURDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1873. + +IT 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 LEAPED 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. + + +8 P.M. - 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 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. + +I want to let you see these verses from an ODE TO THE CUCKOO, +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 - + + +'What time the pea puts on the bloom, +Thou fliest the vocal vale, +An annual guest, in other lands +Another spring to hail. + +Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, +Thy sky is ever clear; +Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, +No winter in thy year. + +O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! +We'd make on joyful wing +Our annual visit o'er the globe, +Companions of the spring.' + + +SUNDAY. - 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, MAIS J'AI DU COURAGE; I am +indefatigable at rewriting and bettering, and surely that humble +quality should get me on a little. + +MONDAY, OCTOBER 6. - 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. + +I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to Portobello, +in the heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing PAR RAFALES off the +sea (or 'EN RAFALES' 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 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH], TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1873. + +MY 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. + +WEDNESDAY. - I may as well tell you exactly about my health. I am +not at all ill; have quite recovered; only I am what MM. LES +MEDECINS 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. + +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 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. + +THURSDAY. - 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. + +II. - 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 LE CAPITAINE FRACASSE before the dining- +room fire. I must write no more, for I am sleepy after two nights, +and to quote my book, 'SINON BLANCHES, DU MOINS GRISES'; and so I +must go to bed and faithfully, hoggishly slumber. - Your faithful + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +MENTONE, NOVEMBER 13, 1873. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - The PLACE is not where I thought; it is about +where the old Post Office was. The Hotel de Londres is no more an +hotel. I have found a charming room in the Hotel 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 PLACE +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 St. 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 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 'Chateau 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.) + +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. + +I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them to-night. +Continue to address Poste Restante. Take care of yourselves. + +This is my birthday, by the way - O, I said that before. Adieu. - +Ever your affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +MENTONE, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1873. + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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 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. + +TUESDAY. - 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. + +THURSDAY. - 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 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 VIA 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, ANYTHING rather +than not to keep well. + +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 INEFFABLE AURORE. + +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. + +FRIDAY. - 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 man of seventy: O Medea, kill +me, or make me young again! + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL MIRABEAU, MENTONE, SUNDAY, JANUARY 4, 1874. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 DEJEUNER the +other day, over the memory of which I lick my lips in the silent +watches. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +Here ends the political sermon of your affectionate (and somewhat +dogmatical) son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +MENTONE, JANUARY 7, 1874. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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. + +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 FAVORI 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 POLISSON +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 MADCHEN; which word she repeated +with shrill emphasis, as though fearing that her proposition would +be called in question - MADCHEN, MADCHEN, MADCHEN, MADCHEN. 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 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. + +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. + +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 POLISSON, which is +beautifully out of place. + +SATURDAY, 10TH JANUARY. - The little Russian kid is only two and a +half: she speaks six languages. She and her sister (aet. 8) and +May Johnstone (aet. 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. + +O - I have not told you that Colvin is gone; however, he is coming +back again; he has left clothes in pawn to me. - Ever your +affectionate son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +MENTONE, TUESDAY, 13TH JANUARY 1874. + +. . . I LOST 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. + +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 HORRIDLY; 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, +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! + +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. + +WEDNESDAY, 10.30. - 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. + +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; she is drawn through her sobs +into the air; and in a moment there is Nelly singing, with the glad +look that comes into her face always when she sings, and all the +tears and pain forgotten. + +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! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[MENTONE, JANUARY 1874.] + +. . . LAST 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 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. + +FRIDAY. - You have not yet heard of my book? - FOUR GREAT SCOTSMEN +- 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. VOILA, MADAME, LE MENU. COMMENT LE TROUVEZ- +VOUS? IL Y A DE LA BONNE VIANDO, SI ON PARVIENT A LA CUIRE +CONVENABLEMENT. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[MENTONE, MARCH 28, 1874.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Beautiful weather, perfect weather; sun, pleasant +cooling winds; health very good; only incapacity to write. + +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 MY 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, 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[SWANSTON], MAY 1874, MONDAY. + +WE are now at Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. The garden +is but little clothed yet, for, you 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. + +EVENING. - 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. + +I have made an arrangement with my people: I am to have 84 pounds +a year - I only asked for 80 pounds 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. + +WEDNESDAY. - 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 ORDERED SOUTH. '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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +SWANSTON, WEDNESDAY, MAY 1874. + +STRUGGLING away at FABLES IN SONG. 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 IMPOSSIBLE. + +THURSDAY. - I feel happier about the FABLES, 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 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. + +SATURDAY. - I have received such a nice long letter (four sides) +from Leslie Stephen to-day about my Victor Hugo. 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, partly, perhaps, because I have just finished some of the +deedest rubbish about Lord Lytton's fables 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. + +TUESDAY. - Another 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 files 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 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. + +SATURDAY. - I have been two days in Edinburgh, and so had not the +occasion to write to you. Morley has accepted the FABLES, 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. + +Try, by way of change, Byron's MAZEPPA; 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. - Ever your faithful +friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +TRAIN BETWEEN EDINBURGH AND CHESTER, AUGUST 8, 1874. + +MY 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. + +CHESTER. - 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 facades. + +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. + +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. + +BARMOUTH, AUGUST 9TH. - 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 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 VERY +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 litterature (which word, note +here, I do not spell correctly). Good-night, and here's the +verger's health! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +SWANSTON, WEDNESDAY, [AUTUMN] 1874. + +I HAVE 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 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, AD INFINITUM, 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. + +My first John Knox 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 TENTATION DE ST. ANTOINE; 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 with my present statement, that it's the finest thing I ever +read! Of course, it isn't that, it's full of LONGUEURS, and is not +quite 'redd up,' as we say in Scotland, not quite articulated; but +there are splendid things in it. + +I say, DO take your maccaroni with oil: DO, PLEASE. It's BEASTLY +with butter. - Ever your faithful friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH], DECEMBER 23, 1874. + +MONDAY. - 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 CAN skate a little bit; and what one can do +is always pleasant to do. + +TUESDAY. - 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. + +WEDNESDAY. - 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. + +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. + +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. + +THURSDAY. - 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 Guerin 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +17 HERIOT ROAD, EDINBURGH [JANUARY 1875]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I have worked too hard; I have given myself one +day of rest, and that was not enough; I am giving myself another. +I shall go to bed again likewise so soon as this is done, and +slumber most potently. + +9 P.M., slept all afternoon like a lamb. + +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 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, Coppee, Soulary, and Sully Prudhomme. But he has +not deigned to answer my letter. + +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 WHEN THE +DEVIL WAS WELL: 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +EDINBURGH, TUESDAY [FEBRUARY 1875]. + +I GOT your nice long gossiping letter to-day - I mean by that that +there was more news in it than usual - and 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. + +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. + +THURSDAY. - I have been still in the house since I wrote, and I +HAVE 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 A COUNTRY DANCE; 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. + +SATURDAY. - Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down here to +lecture, called on me and took me up to see a poor fellow, a 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 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +FEBRUARY 8, 1875. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - Forgive my bothering you. Here is the proof of +my second KNOX. 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. + +No, I can write no article just now; I am PIOCHING, 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) COMME LE +MINEUR ENFOUI SOUS UN EBOULEMENT. + +J'Y PARVIENDRAI, NOM DE NOM DE NOM! But it's a long look forward. +- Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[BARBIZON, APRIL 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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 + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, SUNDAY [APRIL 1875]. + +HERE 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. + +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 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. + +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 HER,' 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. + +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. + +Poor little boy! he was not called for, I learn, until ten this +morning. This is very ill written, and I've missed 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. + +MONDAY. - I have written nothing all morning; I cannot settle to +it. Yes - I WILL though. + +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 WOMEN, 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. + +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 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! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[SWANSTON, TUESDAY, APRIL 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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. + +What do you think of Henley's hospital verses? They were to have +been dedicated to me, but Stephen wouldn't allow it - said it would +be pretentious. + +WEDNESDAY. - 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 +coamplicated.' - Ever your faithful + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, SATURDAY, APRIL 1875.] + +I AM 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. - A DEMAIN. + +SUNDAY. - 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 +one; MAIL IL FAUT LUTTER. 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 MAN +HAPPY! 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 + +R. L. S. + +WEDNESDAY. - I am so played out with a cold in my eye that I cannot +see to write or read without difficulty. It is swollen HORRIBLE; +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. + +SUNDAY. - 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 + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + +WEDNESDAY. - 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. + +I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new 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 + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, JUNE 1875.] + +SIMPLY a scratch. All right, jolly, well, and through with the +difficulty. My father pleased about the Burns. 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 FUNESTE experience. I +wonder if a fruiterer from some place else - say Worcestershire - +would offer the same phenomena? insoluble doubt. + +R. L. S. + +Later. - 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +SWANSTON. END OF JUNE, 1875. + +THURSDAY. - 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. + +SATURDAY - NO, SUNDAY, 12.45. - Just been - not grinding, alas! - I +couldn't - but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. 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 Fontainebleau 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. + +SUNDAY. - I've been to church, and am not depressed - a great step. +I was at that beautiful church my PETIT POEME EN PROSE 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 grave-stones. 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 + +R. L. S. + + + + +CHAPTER III - ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR, EDINBURGH - PARIS - +FONTAINEBLEAU, JULY 1875-JULY 1879 + + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[CHEZ SIRON, BARBIZON, SEINE ET MARNE, AUGUST 1875.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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. + +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. + +Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet +as we did. + +Why don't you write? I have no more to say. - Ever your +affectionate son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +CHATEAU RENARD, LOIRET, AUGUST 1875. + +. . . I HAVE 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. + + +Far have you come, my lady, from the town, +And far from all your sorrows, if you please, +To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, +And in green meadows lay your body down. + +To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, +Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; +Far have you come, my lady, from the town, +And far from all your sorrows, if you please. + +Here in this seaboard land of old renown, +In meadow grass go wading to the knees; +Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; +There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; +Far have you come, my lady, from the town. + + +NOUS N'IRONS PLUS AU BOIS. + + +We'll walk the woods no more, +But stay beside the fire, +To weep for old desire +And things that are no more. + +The woods are spoiled and hoar, +The ways are full of mire; +We'll walk the woods no more, +But stay beside the fire. +We loved, in days of yore, +Love, laughter, and the lyre. +Ah God, but death is dire, +And death is at the door - +We'll walk the woods no more. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +EDINBURGH, [AUTUMN] 1875. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - Thanks for your letter and news. No - my BURNS +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 BURNS in a column or two. O golly, I say, you know, +it CAN'T be done at the money. All the more as I'm going write a +book about it. RAMSAY, FERGUSSON, AND BURNS: AN ESSAY (or A +CRITICAL ESSAY? 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 +COULD 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. + +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); and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a +very essential part of my RAMSAY-FERGUSSON-BURNS; 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 500,00 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. AH NOM DE DIEU! What do you think of all +this? will it paddle, think you? + +I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried. + +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 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 LIFE OF JOHNSON, Martin's +HISTORY OF FRANCE, ALLAN RAMSAY, OLIVIER BOSSELIN, all sorts of +rubbish, APROPOS of BURNS, COMMINES, JUVENAL DES URSINS, 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. + +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 SPRING or BERANGER, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +[EDINBURGH, OCTOBER 1875.] + +NOO lyart leaves blaw ower the green, +Red are the bonny woods o' Dean, +An' here we're back in Embro, freen', +To pass the winter. +Whilk noo, wi' frosts afore, draws in, +An' snaws ahint her. + +I've seen's hae days to fricht us a', +The Pentlands poothered weel wi' snaw, +The ways half-smoored wi' liquid thaw, +An' half-congealin', +The snell an' scowtherin' norther blaw +Frae blae Brunteelan'. + +I've seen's been unco sweir to sally, +And at the door-cheeks daff an' dally, +Seen's daidle thus an' shilly-shally +For near a minute - +Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley, +The deil was in it! - + +Syne spread the silk an' tak the gate, +In blast an' blaudin' rain, deil hae't! +The hale toon glintin', stane an' slate, +Wi' cauld an' weet, +An' to the Court, gin we'se be late, +Bicker oor feet. + +And at the Court, tae, aft I saw +Whaur Advocates by twa an' twa +Gang gesterin' end to end the ha' +In weeg an' goon, +To crack o' what ye wull but Law +The hale forenoon. + +That muckle ha,' maist like a kirk, +I've kent at braid mid-day sae mirk +Ye'd seen white weegs an' faces lurk +Like ghaists frae Hell, +But whether Christian ghaist or Turk +Deil ane could tell. + +The three fires lunted in the gloom, +The wind blew like the blast o' doom, +The rain upo' the roof abune +Played Peter Dick - +Ye wad nae'd licht enough i' the room +Your teeth to pick! + +But, freend, ye ken how me an' you, +The ling-lang lanely winter through, +Keep'd a guid speerit up, an' true +To lore Horatian, +We aye the ither bottle drew +To inclination. + +Sae let us in the comin' days +Stand sicker on our auncient ways - +The strauchtest road in a' the maze +Since Eve ate apples; +An' let the winter weet our cla'es - +We'll weet oor thrapples. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[EDINBURGH, AUTUMN 1875.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - FOUS NE ME GOMBRENNEZ PAS. Angry with you? No. +Is the thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer +in the world. The world can ill spare it, but I, sir, I (and here +I strike my hollow boson, 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. + +Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me +money, you would oblige, sincerely yours, + +R. L. S. + +I have a scroll of SPRINGTIME 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 SPRINGTIME, that's the truth of it. It +might have been four or five quid! + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Along with this, I send you some P.P.P'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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, NOVEMBER 12, 1875.] + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - 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 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 MY 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. DE MATTOS + + + +EDINBURGH, JANUARY 1876. + +MY DEAR KATHARINE, - 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 MAL REUSSI, 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 + + +GROSSIR LA PATE UNIVERSELLE +FAITE DES FORMES QUE DIEU FOND. + + +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 HUGUENOTS. . . . + +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, + +R. L. S. + +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! + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS SITWELL + + + +[EDINBURGH, JANUARY 1876.] + +. . . OUR weather continues as it was, bitterly cold, and raining +often. There is not much pleasure in life certainly as it stands +at present. NOUS N'IRONS PLUS AU BOSS, HELAS! + +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. + +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! + +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 ECLAT 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[EDINBURGH, FEBRUARY 1876.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 1ST. I have sent 'Fontainebleau' 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 MONEY, and money soon, and not glory +and the illustration of the English language, I feel as if my +poverty were going to consent. + +2ND. 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 'Charles of Orleans' 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 +'Fontainebleau'! His head must be turned. + +3RD. If ever you do come across my 'Spring' (I beg your pardon for +referring to it again, but I don't want you to forget) send it off +at once. + +4TH. I went to Ayr, Maybole, Girvan, Ballantrae, Stranraer, +Glenluce, and Wigton. I shall make an article of it some day soon, +'A Winter's Walk in Carrick and Galloway.' I had a good time. - +Yours, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SWANSTON COTTAGE, LOTHIANBURN, JULY 1876.] + +HERE I am, here, and very well too. I am glad you liked 'Walking +Tours'; 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 'Forest Notes,' which is kind. There is one, if +you will, that was too sweet to be wholesome. + +I am at 'Charles d'Orleans.' About fifteen CORNHILL pages have +already coule'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; if +you see him, inquire about my 'Burns.' They have sent me 5 pounds, +5s, for it, which has mollified me horrid. 5 pounds, 5s. is a good +deal to pay for a read of it in MS.; I can't complain. - Yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[SWANSTON COTTAGE, LOTHIANBURN, JULY 1876.] + +. . . 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: TRIAL OF JOAN OF +ARC, PASTON LETTERS, BASIN, 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 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. Is that all? Yes, I think +that's all. I have a thing in proof for the CORNHILL called +VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE. 'Charles of Orleans' is again laid aside, +but in a good state of furtherance this time. A paper called 'A +Defence of Idlers' (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 as I say, I take lots of exercise, and I'm as brown a +berry. + +This is the first letter I've written for - O I don't know how +long. + +JULY 30TH. - This is, I suppose, three weeks after I began. Do, +please, forgive me. + +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. + +God bless you. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE is in August CORNHILL. 'Charles of +Orleans' is finished, and sent to Stephen; 'Idlers' ditto, and sent +to Grove; but I've no word of either. So I've not been idle. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +CHAUNY, AISNE [SEPTEMBER 1876]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 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 JUSQU' ICI are trifling. But I've a damned sore throat. - +Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, MAY 1877. + +. . . A PERFECT 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. + +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 +ready: 'An Apology for Idlers' 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! 'THE HAIR TRUNK; OR, THE IDEAL COMMONWEALTH.' 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 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. + +Please write to me, although I deserve it so little, and show a +Christian spirit. - Ever your faithful friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[EDINBURGH, AUGUST 1877.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +TEMPLE BAR appears to like my 'Villon,' 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, 'The Sire de +Maletroit's Mousetrap': a true novel, in the old sense; all +unities preserved moreover, if that's anything, and I believe with +some little merits; not so CLEVER perhaps as the last, but sounder +and more natural. + +My 'Villon' is out this month; I should so much like to know what +you think of it. Stephen has written to me apropos of 'Idlers,' +that something more in that vein would be agreeable to his views. +From Stephen I count that a devil of a lot. + +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, + +LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +[PENZANCE, AUGUST 1877.] + +. . . YOU 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, +'The Sire de Maletroit's Mousetrap,' with which I shall try TEMPLE +BAR; another story, in the clouds, 'The Stepfather's Story,' 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 the 'Two St. Michael's Mounts,' +historical and picturesque; perhaps if it didn't come too long, I +might throw in the 'Bass Rock,' and call it 'Three Sea Fortalices,' +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 PETIT JEHAN DE SAINTRE, which is a kind of fifteenth +century SANDFORD AND MERTON, 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. + +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. 'Will o' the Mill' 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 income +anyway. I am glad you liked 'Villon'; 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 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN + + + +[1877.] + +DEAR SIR, - 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. + +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 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. + +I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called 'Such is +Life,' 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, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [DECEMBER 1877]. + +MY DEAR SIR, - 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. + +In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost 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. + +Of your poems I have myself a kindness for 'Noll and Nell,' +although I don't think you have made it as good as you ought: +verse five is surely not QUITE MELODIOUS. I confess I like the +Sonnet in the last number of the REVIEW - the Sonnet to England. + +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 - CLARISSA HARLOWE. 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 Mowbray - nothing, nothing could be +better! You will bless me when you read it for this +recommendation; 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: A +DIALOGUE ON MAN, WOMAN, AND 'CLARISSA HARLOWE.' 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. + +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? + +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 'The Sire de Maletroit's Door' +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +HOTEL DES ETRANGERS, DIEPPE, JANUARY 1, 1878. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am at the INLAND VOYAGE 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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[PARIS, JANUARY OR FEBRUARY 1878.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +PARIS, 44 BD. HAUSSMANN, FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1878. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - 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 WAY OF THE WORLD; 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DU VAL DE GRACE, RUE ST. JACQUES, PARIS, SUNDAY [JUNE 1878]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - About criticisms, I was more surprised at the +tone of the critics than I suppose any one 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +MONASTIER, SEPTEMBER 1878. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 INLAND VOYAGE the other day: what rubbish +these reviewers did talk! It is not badly written, thin, mildly +cheery, and strained. SELON MOI. I mean to visit Hamerton on my +return journey; otherwise, I should come by sea from Marseilles. I +am very well known here now; indeed, quite a feature of the place. +- Your affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + +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! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[MONASTIER, SEPTEMBER 1878.] + +DEAR HENLEY, - I hope to leave Monastier this day (Saturday) week; +thenceforward Poste Restante, Alais, Gard, is my address. 'Travels +with a Donkey in the French Highlands.' 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 FILET, 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +MONASTIER, AT MOREL'S [SEPTEMBER 1878]. + +Lud knows about date, VIDE postmark. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - 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 five o'clock on Saturday morning to be driving +Modestine towards the Gevaudan. Modestine is my anesse; 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 ARABIAN NIGHTS 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, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +OCTOBER 1878. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - I have seen Hamerton; he was very kind, all his +family seemed pleased to see an INLAND VOYAGE, 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 INLAND VOYAGE over again, and send me his +cuts and cuffs in private, after having liberally administered his +kisses CORAM PUBLICO. 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. + +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 Cafe +Felix, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, AUTUMN 1878.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 +TRICOCHE ET CACOLET; 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 - CANNOT. Even +the GUITAR 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH, APRIL 16, 1879]. POOL OF SILOAM, By EL +DORADO, DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS, ARCADIA + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - Herewith of the dibbs - a homely 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. + +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 Kubla +Khan, we have the man in the fact. Carlyle's picture, of course, +is not of the author of KUBLA, but of the author of that surprising +FRIEND 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-TELLING - if you will take my +meaning. + +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. + +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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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 CORRESPOND 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. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [APRIL 1879]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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. + +I'll try to improve it, but I shan't be able to - O go to the +devil. + +Seriously, you're a cool hand. And then you have the brass to ask +me WHY 'my steps went one by one'? Why? Powers of man! to rhyme +with sun, 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. + + +O Henley, in my hours of ease +You may say anything you please, +But when I join the Muse's revel, +Begad, I wish you at the devil! +In vain my verse I plane and bevel, +Like Banville's rhyming devotees; +In vain by many an artful swivel +Lug in my meaning by degrees; +I'm sure to hear my Henley cavil; +And grovelling prostrate on my knees, +Devote his body to the seas, +His correspondence to the devil! + + +Impromptu poem. + +I'm going to Shandon Hydropathic CUM PARENTIBUS. Write here. I +heard from Lang. Ferrier prayeth to be remembered; he means to +write, likes his Tourgenieff greatly. Also likes my 'What was on +the Slate,' which, under a new title, yet unfound, and with a new +and, on the whole, kindly DENOUEMENT, is going to shoot up and +become a star. . . . + +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'? JE ME LE DEMANDE. No, it +would be ambiguous, as though I had used it licentiously for +'daringly,' and that would cloak the sense. + +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. + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +SWANSTON, LOTHIANBURN, EDINBURGH, JULY 24, 1879. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I have greatly enjoyed your articles 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. + +Chapters VIII. and IX. 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 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 'Twa Dogs' and his 'Address to the +Unco Guid.' 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 'Twa Dogs.' Even a common Englishman may have +a glimpse, as it were from Pisgah, of its extraordinary merits. + +'ENGLISH, THE: - 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 HANDY CYCLOPAEDIA. Glescow: Blaikie & Bannock. + +Remember me in suitable fashion to Mrs. Gosse, the offspring, and +the cat. - And believe me ever yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [JULY 28, 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am just in the middle of your Rembrandt. 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; 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 off into a corner. Up will rise on the other +side, sane, pleasurable, human knowledge: a thing of beauty and a +joy, etc. + +I'm three parts through Burns; 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, who 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [JULY 29, 1879]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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 SPECTATOR 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 +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. + +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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + + +CHAPTER IV - THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT, MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO, JULY +1879-JULY 1880 + + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +ON BOARD SS. 'DEVONIA,' AN HOUR OR TWO OUT OF NEW YORK [AUGUST +1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I have finished my story. The handwriting is not +good because of the ship's misconduct: thirty-one pages in ten +days at sea is not bad. + +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 PALL MALL +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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + +P.S. - I go on my way to-night, if I can; if not, tomorrow: +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. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[IN THE EMIGRANT TRAIN FROM NEW YORK TO SAN FRANCISCO, AUGUST +1879.] + +DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +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. + + +Of where or how, I nothing know; +And why, I do not care; +Enough if, even so, +My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go +By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair, +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. +I think, I hope, I dream no more +The dreams of otherwhere, +The cherished thoughts of yore; +I have been changed from what I was before; +And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. +Unweary God me yet shall bring +To lands of brighter air, +Where I, now half a king, +Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing, +And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. + + +Exit Muse, hurried by child's games. . . . + +Have at you again, being now well through Indiana. In America you +eat better than anywhere else: fact. The food is heavenly. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +CROSSING NEBRASKA [SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1879]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 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. + +MONDAY. - 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. + +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. + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[COAST LINE MOUNTAINS, CALIFORNIA, SEPTEMBER 1879.] + +HERE 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +MONTEREY, DITTO CO., CALIFORNIA, 21ST OCTOBER [1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 A CHAPTER IN EXPERIENCE OF ARIZONA +BRECKONRIDGE or A VENDETTA IN THE WEST, 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, SEPTEMBER 1879. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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, it seems +already. My book is about half drafted: the AMATEUR EMIGRANT, +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 'The Lie,' 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 DEVONIA, for that is the habit with all children +born in a steerage. + +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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +MONTEREY, MONTEREY CO., CALIFORNIA, 8TH OCTOBER 1879. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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 frontiers-man, 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. + +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. + +My new book, THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT, 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 'Burns' in +the CORNHILL, and for my 'Story of a Lie' 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, AU FUR ET A MESURE of +their apparition, for I am naturally short of literature, and I do +not wish to rust. + +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. + +Is there a boy or a girl? and how is your wife? I thought of you +more than once, to put it mildly. + +I live here comfortably enough; but I shall soon be left all alone, +perhaps till Christmas. Then you may hope for correspondence - and +may not I? - Your friend, + +R L S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 1879.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - Herewith the PAVILION ON THE LINKS, 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. + +Do acknowledge the PAVILION 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 PAVILION! May +it bring me money for myself and my sick one, who may read it, I do +not know how soon. + +Love to your wife, Anthony and all. I shall write to Colvin to-day +or to-morrow. - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 1879.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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.; (2) a paper with +the announcement of second edition; and (3) the announcement of the +essays in ATHENAEUM. 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 a VENDETTA IN THE +WEST, and about sixty pages of the first draft of the AMATEUR +EMIGRANT. 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. + +At times I get terribly frightened about my work, which seems to +advance too slowly. I hope soon to have a greater burthen to +support, and must make money a great deal quicker than I used. I +may get nothing for the VENDETTA; I may only get some forty quid +for the EMIGRANT; I cannot hope to have them both done much before +the end of November. + +O, and look here, why did you not send me the SPECTATOR which +slanged me? Rogues and rascals, is that all you are worth? + +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 drill them out. Another shot, and I'd have gone to +kingdom come. + +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 Francois the +baker, perhaps an Italian fisherman, perhaps Augustin Dutra, and +Simoneau himself. Simoneau, Francois, 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 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. + +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. +Burns, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA [NOVEMBER 1879]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON, - 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. + +I find here (of all places in the world) your ESSAYS ON ART, 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. + +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. + +I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still somewhat of +a mossy ruin. If you would view my countenance aright, come - view +it by the pale moonlight. But that is on the mend. I believe I +have now a distant claim to tan. + +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. . . . + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, 15TH NOVEMBER 1879. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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. + +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, + +R. L S. + +I try it again by daylight. Once more in bed however; for to-day +it is MUCHO FRIO, as we Spaniards say; and I had no other means of +keeping warm for my work. I have done a good spell, 9 and a half +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 A VENDETTA IN THE +WEST. 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. + +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 Hadsel'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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[MONTEREY, DECEMBER 1879.] + +TO-DAY, my dear Colvin, I send you the first part of the AMATEUR +EMIGRANT, 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. + +Whatever is done about any book publication, two 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 BUYERS. + +The entire A. E. 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 CLEVER 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. + +I have never seen my Burns! 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! COMMENT +TROUVEZ-VOUS CA? 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. Dos Reales; deux reaux; 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: To EDMUND GOSSE + + + +MONTEREY, MONTEREY CO., CALIFORNIA, DEC. 8, 1879. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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 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 BEASTLY 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. + +I have read nearly the whole volume, and shall read it nearly all +over again; you have no rivals! + +Bancroft's HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, 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.! + +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; +NITOR AQUIS, said a certain Eton boy, translating for his sins a +part of the INLAND VOYAGE 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 MIGHT 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + +'Too young to be our child': blooming good. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO [DECEMBER 26, 1879]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am now writing to you in a cafe 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 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 EMIGRANT, 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 . . . +. + +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 SPECTATOR, +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 NORMA, 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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO [JANUARY 10, 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +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 waxcloth, 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 pounds, 0s. 5d.). + +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 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 inkbottle. 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. + +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, ALIAS fifty cents., 0 pounds, 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. + +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 +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. + +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 pounds; if I can do that, I +can swim: last year, with my ill health I touched only 109 pounds, +that would not do, I could not fight it through on that; but on 200 +pounds, 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 JUST IN THE MEANTIME, give me no bad. If I could get +THOREAU, EMIGRANT and VENDETTA 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 FINISHED, you see, they don't +fairly count. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, JAN. 26, '80 + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - 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. 10 and a half d. 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 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA [JANUARY 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 EMIGRANT; +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 polysyllables over me that a better man than I might +have been disheartened. - However, I was not, as you see, and am +not. The EMIGRANT 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. + +The VENDETTA you will not much like, I dare say: and that must be +finished next; but I'll knock you with THE FOREST STATE: A +ROMANCE. + +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 NEWS, 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. + +My health is better, my spirits steadier, I am not the least cast +down. If THE EMIGRANT was a failure, the PAVILION, 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 other than about people. It bored me hellishly to +write the EMIGRANT; well, it's going to bore others to read it; +that's only fair. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL., FEBRUARY 1880. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - Before my work or anything I sit down to answer +your long and kind letter. + +I am well, cheerful, busy, hopeful; I cannot be knocked down; I do +not mind about the EMIGRANT. 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. + +(1) As to STUDIES. There are two more already gone to Stephen. +YOSHIDA TORAJIRO, which I think temperate and adequate; and +THOREAU, which will want a really Balzacian effort over the proofs. +But I want BENJAMIN FRANKLIN AND THE ART OF VIRTUE to follow; and +perhaps also WILLIAM PENN, but this last may be perhaps delayed for +another volume - I think not, though. The STUDIES 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 ORDERED SOUTH +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 soon as the EMIGRANT is +done. (4) EMIGRANT. 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 +VENDETTA, which falls next to be finished, is not entirely +pleasant. But it has points. THE FOREST STATE or THE GREENWOOD +STATE: A ROMANCE, 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 +DENOUEMENT is unfortunately absolutely undramatic, which will be +our only trouble in quarrying out the play. I mean we shall quarry +from it. CHARACTERS - Otto Frederick John, hereditary Prince of +Grunwald; 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 Z. +Certain scenes are, in conception, the best I have ever made, +except for HESTER NOBLE. 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 EMIGRANT +stops the way; then a reassured scenario for HESTER; then the +VENDETTA; then two (or three) Essays - Benjamin Franklin, Thoughts +on Literature as an Art, Dialogue on Character and Destiny between +two Puppets, The Human Compromise; 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 SLATE both Fanny and I +have damned utterly; it is too morbid, ugly, and unkind; better +starvation. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +608 BUSH STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, [MARCH 1880]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +SAN FRANCISCO, CAL., APRIL 16 [1880]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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 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 pinewoods, +3000 feet, sir, from the disputatious sea. - I am, dear Weg, most +truly yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO DR. W. BAMFORD + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 1880.] + +MY DEAR SIR, - 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. + +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 me. - I am, my dear sir, gratefully yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 H. James's HAWTHORNE, for my +BURNS, 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 THOREAU 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 Burns; but the +style, though quite manly, never attains any melody or lenity. So +much for consumption: I begin to appreciate what the EMIGRANT must +be. As soon as I have done the last few pages of the EMIGRANT they +shall go to you. But when will that be? I know not quite yet - I +have to be so careful. - Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 EMIGRANT, +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 HAD 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 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, MAY 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I received your letter and proof to-day, and was +greatly delighted with the last. + +I am now out of danger; in but a short while (I.E. 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 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 'Al Monte!' 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO C. W. STODDARD + + + +EAST OAKLAND, CAL., MAY 1880. + +MY DEAR STODDARD, - 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 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. + +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. + +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. + +At least, Stoddard, you now see that, although so costive, when I +once begin I am a copious letter-writer. I thank you, and AU +REVOIR. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[SAN FRANCISCO, MAY 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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 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. + +CALISTOGA, NAPA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA. + +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 AMATEUR EMIGRANT; 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. + +Received James's HAWTHORNE, on which I meditate a blast, Miss Bird, +Dixon's PENN, a WRONG CORNHILL (like my luck) and COQUELIN: 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 +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 +VENDETTA first, for it really could not come after PRINCE OTTO. +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: '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 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 REGIBUS 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, + +R. L. S. + + + + +CHAPTER V - ALPINE WINTERS AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS, AUGUST 1880- +OCTOBER 1882 + + + + +Letter: TO A. G. DEW-SMITH + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, NOVEMBER 1880.] + +Figure me to yourself, I pray - +A man of my peculiar cut - +Apart from dancing and deray, +Into an Alpine valley shut; + +Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, +Discountenanced by God and man; +The food? - Sir, you would do as well +To cram your belly full of bran. + +The company? Alas, the day +That I should dwell with such a crew, +With devil anything to say, +Nor any one to say it to! + +The place? Although they call it Platz, +I will be bold and state my view; +It's not a place at all - and that's +The bottom verity, my Dew. + +There are, as I will not deny, +Innumerable inns; a road; +Several Alps indifferent high; +The snow's inviolable abode; + +Eleven English parsons, all +Entirely inoffensive; four +True human beings - what I call +Human - the deuce a cipher more; + +A climate of surprising worth; +Innumerable dogs that bark; +Some air, some weather, and some earth; +A native race - God save the mark! - + +A race that works, yet cannot work, +Yodels, but cannot yodel right, +Such as, unhelp'd, with rusty dirk, +I vow that I could wholly smite. + +A river that from morn to night +Down all the valley plays the fool; +Not once she pauses in her flight, +Nor knows the comfort of a pool; + +But still keeps up, by straight or bend, +The selfsame pace she hath begun - +Still hurry, hurry, to the end - +Good God, is that the way to run? + +If I a river were, I hope +That I should better realise +The opportunities and scope +Of that romantic enterprise. + +I should not ape the merely strange, +But aim besides at the divine; +And continuity and change +I still should labour to combine. + +Here should I gallop down the race, +Here charge the sterling like a bull; +There, as a man might wipe his face, +Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool. + +But what, my Dew, in idle mood, +What prate I, minding not my debt? +What do I talk of bad or good? +The best is still a cigarette. + +Me whether evil fate assault, +Or smiling providences crown - +Whether on high the eternal vault +Be blue, or crash with thunder down - + +I judge the best, whate'er befall, +Is still to sit on one's behind, +And, having duly moistened all, +Smoke with an unperturbed mind. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE], DAVOS, DECEMBER 12 [1880]. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - 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. + +I. THIRTY YEARS' INTERVAL + +(1) Rob Roy. +(2) The Independent Companies: the Watches. +(3) Story of Lady Grange. +(4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: Wade and +(5) Burt. + +II. THE HEROIC AGE + +(1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden. +(2) Flora Macdonald. +(3) The Forfeited Estates; including Hereditary Jurisdictions; and +the admirable conduct of the tenants. + +III. LITERATURE HERE INTERVENES + +(1) The Ossianic Controversy. +(2) Boswell and Johnson. +(3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan. + +IV. ECONOMY + +(1) Highland Economics. +(2) The Reinstatement of the Proprietors. +(3) The Evictions. +(4) Emigration. +(5) Present State. + +V. RELIGION + +(1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and Soc. Prop. Christ. +Knowledge. +(2) The Men. +(3) The Disruption. + +All this, of course, will greatly change in form, scope, and order; +this is just a bird's-eye glance. Thank you for BURT, which came, +and for your Union notes. I have read one-half (about 900 pages) +of Wodrow's CORRESPONDENCE, 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. + +My Essays are going through the press, and should be out in January +or February. - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS PLATZ [DEC. 6, 1880]. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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, and another about +either Charles or 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE], DAVOS, DEC. 19, 1880. + +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. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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. + +(2) Byron: if anything: PROMETHEUS. + +(3) Shelley (1) THE WORLD'S GREAT AGE from Hellas; we are both dead +on. After that you have, of course, THE WEST WIND thing. But we +think (1) would maybe be enough; no more than two any way. + +(4) Herrick. MEDDOWES and COME, MY CORINNA. After that MR. +WICKES: two any way. + +(5) Leave out stanza 3rd of Congreve's thing, like a dear; we can't +stand the 'sigh' nor the 'peruke.' + +(6) Milton. TIME and the SOLEMN MUSIC. 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. + +(7) Is the ROYAL GEORGE an ode, or only an elegy? It's so good. + +(8) We leave Campbell to you. + +(9) If you take anything from Clough, but we don't either of us +fancy you will, let it be COME BACK. + +(10) Quite right about Dryden. I had a hankering after THRENODIA +AUGUSTALIS; but I find it long and with very prosaic holes: +though, O! what fine stuff between whiles. + +(11) Right with Collins. + +(12) Right about Pope's Ode. But what can you give? THE DYING +CHRISTIAN? or one of his inimitable courtesies? These last are +fairly odes, by the Horatian model, just as my dear MEDDOWES is an +ode in the name and for the sake of Bandusia. + +(13) Whatever you do, you'll give us the Greek Vase. + +(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. + +We will have the Duke of Wellington by God. Pro Symonds and +Stevenson. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES WARREN STODDARD + + + +HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS PLATZ, SWITZERLAND [DECEMBER 1880]. + +DEAR CHARLES WARREN STODDARD, - 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 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. will be complete. The edition, +briefly, SINE QUA NON. 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +DECEMBER 21, 1880. DAVOS. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - 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 +then; 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 AD HOC 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. + +The bazaar is over, 160 pounds gained, and everybody's health lost: +altogether, I never had a more uncomfortable time; apply to Fanny +for further details of the discomfort. + +We have our Wogg in somewhat better trim now, and 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. + +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 EVICTIONS; 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 +HISTORY OF MODERN SCOTLAND. Probably Tulloch will never carry it +out. And, you see, once I have studied and written these two +vols., THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS and SCOTLAND +AND THE UNION, 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, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, Christmas 1880.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - Thanks for yours; I waited, as 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 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CHRISTMAS SERMON. +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, DECEMBER 26, 1880.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - 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 +my father's extraordinary kindness about this book; he is a brick; +I vote for him freely. + +. . . 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 +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 DESIGN TO DO RIGHT 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 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. + +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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, SPRING 1881.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN. - 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. + +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. SUFFICIT; EXPLICIT. + +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, A LA BONNE HEURE! 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! 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. + +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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + +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. + +Woggin sends his love. + + + +Letter: TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + +DAVOS, 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN. - Here it is, with the mark of a San Francisco +BOUQUINISTE. 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + +DAVOS, 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN. - 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO HORATIO F. BROWN + + + +HOTEL BELVEDERE, DAVOS, SPRING 1881. + +MY DEAR BROWN, - Nine years I have conded them. + +Brave lads in olden musical centuries +Sang, night by night, adorable choruses, +Sat late by alehouse doors in April +Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising: + +Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises, +Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables; +Spring scents inspired, old wine diluted; +Love and Apollo were there to chorus. + +Now these, the songs, remain to eternity, +Those, only those, the bountiful choristers +Gone - those are gone, those unremembered +Sleep and are silent in earth for ever. + +So man himself appears and evanishes, +So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at +Some green-embowered house, play their music, +Play and are gone on the windy highway; + +Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory +Long after they departed eternally, +Forth-faring tow'rd far mountain summits, +Cities of men on the sounding Ocean. + +Youth sang the song in years immemorial; +Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful; +Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtime +Heard and were pleased by the voice of singing; + +Youth goes, and leaves behind him a prodigy - +Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian +Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven highways, +Dear to me here in my Alpine exile. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Monte Generoso in May; here, I think, till the end of April; write +again, to prove you are forgiving. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DU PAVILLON HENRY IV., ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE, SUNDAY, MAY 1ST, +1881. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - 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 STAR and +GARTER (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 PIASSEUR, 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 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 STAR AND GARTER. My throat is quite cured, appetite +and strength on the mend. Fanny seems also picking up. + +If we are to come to Scotland, I WILL have fir-trees, and I want a +burn, the firs for my physical, the water for my moral health. - +Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE, JUNE 6, 1881. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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 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, GROUNDY 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. + +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 will reach you soon, for I write about it to-day - Yours +ever, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE, JUNE 1881. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - THE BLACK MAN AND OTHER TALES. + +The Black Man: + +I. Thrawn Janet. +II. The Devil on Cramond Sands. +The Shadow on the Bed. +The Body Snatchers. +The Case Bottle. +The King's Horn. +The Actor's Wife. +The Wreck of the SUSANNA. + +This is the new work on which I am engaged with Fanny; they are all +supernatural. 'Thrawn Janet' is off to Stephen, but as it is all +in Scotch he cannot take it, I know. It was SO GOOD, 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. + +Write me a word about Bob's professoriate and Landor, and what you +think of THE BLACK MAN. The tales are all ghastly. 'Thrawn Janet' +frightened me to death. There will maybe be another - 'The Dead +Man's A Letter.' I believe I shall recover; and I am, in this +blessed hope, yours exuberantly, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO PROFESSOR AENEAS MACKAY + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 21, 1881. + +MY DEAR MACKAY, - What is this I hear? - that you are retiring from +your chair. It is not, I hope, from ill-health? + +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. + +Please let me hear a word in answer, and believe me, yours very +sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO PROFESSOR AENEAS MACKAY + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE [JUNE 1881]. + +MY DEAR MACKAY, - 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. + +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 declines a plurality of offices, +makes it perceptibly more difficult for the next man to accept +them. + +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 Constitutional Law were involved; +but this is to look too far forward. + +I understand (1ST) that no overt steps can be taken till your +resignation is accepted; and (2ND) that in the meantime I may, +without offence, mention my design to stand. + +If I am mistaken about these, please correct me, as I do not wish +to appear where I should not. + +Again thanking you very heartily for your coals of fire I remain +yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, JUNE 24, 1881. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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, QUORUM PARS; 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 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. + +Heavens! JE ME SAUVE, 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +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. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY [JULY 1881]. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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. + +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 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. +QU'EN DIS TU? VIENS. - Yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY [JULY 1881]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMMERTON, - (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. + +It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I was married; it +was a sort of marriage IN EXTREMIS; 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. + +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 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. 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. + +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. + +I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; you have my +warmest wishes for a good cruise down the Saone; 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 Saone. + +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: I fear it is +characteristic of her manners. It was because you did not call +upon the electors! + +Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son? - And believe +me, etc., etc., + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, [JULY 1881]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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, 'Thrawn Janet,' all in Scotch, is accepted +by Stephen; my second, 'The Body Snatchers,' is laid aside in a +justifiable disgust, the tale being horrid; my third, 'The Merry +Men,' 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. + +Fanny has finished one of hers, 'The Shadow on the Bed,' and is now +hammering at a second, for which we have 'no name' as yet - not by +Wilkie Collins. + +TALES FOR WINTER NIGHTS. Yes, that, I think, we will call the lot +of them when republished. + +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. + +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 pounds and its light work, would make me. + +It looks as if we should take Cater's chalet after all; but O! to +go back to that place, it seems cruel. I have not yet received the +Landor; but it may be at home, detained by my mother, who returns +to-morrow. + +Believe me, dear Colvin, ever yours, + +R. L. S. + +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 HAVE 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. + +'The Merry Men' + +Chap. I. Eilean Aros. } +II. What the Wreck had brought to Aros. } Tip +III. Past and Present in Sandag Bay. } Top +IV. The Gale. } Tale. +V. A Man out of the Sea. } + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, JULY 1881. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - I hope, then, to have a visit from you. If +before August, here; if later, at Braemar. Tupe! + +And now, MON BON, I must babble about 'The Merry Men,' 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, Santma Trinid - the +grave in the heather - strangers 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 PIRATE in it, as how should there not? He had +the root of romance in such places. Aros is Earraid, where I lived +lang syne; 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. + +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:- + +1830: A CHAPTER OF ARTISTIC HISTORY, by William Ernest Henley (or +OF SOCIAL AND ARTISTIC HISTORY, as the thing might grow to you). +Sir, you might be in the Athenaeum yet with that; and, believe me, +you might and would be far better, the author of a readable book. - +Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + +The following names have been invented for Wogg by his dear papa:- + +Grunty-pig (when he is scratched), +Rose-mouth (when he comes flying up with his rose-leaf tongue +depending), and +Hoofen-boots (when he has had his foots wet). +How would TALES FOR WINTER NIGHTS do? + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +PITLOCHRY, IF YOU PLEASE, [AUGUST] 1881. + +DEAR HENLEY, - 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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +PITLOCHRY, AUGUST 1881. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - 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. + +MONDAY, AUGUST (2ND, 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. + +. . . 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. + +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. + +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, +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.' + +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! + +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 snake a good volume. We have now + +Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day. +The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny's copying). +The Merry Men (scrolled). +The Body Snatchers (scrolled). + +IN GERMIS + +The Travelling Companion. +The Torn Surplice (NOT FINAL TITLE). + +Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, SUNDAY, AUGUST 1881. + +MY DEAR SIR, - I should long ago have written to thank you for your +kind and frank letter; but in my state of health papers are apt to +get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this +(Sunday) morning. + +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. + +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. + +The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such +short paper is essentially only a SECTION THROUGH 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 is, as I dare say you know, the +very 'wale' of Scotland - bar Tummelside. - Yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, AUGUST 1881. + +... WELL, 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. + +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 I little flesh in +the meanwhile. I was WONDERFULLY 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. + +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. + +Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under the +blow. - Ever your faithful friend, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +THE COTTAGE (LATE THE LATE MISS M'GREGOR'S), CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, +AUGUST 10, 1881. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - 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. + +You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, +sir - Your obedient, humble servant. + +We have family worship in the home of, sir - Yours respectfully. + +Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also see) +the maps of, sir - Yours in the Lord. + +A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of two +before the house of, sir - Yours truly. + +The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the late +Miss Macgregor and of, sir - Yours affectionately. + +It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know the +halls of, sir - Yours emphatically. + +All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir - Yours ever. + +You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual collapse of, +sir - Yours indeed. + +And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir - Yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +N.B. - 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. + +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. + +The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending as it does to +foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from the +address, which would therefore run - The Cottage, Castleton of +Braemar. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, AUGUST 19, 1881. + +IF you had an uncle who was a sea captain and went to the North +Pole, you had better bring his outfit. VERBUM SAPIENTIBUS. I look +towards you. + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[BRAEMAR], AUGUST 19, 1881. + +MY DEAR WEG, - 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. + +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. + +The sooner the better after Tuesday. - Yours ever, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BRAEMAR [AUGUST 25, 1881]. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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, 'The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A +Story for Boys.' + +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 ROUTLEDGE? 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 parient have to be consulted. + +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 BEST 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 'The Sea Cook's' sake. + +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 the 'Sea Cook' 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! + +R. L. S. + +Author of BOYS' STORIES. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +BRAEMAR, 1881. + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP, - My father has gone, but I think 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. + +I do not know how to thank you for all your kind trouble in the +matter of 'The Sea-Cook,' 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! + +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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BRAEMAR, SEPTEMBER 1881. + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - Thanks for your last. The 100 pounds fell +through, or dwindled at least into somewhere about 30 pounds. +However, that I've taken as a mouthful, so you may look out for +'The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Tale of the Buccaneers,' in +YOUNG FOLKS. (The terms are 2 pounds, 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.) + +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 'Sea Cook' will do to reprint, +and bring something decent at that. + +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.' (13) He is now extending over adjacent parts of +Scotland. + +I propose to follow up the 'Sea Cook' at proper intervals by 'Jerry +Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath' (which or its site I must +visit), 'The Leading Light: A Tale of the Coast,' 'The Squaw Men: +or the Wild West,' and other instructive and entertaining work. +'Jerry Abershaw' 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 the 'Sea Cook.' + +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. The 'Sea Cook' is now in its sixteenth +chapter, and bids for well up in the thirties. Each three chapters +is worth 2 pounds, 10s. So we've 12 pounds, 10s. already. + +Don't read Marryat's' PIRATE anyhow; it is written in sand with a +salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, tottering production. But then +we're not always all there. He was all somewhere else that trip. +It's DAMNABLE, Henley. I don't go much on the 'Sea Cook'; but, +Lord, it's a little fruitier than the PIRATE by Cap'n. Marryat. + +Since this was written 'The Cook' is in his nineteenth chapter. +Yo-heave ho! + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, AUTUMN 1881.] + +MY DEAR FATHER, - It occurred to me last night in bed that I could +write + +The Murder of Red Colin, +A Story of the Forfeited Estates. + +This I have all that is necessary for, with the following +exceptions:- + +TRIALS OF THE SONS OF ROY ROB WITH ANECDOTES: Edinburgh, 1818, and + +The second volume of BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. + +You might also look in Arnot's CRIMINAL TRIALS 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, AUTUMN [1881]. + +MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON, - 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. + +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 NIL. 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. + +Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? 'Hardly one of +us,' said my CONFRERES at the bar. + +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 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. + +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 THE 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. + +How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and +your son, and believe me, yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN], DAVOS, DECEMBER 5, 1881. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - 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 much for solitude as I used to; +results, I suppose, of marriage. + +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 blight at Bonny mainhead? the compass near +the sign of the TWINKLING EYE? the night I lay on the pavement in +misery? + +I swear it by the eternal sky +Johnson - nor Thomson - ne'er shall die! + +Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CHALET BUOL, DAVOS-PLATZ, DECEMBER 26, 1881. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Yesterday, Sunday and Christmas, we finished this +eventful journey by a drive in an OPEN 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. It was a clear, sunny day, but the sun even at noon +falls, at this season, only here and there into the Prattigau. I +kept up as long as I could in an imitation of a street singer:- + +Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, etc. + +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. + +Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd's cold better; I, +with a twinge of the rheumatic; and Fanny better than her ordinary. + +General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the journey: A +prolonged visit to the dentist's, complicated with the fear of +death. + +Never, O never, do you get me there again. - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS-PLATZ, FEBRUARY 1882.] + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - 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 - THE 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS], 22ND FEBRUARY '82. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - Your most welcome letter has raised clouds of +sulphur from my horizon. . . . + +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. + +In an article which will appear sometime in the CORNHILL, 'Talk and +Talkers,' 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. + +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. + +My wife is better again. . . . But we take it by turns; it is the +dog that is ill now. - Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS-PLATZ, FEBRUARY 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 DOGS, by return if it can be +managed. + +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 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. + +I have just finished a paper, 'A Gossip on Romance,' 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. + +To-morrow, having once finished off the touches still due on this, +I shall tackle SAN FRANCISCO 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 Romance, 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. + +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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, MARCH 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - . . . Last night we had a dinner-party, +consisting of the John Addington, curry, onions (lovely 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. + +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. + +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 - QUEL COUP D'OEIL! but +was it not over-done, 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.) + +Your list of books that Cassells have refused in these weeks is not +quite complete; they also refused:- + +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. + +2. The journals and Private Correspondence of David, King of +Israel. + +3. Poetical Works of Arthur, Iron Dook of Wellington, including a +Monody on Napoleon. + +4. Eight books of an unfinished novel, SOLOMON CRABB. By Henry +Fielding. + +5. Stevenson's Moral Emblems. + +You also neglected to mention, as PER CONTRA, that they had during +the same time accepted and triumphantly published Brown's HANDBOOK +TO CRICKET, Jones's FIRST FRENCH READER, and Robinson's PICTURESQUE +CHESHIRE, uniform with the same author's STATELY HOMES OF SALOP. + +O if that list could come true! How we would tear at Solomon +Crabb! 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 - DAVID - was written in his third +period - much about the same time as Lear? The comedy, APRIL RAIN, +is also a late work. BECKETT is a fine ranting piece, like RICHARD +II., 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. RUFUS is not so good; I am not pleased with +RUFUS; plainly a RIFACCIMENTO of some inferior work; but there are +some damned fine lines. As for the purely satiric ill-minded +ABELARD AND HELOISE, another TROILUS, QUOI! 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. + +I am enjoying SOLOMON CRABB 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 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. + +Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin crack - +This here's a dream, return and study BLACK! + +- Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO ALEXANDER IRELAND + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, MARCH 1882.] + +MY DEAR SIR, - 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 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. + +You ask about Davos; I have discoursed about it already, rather +sillily I think, in the PALL MALL, 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. + +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. + +The best of the present French novelists seems to me, incomparably, +Daudet. LES ROIS EN EXIL 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 +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. + +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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - 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.P.S. - 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. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE. + + + +DAVOS, MARCH 23, 1882. + +MY DEAR WEG, - And I had just written the best note to Mrs. Gosse +that was in my power. Most blameable. + +I now send (for Mrs. Gosse). + +BLACK CANYON. + +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 WASTE, so aptly rendered by the hartis. + +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. + +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 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, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, MARCH 1882.] + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP, - 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 FAMILIAR STUDIES. 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, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP + + + +CHALET BUOL, DAVOS, APRIL 1, 1882. + +MY DEAR DR. JAPP, - 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; 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. + +Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and I +communicated your remarks. . . . He is a far better and more +interesting thing than any of his books. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +SIMPLY THE FIRST TIME HE HAS EVER GIVEN ONE AWAY. I have to buy my +own works, I can tell you. - Yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, APRIL 1882.] + +MY DEAR HENLEY, - 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 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. + +If Chatto should take both, CUI DEDICARE? I am running out of +dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is stranded. TREASURE +ISLAND, if it comes out, and I mean it shall, of course goes to +Lloyd. Lemme see, I have now dedicated to + +W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley]. + +S. C. [Sidney Colvin]. + +T. S. [Thomas Stevenson]. + +Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson]. + +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 PRINCE OTTO - Jenkin I suppose sometime - 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. + +Talking of Meredith, I have just re-read for the third and fourth +time THE EGOIST. 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 greatly justify themselves on further study. +Only Dr. Middleton does not hang together; and Ladies Busshe and +Culmer SONT DES MONSTRUOSITES. Vernon's conduct makes a wonderful +odd contrast with Daniel Deronda's. I see more and more that +Meredith is built for immortality. + +Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an immortalet, +claims some attention. THE WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 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 FORTUNE +BY SEA AND LAND 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. + +Byron not only wrote DON JUAN; 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. + +Here is a strange gossip. - I am yours loquaciously, + +R. L. S. + +My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel examination, +an exaNIMation I may call it, had this brave result. TAIAUT! +Hillo! Hey! Stand by! Avast! Hurrah! + + + +Letter: TO MRS. T. STEVENSON + + + +[CHALET AM STEIN, DAVOS, APRIL 9, 1882.] + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Herewith please find belated birthday present. +Fanny has another. + +Cockshot=Jenkin. But +Jack=Bob. pray +Burly=Henley. regard +Athelred=Simpson. these +Opalstein=Symonds. as +Purcel=Gosse. secrets. + +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. + +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. + +I have this winter finished TREASURE ISLAND, written the preface to +the STUDIES, a small book about the INLAND VOYAGE size, THE +SILVERADO SQUATTERS, 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, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +[EDINBURGH] SUNDAY [JUNE 1882]. + +. . . NOTE 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. + +I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have written before, +INTER ALIA, to tell you that I had visited my murder place and +found LIVING TRADITIONS 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 yesterdays - 1+4+7.5 = 12.5 hours and being (9 +A.M.) very anxious to sleep again. The arms of Porpus, quoi! A +poppy gules, etc. + +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 PEEBLES! 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: PERSONAL ADVENTURES IN PEEBLESSHIRE. JE LA TROUVE +MECHANTE. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + +- Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers? I did, +and CA-Y-EST. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +STOBO MANSE, PEEBLESSHIRE [JULY 1882]. + +I would shoot you, but I have no bow: +The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo. +As Gallic Kids complain of 'Bobo,' +I mourn for your mistake of Stobo. + +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. + +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. + +I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence brevity. Answer +about the house. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[STOBO MANSE, JULY 1882.] + +DEAR HENLEY, . . . 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. + +I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, damp, and +MAUCHY; the rain it raineth every day; and the glass goes tol-de- +rol-de riddle. + +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. + +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 aesthAtic,' he +said. 'Pooh!' 'Fishin' and releegion - these are my aysthatics,' +he wound up. + +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 IT.' He is seventy-nine! but may +well last to a hundred! - Yours ever, + +R. L S. + + + + +CHAPTER VI - MARSEILLES AND HYERES, OCTOBER 1882-AUGUST 1884 + + + + +Letter: TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'NEW YORK TRIBUNE' + + + +TERMINUS HOTEL, MARSEILLES, OCTOBER 16, 1882. + +SIR, - It has come to my ears that you have lent the authority of +your columns to an error. + +More than half in pleasantry - and I now think the pleasantry ill- +judged - I complained in a note to my NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS that some +one, who shall remain nameless for me, had borrowed the idea of a +story from one of mine. As if I had not borrowed the ideas of the +half of my own! As if any one who had written a story ill had a +right to complain of any other who should have written it better! +I am indeed thoroughly ashamed of the note, and of the principle +which it implies. + +But it is no mere abstract penitence which leads me to beg a corner +of your paper - it is the desire to defend the honour of a man of +letters equally known in America and England, of a man who could +afford to lend to me and yet be none the poorer; and who, if he +would so far condescend, has my free permission to borrow from me +all that he can find worth borrowing. + +Indeed, sir, I am doubly surprised at your correspondent's error. +That James Payn should have borrowed from me is already a strange +conception. The author of LOST SIR MASSINGBERD and BY PROXY may be +trusted to invent his own stories. The author of A GRAPE FROM A +THORN knows enough, in his own right, of the humorous and pathetic +sides of human nature. + +But what is far more monstrous - what argues total ignorance of the +man in question - is the idea that James Payn could ever have +transgressed the limits of professional propriety. I may tell his +thousands of readers on your side of the Atlantic that there +breathes no man of letters more inspired by kindness and generosity +to his brethren of the profession, and, to put an end to any +possibility of error, I may be allowed to add that I often have +recourse, and that I had recourse once more but a few weeks ago, to +the valuable practical help which he makes it his pleasure to +extend to younger men. + +I send a duplicate of this letter to a London weekly; for the +mistake, first set forth in your columns, has already reached +England, and my wanderings have made me perhaps last of the persons +interested to hear a word of it. - I am, etc., + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + +TERMINUS HOTEL, MARSEILLE, SATURDAY (OCTOBER 1882). + +MY DEAR BOB, - We have found a house! - at Saint Marcel, Banlieue +de Marseille. In a lovely valley between hills part wooded, part +white cliffs; a house of a dining-room, of a fine salon - one side +lined with a long divan - three good bedrooms (two of them with +dressing-rooms), three small rooms (chambers of BONNE and sich), a +large kitchen, a lumber room, many cupboards, a back court, a +large, large olive yard, cultivated by a resident PAYSAN, a well, a +berceau, a good deal of rockery, a little pine shrubbery, a railway +station in front, two lines of omnibus to Marseille. + +48 pounds per annum. + +It is called Campagne Defli! query Campagne Debug? The Campagne +Demosquito goes on here nightly, and is very deadly. Ere we can +get installed, we shall be beggared to the door, I see. + +I vote for separations; F.'s arrival here, after our separation, +was better fun to me than being married was by far. A separation +completed is a most valuable property; worth piles. - Ever your +affectionate cousin, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +TERMINUS HOTEL, MARSEILLE, LE 17TH OCTOBER 1882. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - . . We grow, every time we see it, more +delighted with our house. It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a +lovely spot, among lovely wooded and cliffy hills - most +mountainous in line - far lovelier, to my eyes, than any Alps. To- +day we have been out inventorying; and though a mistral blew, it +was delightful in an open cab, and our house with the windows open +was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear there are fleas - +it is called Campagne Defli - and I look forward to tons of +insecticide being employed. + +I have had to write a letter to the NEW YORK TRIBUNE and the +ATHENAEUM. Payn was accused of stealing my stories! I think I +have put things handsomely for him. + +Just got a servant! ! ! - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +Our servant is a Muckle Hash of a Weedy! + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CAMPAGNE DEFLI, ST. MARCEL, BANLIEUE DE MARSEILLE, NOVEMBER 13, +1882. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - Your delightful letters duly arrived this +morning. They were the only good feature of the day, which was not +a success. Fanny was in bed - she begged I would not split upon +her, she felt so guilty; but as I believe she is better this +evening, and has a good chance to be right again in a day or two, I +will disregard her orders. I do not go back, but do not go forward +- or not much. It is, in one way, miserable - for I can do no +work; a very little wood-cutting, the newspapers, and a note about +every two days to write, completely exhausts my surplus energy; +even Patience I have to cultivate with parsimony. I see, if I +could only get to work, that we could live here with comfort, +almost with luxury. Even as it is, we should be able to get +through a considerable time of idleness. I like the place +immensely, though I have seen so little of it - I have only been +once outside the gate since I was here! It puts me in mind of a +summer at Prestonpans and a sickly child you once told me of. + +Thirty-two years now finished! My twenty-ninth was in San +Francisco, I remember - rather a bleak birthday. The twenty-eighth +was not much better; but the rest have been usually pleasant days +in pleasant circumstances. + +Love to you and to my father and to Cummy. + +From me and Fanny and Wogg. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +GRAND HOTEL, NICE, 12TH JANUARY '83. + +DEAR CHARLES, - Thanks for your good letter. It is true, man, +God's truth, what ye say about the body Stevison. The deil himsel, +it's my belief, couldnae get the soul harled oot o' the creature's +wame, or he had seen the hinder end o' they proofs. Ye crack o' +Maecenas, he's naebody by you! He gied the lad Horace a rax forrit +by all accounts; but he never gied him proofs like yon. Horace may +hae been a better hand at the clink than Stevison - mind, I'm no +sayin' 't - but onyway he was never sae weel prentit. Damned, but +it's bonny! Hoo mony pages will there be, think ye? Stevison maun +hae sent ye the feck o' twenty sangs - fifteen I'se warrant. Weel, +that'll can make thretty pages, gin ye were to prent on ae side +only, whilk wad be perhaps what a man o' your GREAT idees would be +ettlin' at, man Johnson. Then there wad be the Pre-face, an' prose +ye ken prents oot langer than po'try at the hinder end, for ye hae +to say things in't. An' then there'll be a title-page and a +dedication and an index wi' the first lines like, and the deil an' +a'. Man, it'll be grand. Nae copies to be given to the Liberys. + +I am alane myself, in Nice, they ca't, but damned, I think they +micht as well ca't Nesty. The Pile-on, 's they ca't, 's aboot as +big as the river Tay at Perth; and it's rainin' maist like +Greenock. Dod, I've seen 's had mair o' what they ca' the I-talian +at Muttonhole. I-talian! I haenae seen the sun for eicht and +forty hours. Thomson's better, I believe. But the body's fair +attenyated. He's doon to seeven stane eleeven, an' he sooks awa' +at cod liver ile, till it's a fair disgrace. Ye see he tak's it on +a drap brandy; and it's my belief, it's just an excuse for a dram. +He an' Stevison gang aboot their lane, maistly; they're company to +either, like, an' whiles they'll speak o'Johnson. But HE'S far +awa', losh me! Stevison's last book's in a third edeetion; an' +it's bein' translated (like the psaulms o' David, nae less) into +French; and an eediot they ca' Asher - a kind o' rival of Tauchnitz +- is bringin' him oot in a paper book for the Frenchies and the +German folk in twa volumes. Sae he's in luck, ye see. - Yours, + +THOMSON. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +[NICE FEBRUARY 1883.] + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - You must think, and quite justly, that I am one of +the meanest rogues in creation. But though I do not write (which +is a thing I hate), it by no means follows that people are out of +my mind. It is natural that I should always think more or less +about you, and still more natural that I should think of you when I +went back to Nice. But the real reason why you have been more in +my mind than usual is because of some little verses that I have +been writing, and that I mean to make a book of; and the real +reason of this letter (although I ought to have written to you +anyway) is that I have just seen that the book in question must be +dedicated to + +ALISON CUNNINGHAM, + +the only person who will really understand it. I don't know when +it may be ready, for it has to be illustrated, but I hope in the +meantime you may like the idea of what is to be; and when the time +comes, I shall try to make the dedication as pretty as I can make +it. Of course, this is only a flourish, like taking off one's hat; +but still, a person who has taken the trouble to write things does +not dedicate them to any one without meaning it; and you must just +try to take this dedication in place of a great many things that I +might have said, and that I ought to have done, to prove that I am +not altogether unconscious of the great debt of gratitude I owe +you. This little book, which is all about my childhood, should +indeed go to no other person but you, who did so much to make that +childhood happy. + +Do you know, we came very near sending for you this winter. If we +had not had news that you were ill too, I almost believe we should +have done so, we were so much in trouble. + +I am now very well; but my wife has had a very, very bad spell, +through overwork and anxiety, when I was LOST! I suppose you heard +of that. She sends you her love, and hopes you will write to her, +though she no more than I deserves it. She would add a word +herself, but she is too played out. - I am, ever your old boy, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[NICE, MARCH 1883.] + +MY DEAR LAD, - This is to announce to you the MS. of Nursery +Verses, now numbering XLVIII. pieces or 599 verses, which, of +course, one might augment AD INFINITUM. + +But here is my notion to make all clear. + +I do not want a big ugly quarto; my soul sickens at the look of a +quarto. I want a refined octavo, not large - not LARGER than the +DONKEY BOOK, at any price. + +I think the full page might hold four verses of four lines, that is +to say, counting their blanks at two, of twenty-two lines in +height. The first page of each number would only hold two verses +or ten lines, the title being low down. At this rate, we should +have seventy-eight or eighty pages of letterpress. + +The designs should not be in the text, but facing the poem; so that +if the artist liked, he might give two pages of design to every +poem that turned the leaf, I.E. longer than eight lines, I.E. to +twenty-eight out of the forty-six. I should say he would not use +this privilege (?) above five times, and some he might scorn to +illustrate at all, so we may say fifty drawings. I shall come to +the drawings next. + +But now you see my book of the thickness, since the drawings count +two pages, of 180 pages; and since the paper will perhaps be +thicker, of near two hundred by bulk. It is bound in a quiet green +with the words in thin gilt. Its shape is a slender, tall octavo. +And it sells for the publisher's fancy, and it will be a darling to +look at; in short, it would be like one of the original Heine books +in type and spacing. + +Now for the pictures. I take another sheet and begin to jot notes +for them when my imagination serves: I will run through the book, +writing when I have an idea. There, I have jotted enough to give +the artist a notion. Of course, I don't do more than contribute +ideas, but I will be happy to help in any and every way. I may as +well add another idea; when the artist finds nothing much to +illustrate, a good drawing of any OBJECT mentioned in the text, +were it only a loaf of bread or a candlestick, is a most delightful +thing to a young child. I remember this keenly. + +Of course, if the artist insists on a larger form, I must I +suppose, bow my head. But my idea I am convinced is the best, and +would make the book truly, not fashionably pretty. + +I forgot to mention that I shall have a dedication; I am going to +dedicate 'em to Cummy; it will please her, and lighten a little my +burthen of ingratitude. A low affair is the Muse business. + +I will add no more to this lest you should want to communicate with +the artist; try another sheet. I wonder how many I'll keep +wandering to. + +O I forgot. As for the title, I think 'Nursery Verses' the best. +Poetry is not the strong point of the text, and I shrink from any +title that might seem to claim that quality; otherwise we might +have 'Nursery Muses' or 'New Songs of Innocence' (but that were a +blasphemy), or 'Rimes of Innocence': the last not bad, or - an +idea - 'The Jews' Harp,' or - now I have it - 'The Penny Whistle.' + + +THE PENNY WHISTLE: +NURSERY VERSES +BY +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. +ILLUSTRATED BY - - - + + +And here we have an excellent frontispiece, of a party playing on a +P. W. to a little ring of dancing children. + + +THE PENNY WHISTLE +is the name for me. + + +Fool! this is all wrong, here is the true name:- + + +PENNY WHISTLES +FOR SMALL WHISTLERS. + + +The second title is queried, it is perhaps better, as simply PENNY +WHISTLES. + + +Nor you, O Penny Whistler, grudge +That I your instrument debase: +By worse performers still we judge, +And give that fife a second place! + +Crossed penny whistles on the cover, or else a sheaf of 'em. + + +SUGGESTIONS. + + +IV. The procession - the child running behind it. The procession +tailing off through the gates of a cloudy city. + +IX. FOREIGN LANDS. - This will, I think, want two plates - the +child climbing, his first glimpse over the garden wall, with what +he sees - the tree shooting higher and higher like the beanstalk, +and the view widening. The river slipping in. The road arriving +in Fairyland. + +X. WINDY NIGHTS. - The child in bed listening - the horseman +galloping. + +XII. The child helplessly watching his ship - then he gets smaller, +and the doll joyfully comes alive - the pair landing on the island +- the ship's deck with the doll steering and the child firing the +penny canon. Query two plates? The doll should never come +properly alive. + +XV. Building of the ship - storing her - Navigation - Tom's +accident, the other child paying no attention. + +XXXI. THE WIND. - I sent you my notion of already. + +XXXVII. FOREIGN CHILDREN. - The foreign types dancing in a jing-a- +ring, with the English child pushing in the middle. The foreign +children looking at and showing each other marvels. The English +child at the leeside of a roast of beef. The English child sitting +thinking with his picture-books all round him, and the jing-a-ring +of the foreign children in miniature dancing over the picture- +books. + +XXXIX. Dear artist, can you do me that? + +XLII. The child being started off - the bed sailing, curtains and +all, upon the sea - the child waking and finding himself at home; +the corner of toilette might be worked in to look like the pier. + +XLVII. The lighted part of the room, to be carefully distinguished +from my child's dark hunting grounds. A shaded lamp. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DES ILES D'OR, HYERES, VAR, MARCH 2, [1883]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - It must be at least a fortnight since we have had +a scratch of a pen from you; and if it had not been for Cummy's +letter, I should have feared you were worse again: as it is, I +hope we shall hear from you to-day or to-morrow at latest. + +HEALTH. + +Our news is good: Fanny never got so bad as we feared, and we hope +now that this attack may pass off in threatenings. I am greatly +better, have gained flesh, strength, spirits; eat well, walk a good +deal, and do some work without fatigue. I am off the sick list. + +LODGING. + +We have found a house up the hill, close to the town, an excellent +place though very, very little. If I can get the landlord to agree +to let us take it by the month just now, and let our month's rent +count for the year in case we take it on, you may expect to hear we +are again installed, and to receive a letter dated thus:- + + +La Solitude, +Hyeres-les-Palmiers, +Var. + + +If the man won't agree to that, of course I must just give it up, +as the house would be dear enough anyway at 2000 f. However, I +hope we may get it, as it is healthy, cheerful, and close to shops, +and society, and civilisation. The garden, which is above, is +lovely, and will be cool in summer. There are two rooms below with +a kitchen, and four rooms above, all told. - Ever your affectionate +son, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL DES ILES D'OR, BUT MY ADDRESS WILL BE CHALET LA SOLITUDE, +HYERES-LE-PALMIERS, VAR, FRANCE, MARCH 17, 1883. + +DEAR SIR, - Your undated favour from Eastbourne came to hand in +course of post, and I now hasten to acknowledge its receipt. We +must ask you in future, for the convenience of our business +arrangements, to struggle with and tread below your feet this most +unsatisfactory and uncommercial habit. Our Mr. Cassandra is +better; our Mr. Wogg expresses himself dissatisfied with our new +place of business; when left alone in the front shop, he bawled +like a parrot; it is supposed the offices are haunted. + +To turn to the matter of your letter, your remarks on GREAT +EXPECTATIONS are very good. We have both re-read it this winter, +and I, in a manner, twice. The object being a play; the play, in +its rough outline, I now see: and it is extraordinary how much of +Dickens had to be discarded as unhuman, impossible, and +ineffective: all that really remains is the loan of a file (but +from a grown-up young man who knows what he was doing, and to a +convict who, although he does not know it is his father - the +father knows it is his son), and the fact of the convict-father's +return and disclosure of himself to the son whom he has made rich. +Everything else has been thrown aside; and the position has had to +be explained by a prologue which is pretty strong. I have great +hopes of this piece, which is very amiable and, in places, very +strong indeed: but it was curious how Dickens had to be rolled +away; he had made his story turn on such improbabilities, such +fantastic trifles, not on a good human basis, such as I recognised. +You are right about the casts, they were a capital idea; a good +description of them at first, and then afterwards, say second, for +the lawyer to have illustrated points out of the history of the +originals, dusting the particular bust - that was all the +development the thing would bear. Dickens killed them. The only +really well EXECUTED scenes are the riverside ones; the escape in +particular is excellent; and I may add, the capture of the two +convicts at the beginning. Miss Havisham is, probably, the worst +thing in human fiction. But Wemmick I like; and I like Trabb's +boy; and Mr. Wopsle as Hamlet is splendid. + +The weather here is greatly improved, and I hope in three days to +be in the chalet. That is, if I get some money to float me there. + +I hope you are all right again, and will keep better. The month of +March is past its mid career; it must soon begin to turn toward the +lamb; here it has already begun to do so; and I hope milder weather +will pick you up. Wogg has eaten a forpet of rice and milk, his +beard is streaming, his eyes wild. I am besieged by demands of +work from America. + +The 50 pounds has just arrived; many thanks; I am now at ease. - +Ever your affectionate son, PRO Cassandra, Wogg and Co., + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL + + + +CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 1883]. + +MY DEAR FRIEND, - I am one of the lowest of the - but that's +understood. I received the copy, excellently written, with I think +only one slip from first to last. I have struck out two, and added +five or six; so they now number forty-five; when they are fifty, +they shall out on the world. I have not written a letter for a +cruel time; I have been, and am, so busy, drafting a long story +(for me, I mean), about a hundred CORNHILL pages, or say about as +long as the Donkey book: PRINCE OTTO it is called, and is, at the +present hour, a sore burthen but a hopeful. If I had him all +drafted, I should whistle and sing. But no: then I'll have to +rewrite him; and then there will be the publishers, alas! But some +time or other, I shall whistle and sing, I make no doubt. + +I am going to make a fortune, it has not yet begun, for I am not +yet clear of debt; but as soon as I can, I begin upon the fortune. +I shall begin it with a halfpenny, and it shall end with horses and +yachts and all the fun of the fair. This is the first real grey +hair in my character: rapacity has begun to show, the greed of the +protuberant guttler. Well, doubtless, when the hour strikes, we +must all guttle and protube. But it comes hard on one who was +always so willow-slender and as careless as the daisies. + +Truly I am in excellent spirits. I have crushed through a +financial crisis; Fanny is much better; I am in excellent health, +and work from four to five hours a day - from one to two above my +average, that is; and we all dwell together and make fortunes in +the loveliest house you ever saw, with a garden like a fairy story, +and a view like a classical landscape. + +Little? Well, it is not large. And when you come to see us, you +will probably have to bed at the hotel, which is hard by. But it +is Eden, madam, Eden and Beulah and the Delectable Mountains and +Eldorado and the Hesperidean Isles and Bimini. + +We both look forward, my dear friend, with the greatest eagerness +to have you here. It seems it is not to be this season; but I +appoint you with an appointment for next season. You cannot see us +else: remember that. Till my health has grown solid like an oak- +tree, till my fortune begins really to spread its boughs like the +same monarch of the woods (and the acorn, ay de mi! is not yet +planted), I expect to be a prisoner among the palms. + +Yes, it is like old times to be writing you from the Riviera, and +after all that has come and gone who can predict anything? How +fortune tumbles men about! Yet I have not found that they change +their friends, thank God. + +Both of our loves to your sister and yourself. As for me, if I am +here and happy, I know to whom I owe it; I know who made my way for +me in life, if that were all, and I remain, with love, your +faithful friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I am very guilty; I should have written to you +long ago; and now, though it must be done, I am so stupid that I +can only boldly recapitulate. A phrase of three members is the +outside of my syntax. + +First, I liked the ROVER better than any of your other verse. I +believe you are right, and can make stories in verse. The last two +stanzas and one or two in the beginning - but the two last above +all - I thought excellent. I suggest a pursuit of the vein. If +you want a good story to treat, get the MEMOIRS OF THE CHEVALIER +JOHNSTONE, and do his passage of the Tay; it would be excellent: +the dinner in the field, the woman he has to follow, the dragoons, +the timid boatmen, the brave lasses. It would go like a charm; +look at it, and you will say you owe me one. + +Second, Gilder asking me for fiction, I suddenly took a great +resolve, and have packed off to him my new work, THE SILVERADO +SQUATTERS. I do not for a moment suppose he will take it; but pray +say all the good words you can for it. I should be awfully glad to +get it taken. But if it does not mean dibbs at once, I shall be +ruined for life. Pray write soon and beg Gilder your prettiest for +a poor gentleman in pecuniary sloughs. + +Fourth, next time I am supposed to be at death's door, write to me +like a Christian, and let not your correspondence attend on +business. - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + +P.S. - I see I have led you to conceive the SQUATTERS are fiction. +They are not, alas! + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +CHALET SOLITUDE, MAY 5, [1883]. + +MY DEAREST PEOPLE, - I have had a great piece of news. There has +been offered for TREASURE ISLAND - how much do you suppose? I +believe it would be an excellent jest to keep the answer till my +next letter. For two cents I would do so. Shall I? Anyway, I'll +turn the page first. No - well - A hundred pounds, all alive, O! +A hundred jingling, tingling, golden, minted quid. Is not this +wonderful? Add that I have now finished, in draft, the fifteenth +chapter of my novel, and have only five before me, and you will see +what cause of gratitude I have. + +The weather, to look at the per contra sheet, continues vomitable; +and Fanny is quite out of sorts. But, really, with such cause of +gladness, I have not the heart to be dispirited by anything. My +child's verse book is finished, dedication and all, and out of my +hands - you may tell Cummy; SILVERADO is done, too, and cast upon +the waters; and this novel so near completion, it does look as if I +should support myself without trouble in the future. If I have +only health, I can, I thank God. It is dreadful to be a great, big +man, and not be able to buy bread. + +O that this may last! + +I have to-day paid my rent for the half year, till the middle of +September, and got my lease: why they have been so long, I know +not. + +I wish you all sorts of good things. + +When is our marriage day? - Your loving and ecstatic son, + +TREESURE EILAAN, + +It has been for me a Treasure Island verily. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, MAY 8, 1883. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - I was disgusted to hear my father was not so +well. I have a most troubled existence of work and business. But +the work goes well, which is the great affair. I meant to have +written a most delightful letter; too tired, however, and must +stop. Perhaps I'll find time to add to it ere post. + +I have returned refreshed from eating, but have little time, as +Lloyd will go soon with the letters on his way to his tutor, Louis +Robert (!!!!), with whom he learns Latin in French, and French, I +suppose, in Latin, which seems to me a capital education. He, +Lloyd, is a great bicycler already, and has been long distances; he +is most new-fangled over his instrument, and does not willingly +converse on other subjects. + +Our lovely garden is a prey to snails; I have gathered about a +bushel, which, not having the heart to slay, I steal forth withal +and deposit near my neighbour's garden wall. As a case of +casuistry, this presents many points of interest. I loathe the +snails, but from loathing to actual butchery, trucidation of +multitudes, there is still a step that I hesitate to take. What, +then, to do with them? My neighbour's vineyard, pardy! It is a +rich, villa, pleasure-garden of course; if it were a peasant's +patch, the snails, I suppose, would have to perish. + +The weather these last three days has been much better, though it +is still windy and unkind. I keep splendidly well, and am cruelly +busy, with mighty little time even for a walk. And to write at +all, under such pressure, must be held to lean to virtue's side. + +My financial prospects are shining. O if the health will hold, I +should easily support myself. - Your ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [MAY 20, 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I enclose the receipt and the corrections. As for +your letter and Gilder's, I must take an hour or so to think; the +matter much importing - to me. The 40 pounds was a heavenly thing. + +I send the MS. by Henley, because he acts for me in all matters, +and had the thing, like all my other books, in his detention. He +is my unpaid agent - an admirable arrangement for me, and one that +has rather more than doubled my income on the spot. + +If I have been long silent, think how long you were so and blush, +sir, blush. + +I was rendered unwell by the arrival of your cheque, and, like +Pepys, 'my hand still shakes to write of it.' To this grateful +emotion, and not to D.T., please attribute the raggedness of my +hand. + +This year I should be able to live and keep my family on my own +earnings, and that in spite of eight months and more of perfect +idleness at the end of last and beginning of this. It is a sweet +thought. + +This spot, our garden and our view, are sub-celestial. I sing +daily with my Bunyan, that great bard, + + +'I dwell already the next door to Heaven!' + + +If you could see my roses, and my aloes, and my fig-marigolds, and +my olives, and my view over a plain, and my view of certain +mountains as graceful as Apollo, as severe as Zeus, you would not +think the phrase exaggerated. + +It is blowing to-day a HOT mistral, which is the devil or a near +connection of his. + +This to catch the post. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, FRANCE, MAY 21, 1883. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - The night giveth advice, generally bad advice; but +I have taken it. And I have written direct to Gilder to tell him +to keep the book back and go on with it in November at his leisure. +I do not know if this will come in time; if it doesn't, of course +things will go on in the way proposed. The 40 pounds, or, as I +prefer to put it, the 1000 francs, has been such a piercing sun-ray +as my whole grey life is gilt withal. On the back of it I can +endure. If these good days of LONGMAN and the CENTURY only last, +it will be a very green world, this that we dwell in and that +philosophers miscall. I have no taste for that philosophy; give me +large sums paid on the receipt of the MS. and copyright reserved, +and what do I care about the non-beent? Only I know it can't last. +The devil always has an imp or two in every house, and my imps are +getting lively. The good lady, the dear, kind lady, the sweet, +excellent lady, Nemesis, whom alone I adore, has fixed her wooden +eye upon me. I fall prone; spare me, Mother Nemesis! But catch +her! + +I must now go to bed; for I have had a whoreson influenza cold, and +have to lie down all day, and get up only to meals and the +delights, June delights, of business correspondence. + +You said nothing about my subject for a poem. Don't you like it? +My own fishy eye has been fixed on it for prose, but I believe it +could be thrown out finely in verse, and hence I resign and pass +the hand. Twig the compliment? - Yours affectionately + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[HYERES, MAY 1883.] + +. . . THE influenza has busted me a good deal; I have no spring, +and am headachy. So, as my good Red Lion Counter begged me for +another Butcher's Boy - I turned me to - what thinkest 'ou? - to +Tushery, by the mass! Ay, friend, a whole tale of tushery. And +every tusher tushes me so free, that may I be tushed if the whole +thing is worth a tush. THE BLACK ARROW: A TALE OF TUNSTALL FOREST +is his name: tush! a poor thing! + +Will TREASURE ISLAND proofs be coming soon, think you? + +I will now make a confession. It was the sight of your maimed +strength and masterfulness that begot John Silver in TREASURE +ISLAND. Of course, he is not in any other quality or feature the +least like you; but the idea of the maimed man, ruling and dreaded +by the sound, was entirely taken from you. + +Otto is, as you say, not a thing to extend my public on. It is +queer and a little, little bit free; and some of the parties are +immoral; and the whole thing is not a romance, nor yet a comedy; +nor yet a romantic comedy; but a kind of preparation of some of the +elements of all three in a glass jar. I think it is not without +merit, but I am not always on the level of my argument, and some +parts are false, and much of the rest is thin; it is more a triumph +for myself than anything else; for I see, beyond it, better stuff. +I have nine chapters ready, or almost ready, for press. My feeling +would be to get it placed anywhere for as much as could be got for +it, and rather in the shadow, till one saw the look of it in print. +- Ever yours, + +PRETTY SICK. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, MAY 1883. + +MY DEAR LAD, - The books came some time since, but I have not had +the pluck to answer: a shower of small troubles having fallen in, +or troubles that may be very large. + +I have had to incur a huge vague debt for cleaning sewers; our +house was (of course) riddled with hidden cesspools, but that was +infallible. I have the fever, and feel the duty to work very heavy +on me at times; yet go it must. I have had to leave FONTAINEBLEAU, +when three hours would finish it, and go full-tilt at tushery for a +while. But it will come soon. + +I think I can give you a good article on Hokusai; but that is for +afterwards; FONTAINEBLEAU is first in hand + +By the way, my view is to give the PENNY WHISTLES to Crane or +Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is a fellow who, +at least, always does his best. + +Shall I ever have money enough to write a play? O dire necessity! + +A word in your ear: I don't like trying to support myself. I hate +the strain and the anxiety; and when unexpected expenses are +foisted on me, I feel the world is playing with false dice. - Now I +must Tush, adieu, + +AN ACHING, FEVERED, PENNY-JOURNALIST. + +A lytle Jape of TUSHERIE. + +By A. Tusher. + +The pleasant river gushes +Among the meadows green; +At home the author tushes; +For him it flows unseen. + +The Birds among the Bushes +May wanton on the spray; +But vain for him who tushes +The brightness of the day! + +The frog among the rushes +Sits singing in the blue. +By'r la'kin! but these tushes +Are wearisome to do! + +The task entirely crushes +The spirit of the bard: +God pity him who tushes - +His task is very hard. + +The filthy gutter slushes, +The clouds are full of rain, +But doomed is he who tushes +To tush and tush again. + +At morn with his hair-brUshes, +Still, 'tush' he says, and weeps; +At night again he tushes, +And tushes till he sleeps. + +And when at length he pushes +Beyond the river dark - +'Las, to the man who tushes, +'Tush' shall be God's remark! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, MAY 1883.] + +DEAR HENLEY, - You may be surprised to hear that I am now a great +writer of verses; that is, however, so. I have the mania now like +my betters, and faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a +book of rhymes like Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. Really, I +have begun to learn some of the rudiments of that trade, and have +written three or four pretty enough pieces of octosyllabic +nonsense, semi-serious, semi-smiling. A kind of prose Herrick, +divested of the gift of verse, and you behold the Bard. But I like +it. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +HYERES [JUNE 1883]. + +DEAR LAD, - I was delighted to hear the good news about -. Bravo, +he goes uphill fast. Let him beware of vanity, and he will go +higher; let him be still discontented, and let him (if it might be) +see the merits and not the faults of his rivals, and he may swarm +at last to the top-gallant. There is no other way. Admiration is +the only road to excellence; and the critical spirit kills, but +envy and injustice are putrefaction on its feet. + +Thus far the moralist. The eager author now begs to know whether +you may have got the other Whistles, and whether a fresh proof is +to be taken; also whether in that case the dedication should not be +printed therewith; Bulk Delights Publishers (original aphorism; to +be said sixteen times in succession as a test of sobriety). + +Your wild and ravening commands were received; but cannot be +obeyed. And anyway, I do assure you I am getting better every day; +and if the weather would but turn, I should soon be observed to +walk in hornpipes. Truly I am on the mend. I am still very +careful. I have the new dictionary; a joy, a thing of beauty, and +- bulk. I shall be raked i' the mools before it's finished; that +is the only pity; but meanwhile I sing. + +I beg to inform you that I, Robert Louis Stevenson, author of +BRASHIANA and other works, am merely beginning to commence to +prepare to make a first start at trying to understand my +profession. O the height and depth of novelty and worth in any +art! and O that I am privileged to swim and shoulder through such +oceans! Could one get out of sight of land - all in the blue? +Alas not, being anchored here in flesh, and the bonds of logic +being still about us. + +But what a great space and a great air there is in these small +shallows where alone we venture! and how new each sight, squall, +calm, or sunrise! An art is a fine fortune, a palace in a park, a +band of music, health, and physical beauty; all but love - to any +worthy practiser. I sleep upon my art for a pillow; I waken in my +art; I am unready for death, because I hate to leave it. I love my +wife, I do not know how much, nor can, nor shall, unless I lost +her; but while I can conceive my being widowed, I refuse the +offering of life without my art. I AM not but in my art; it is me; +I am the body of it merely. + +And yet I produce nothing, am the author of BRASHIANA and other +works: tiddy-iddity - as if the works one wrote were anything but +'prentice's experiments. Dear reader, I deceive you with husks, +the real works and all the pleasure are still mine and +incommunicable. After this break in my work, beginning to return +to it, as from light sleep, I wax exclamatory, as you see. + +Sursum Corda: +Heave ahead: +Here's luck. +Art and Blue Heaven, +April and God's Larks. +Green reeds and the sky-scattering river. +A stately music. +Enter God! + +R. L. S. + +Ay, but you know, until a man can write that 'Enter God,' he has +made no art! None! Come, let us take counsel together and make +some! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES [SUMMER 1883]. + +DEAR LAD, - Glad you like FONTAINEBLEAU. I am going to be the +means, under heaven, of aerating or liberating your pages. The +idea that because a thing is a picture-book all the writing should +be on the wrong tack is TRISTE but widespread. Thus Hokusai will +be really a gossip on convention, or in great part. And the Skelt +will be as like a Charles Lamb as I can get it. The writer should +write, and not illustrate pictures: else it's bosh. . . . + +Your remarks about the ugly are my eye. Ugliness is only the prose +of horror. It is when you are not able to write MACBETH that you +write THERESE RAQUIN. Fashions are external: the essence of art +only varies in so far as fashion widens the field of its +application; art is a mill whose thirlage, in different ages, +widens and contracts; but, in any case and under any fashion, the +great man produces beauty, terror, and mirth, and the little man +produces cleverness (personalities, psychology) instead of beauty, +ugliness instead of terror, and jokes instead of mirth. As it was +in the beginning, is now, and shall be ever, world without end. +Amen! + +And even as you read, you say, 'Of course, QUELLE RENGAINE!' + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES [SUMMER 1883]. + +MY DEAR CUMMY, - Yes, I own I am a real bad correspondent, and am +as bad as can be in most directions. + +I have been adding some more poems to your book. I wish they would +look sharp about it; but, you see, they are trying to find a good +artist to make the illustrations, without which no child would give +a kick for it. It will be quite a fine work, I hope. The +dedication is a poem too, and has been quite a long while written, +but I do not mean you to see it till you get the book; keep the +jelly for the last, you know, as you would often recommend in +former days, so now you can take your own medicine. + +I am very sorry to hear you have been so poorly; I have been very +well; it used to be quite the other way, used it not? Do you +remember making the whistle at Mount Chessie? I do not think it +WAS my knife; I believe it was yours; but rhyme is a very great +monarch, and goes before honesty, in these affairs at least. Do +you remember, at Warriston, one autumn Sunday, when the beech nuts +were on the ground, seeing heaven open? I would like to make a +rhyme of that, but cannot. + +Is it not strange to think of all the changes: Bob, Cramond, +Delhi, Minnie, and Henrietta, all married, and fathers and mothers, +and your humble servant just the one point better off? And such a +little while ago all children together! The time goes swift and +wonderfully even; and if we are no worse than we are, we should be +grateful to the power that guides us. For more than a generation I +have now been to the fore in this rough world, and been most +tenderly helped, and done cruelly wrong, and yet escaped; and here +I am still, the worse for wear, but with some fight in me still, +and not unthankful - no, surely not unthankful, or I were then the +worst of human beings! + +My little dog is a very much better child in every way, both more +loving and more amiable; but he is not fond of strangers, and is, +like most of his kind, a great, specious humbug. + +Fanny has been ill, but is much better again; she now goes donkey +rides with an old woman, who compliments her on her French. That +old woman - seventy odd - is in a parlous spiritual state. + +Pretty soon, in the new sixpenny illustrated magazine, Wogg's +picture is to appear: this is a great honour! And the poor soul +whose vanity would just explode if he could understand it, will +never be a bit the wiser! - With much love, in which Fanny joins, +believe me, your affectionate boy, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, SUMMER 1883. + +DEAR LAD, - Snatches in return for yours; for this little once, I'm +well to windward of you. + +Seventeen chapters of OTTO are now drafted, and finding I was +working through my voice and getting screechy, I have turned back +again to rewrite the earlier part. It has, I do believe, some +merit: of what order, of course, I am the last to know; and, +triumph of triumphs, my wife - my wife who hates and loathes and +slates my women - admits a great part of my Countess to be on the +spot. + +Yes, I could borrow, but it is the joy of being before the public, +for once. Really, 100 pounds is a sight more than TREASURE ISLAND +is worth. + +The reason of my DECHE? Well, if you begin one house, have to +desert it, begin another, and are eight months without doing any +work, you will be in a DECHE too. I am not in a DECHE, however; +DISTINGUO - I would fain distinguish; I am rather a swell, but NOT +SOLVENT. At a touch the edifice, AEDIFICIUM, might collapse. If +my creditors began to babble around me, I would sink with a slow +strain of music into the crimson west. The difficulty in my +elegant villa is to find oil, OLEUM, for the dam axles. But I've +paid my rent until September; and beyond the chemist, the grocer, +the baker, the doctor, the gardener, Lloyd's teacher, and the great +thief creditor Death, I can snap my fingers at all men. Why will +people spring bills on you? I try to make 'em charge me at the +moment; they won't, the money goes, the debt remains. - The +Required Play is in the MERRY MEN. + +Q. E. F. + +I thus render honour to your FLAIR; it came on me of a clap; I do +not see it yet beyond a kind of sunset glory. But it's there: +passion, romance, the picturesque, involved: startling, simple, +horrid: a sea-pink in sea-froth! S'AGIT DE LA DESENTERRER. +'Help!' cries a buried masterpiece. + +Once I see my way to the year's end, clear, I turn to plays; till +then I grind at letters; finish OTTO; write, say, a couple of my +TRAVELLER'S TALES; and then, if all my ships come home, I will +attack the drama in earnest. I cannot mix the skeins. Thus, +though I'm morally sure there is a play in OTTO, I dare not look +for it: I shoot straight at the story. + +As a story, a comedy, I think OTTO very well constructed; the +echoes are very good, all the sentiments change round, and the +points of view are continually, and, I think (if you please), +happily contrasted. None of it is exactly funny, but some of it is +smiling. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES [SUMMER 1883]. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I have now leisurely read your volume; pretty +soon, by the way, you will receive one of mine. + +It is a pleasant, instructive, and scholarly volume. The three +best being, quite out of sight - Crashaw, Otway, and Etherege. +They are excellent; I hesitate between them; but perhaps Crashaw is +the most brilliant + +Your Webster is not my Webster; nor your Herrick my Herrick. On +these matters we must fire a gun to leeward, show our colours, and +go by. Argument is impossible. They are two of my favourite +authors: Herrick above all: I suppose they are two of yours. +Well, Janus-like, they do behold us two with diverse countenances, +few features are common to these different avatars; and we can but +agree to differ, but still with gratitude to our entertainers, like +two guests at the same dinner, one of whom takes clear and one +white soup. By my way of thinking, neither of us need be wrong. + +The other papers are all interesting, adequate, clear, and with a +pleasant spice of the romantic. It is a book you may be well +pleased to have so finished, and will do you much good. The +Crashaw is capital: capital; I like the taste of it. Preface +clean and dignified. The handling throughout workmanlike, with +some four or five touches of preciosity, which I regret. + +With my thanks for information, entertainment, and a pleasurable +envy here and there. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, SEPTEMBER 19, 1883. + +DEAR BOY, - Our letters vigorously cross: you will ere this have +received a note to Coggie: God knows what was in it. + +It is strange, a little before the first word you sent me - so late +- kindly late, I know and feel - I was thinking in my bed, when I +knew you I had six friends - Bob I had by nature; then came the +good James Walter - with all his failings - the GENTLEMAN of the +lot, alas to sink so low, alas to do so little, but now, thank God, +in his quiet rest; next I found Baxter - well do I remember telling +Walter I had unearthed 'a W.S. that I thought would do' - it was in +the Academy Lane, and he questioned me as to the Signet's +qualifications; fourth came Simpson; somewhere about the same time, +I began to get intimate with Jenkin; last came Colvin. Then, one +black winter afternoon, long Leslie Stephen, in his velvet jacket, +met me in the SPEC. by appointment, took me over to the infirmary, +and in the crackling, blighting gaslight showed me that old head +whose excellent representation I see before me in the photograph. +Now when a man has six friends, to introduce a seventh is usually +hopeless. Yet when you were presented, you took to them and they +to you upon the nail. You must have been a fine fellow; but what a +singular fortune I must have had in my six friends that you should +take to all. I don't know if it is good Latin, most probably not: +but this is enscrolled before my eye for Walter: TANDEM E NUBIBUS +IN APRICUM PROPERAT. Rest, I suppose, I know, was all that +remained; but O to look back, to remember all the mirth, all the +kindness, all the humorous limitations and loved defects of that +character; to think that he was young with me, sharing that +weather-beaten, Fergussonian youth, looking forward through the +clouds to the sunburst; and now clean gone from my path, silent - +well, well. This has been a strange awakening. Last night, when I +was alone in the house, with the window open on the lovely still +night, I could have sworn he was in the room with me; I could show +you the spot; and, what was very curious, I heard his rich +laughter, a thing I had not called to mind for I know not how long. + +I see his coral waistcoat studs that he wore the first time he +dined in my house; I see his attitude, leaning back a little, +already with something of a portly air, and laughing internally. +How I admired him! And now in the West Kirk. + +I am trying to write out this haunting bodily sense of absence; +besides, what else should I write of? + +Yes, looking back, I think of him as one who was good, though +sometimes clouded. He was the only gentle one of all my friends, +save perhaps the other Walter. And he was certainly the only +modest man among the lot. He never gave himself away; he kept back +his secret; there was always a gentle problem behind all. Dear, +dear, what a wreck; and yet how pleasant is the retrospect! God +doeth all things well, though by what strange, solemn, and +murderous contrivances! + +It is strange: he was the only man I ever loved who did not +habitually interrupt. The fact draws my own portrait. And it is +one of the many reasons why I count myself honoured by his +friendship. A man like you HAD to like me; you could not help +yourself; but Ferrier was above me, we were not equals; his true +self humoured and smiled paternally upon my failings, even as I +humoured and sorrowed over his. + +Well, first his mother, then himself, they are gone: 'in their +resting graves.' + +When I come to think of it, I do not know what I said to his +sister, and I fear to try again. Could you send her this? There +is too much both about yourself and me in it; but that, if you do +not mind, is but a mark of sincerity. It would let her know how +entirely, in the mind of (I suppose) his oldest friend, the good, +true Ferrier obliterates the memory of the other, who was only his +'lunatic brother.' + +Judge of this for me, and do as you please; anyway, I will try to +write to her again; my last was some kind of scrawl that I could +not see for crying. This came upon me, remember, with terrible +suddenness; I was surprised by this death; and it is fifteen or +sixteen years since first I saw the handsome face in the SPEC. I +made sure, besides, to have died first. Love to you, your wife, +and her sisters. + +- Ever yours, dear boy, + +R. L. S. + +I never knew any man so superior to himself as poor James Walter. +The best of him only came as a vision, like Corsica from the +Corniche. He never gave his measure either morally or +intellectually. The curse was on him. Even his friends did not +know him but by fits. I have passed hours with him when he was so +wise, good, and sweet, that I never knew the like of it in any +other. And for a beautiful good humour he had no match. I +remember breaking in upon him once with a whole red-hot story (in +my worst manner), pouring words upon him by the hour about some +truck not worth an egg that had befallen me; and suddenly, some +half hour after, finding that the sweet fellow had some concern of +his own of infinitely greater import, that he was patiently and +smilingly waiting to consult me on. It sounds nothing; but the +courtesy and the unselfishness were perfect. It makes me rage to +think how few knew him, and how many had the chance to sneer at +their better. + +Well, he was not wasted, that we know; though if anything looked +liker irony than this fitting of a man out with these rich +qualities and faculties to be wrecked and aborted from the very +stocks, I do not know the name of it. Yet we see that he has left +an influence; the memory of his patient courtesy has often checked +me in rudeness; has it not you? + +You can form no idea of how handsome Walter was. At twenty he was +splendid to see; then, too, he had the sense of power in him, and +great hopes; he looked forward, ever jesting of course, but he +looked to see himself where he had the right to expect. He +believed in himself profoundly; but HE NEVER DISBELIEVED IN OTHERS. +To the roughest Highland student he always had his fine, kind, open +dignity of manner; and a good word behind his back. + +The last time that I saw him before leaving for America - it was a +sad blow to both of us. When he heard I was leaving, and that +might be the last time we might meet - it almost was so - he was +terribly upset, and came round at once. We sat late, in Baxter's +empty house, where I was sleeping. My dear friend Walter Ferrier: +O if I had only written to him more! if only one of us in these +last days had been well! But I ever cherished the honour of his +friendship, and now when he is gone, I know what I have lost still +better. We live on, meaning to meet; but when the hope is gone, +the, pang comes. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, 26TH SEPTEMBER 1883. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - It appears a bolt from Transatlantica is necessary +to produce four lines from you. It is not flattering; but as I was +always a bad correspondent, 'tis a vice to which I am lenient. I +give you to know, however, that I have already twice (this makes +three times) sent you what I please to call a letter, and received +from you in return a subterfuge - or nothing. . . . + +My present purpose, however, which must not be postponed, is to ask +you to telegraph to the Americans. + +After a summer of good health of a very radiant order, toothache +and the death of a very old friend, which came upon me like a +thunderclap, have rather shelved my powers. I stare upon the +paper, not write. I wish I could write like your Sculptors; yet I +am well aware that I should not try in that direction. A certain +warmth (tepid enough) and a certain dash of the picturesque are my +poor essential qualities; and if I went fooling after the too +classical, I might lose even these. But I envied you that page. + +I am, of course, deep in schemes; I was so ever. Execution alone +somewhat halts. How much do you make per annum, I wonder? This +year, for the first time, I shall pass 300 pounds; I may even get +halfway to the next milestone. This seems but a faint +remuneration; and the devil of it is, that I manage, with sickness, +and moves, and education, and the like, to keep steadily in front +of my income. However, I console myself with this, that if I were +anything else under God's Heaven, and had the same crank health, I +should make an even zero. If I had, with my present knowledge, +twelve months of my old health, I would, could, and should do +something neat. As it is, I have to tinker at my things in little +sittings; and the rent, or the butcher, or something, is always +calling me off to rattle up a pot-boiler. And then comes a back- +set of my health, and I have to twiddle my fingers and play +patience. + +Well, I do not complain, but I do envy strong health where it is +squandered. Treasure your strength, and may you never learn by +experience the profound ENNUI and irritation of the shelved artist. +For then, what is life? All that one has done to make one's life +effective then doubles the itch of inefficiency. + +I trust also you may be long without finding out the devil that +there is in a bereavement. After love it is the one great surprise +that life preserves for us. Now I don't think I can be astonished +any more. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR [OCTOBER 1883]. + +COLVIN, COLVIN, COLVIN, - Yours received; also interesting copy of +P. WHISTLES. 'In the multitude of councillors the Bible declares +there is wisdom,' said my great-uncle, 'but I have always found in +them distraction.' It is extraordinary how tastes vary: these +proofs have been handed about, it appears, and I have had several +letters; and - distraction. 'AEsop: the Miller and the Ass.' +Notes on details:- + +1. I love the occasional trochaic line; and so did many excellent +writers before me. + +2. If you don't like 'A Good Boy,' I do. + +3. In 'Escape at Bedtime,' I found two suggestions. 'Shove' for +'above' is a correction of the press; it was so written. +'Twinkled' is just the error; to the child the stars appear to be +there; any word that suggests illusion is a horror. + +4. I don't care; I take a different view of the vocative. + +5. Bewildering and childering are good enough for me. These are +rhymes, jingles; I don't go for eternity and the three unities. + +I will delete some of those condemned, but not all. I don't care +for the name Penny Whistles; I sent a sheaf to Henley when I sent +'em. But I've forgot the others. I would just as soon call 'em +'Rimes for Children' as anything else. I am not proud nor +particular. + +Your remarks on the BLACK ARROW are to the point. I am pleased you +liked Crookback; he is a fellow whose hellish energy has always +fired my attention. I wish Shakespeare had written the play after +he had learned some of the rudiments of literature and art rather +than before. Some day, I will re-tickle the Sable Missile, and +shoot it, MOYENNANT FINANCES, once more into the air; I can lighten +it of much, and devote some more attention to Dick o' Gloucester. +It's great sport to write tushery. + +By this I reckon you will have heard of my proposed excursiolorum +to the Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, and kindred sites. If +the excursiolorum goes on, that is, if MOYENNANT FINANCES comes +off, I shall write to beg you to collect introductiolorums for me. + +Distinguo: 1. SILVERADO was not written in America, but in +Switzerland's icy mountains. 2. What you read is the bleeding and +disembowelled remains of what I wrote. 3. The good stuff is all to +come - so I think. 'The Sea Fogs,' 'The Hunter's Family,' 'Toils +and Pleasures' - BELLES PAGES. - Yours ever, + +RAMNUGGER. + +O! - Seeley is too clever to live, and the book a gem. But why has +he read too much Arnold? Why will he avoid - obviously avoid - +fine writing up to which he has led? This is a winking, curled- +and-oiled, ultra-cultured, Oxford-don sort of an affectation that +infuriates my honest soul. 'You see' - they say - 'how unbombastic +WE are; we come right up to eloquence, and, when it's hanging on +the pen, dammy, we scorn it!' It is literary Deronda-ism. If you +don't want the woman, the image, or the phrase, mortify your vanity +and avoid the appearance of wanting them. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, OCTOBER [1883]. + +MY DEAR LOW, - . . . Some day or other, in Cassell's MAGAZINE OF +ART, you will see a paper which will interest you, and where your +name appears. It is called 'Fontainebleau: Village Communities of +Artists,' and the signature of R. L. Stevenson will be found +annexed + +Please tell the editor of MANHATTAN the following secrets for me: +1ST, That I am a beast; 2ND, that I owe him a letter; 3RD, that I +have lost his, and cannot recall either his name or address; 4TH, +that I am very deep in engagements, which my absurd health makes it +hard for me to overtake; but 5TH, that I will bear him in mind; 6TH +and last, that I am a brute. + +My address is still the same, and I live in a most sweet corner of +the universe, sea and fine hills before me, and a rich variegated +plain; and at my back a craggy hill, loaded with vast feudal ruins. +I am very quiet; a person passing by my door half startles me; but +I enjoy the most aromatic airs, and at night the most wonderful +view into a moonlit garden. By day this garden fades into nothing, +overpowered by its surroundings and the luminous distance; but at +night and when the moon is out, that garden, the arbour, the flight +of stairs that mount the artificial hillock, the plumed blue gum- +trees that hang trembling, become the very skirts of Paradise. +Angels I know frequent it; and it thrills all night with the flutes +of silence. Damn that garden;- and by day it is gone. + +Continue to testify boldly against realism. Down with Dagon, the +fish god! All art swings down towards imitation, in these days, +fatally. But the man who loves art with wisdom sees the joke; it +is the lustful that tremble and respect her ladyship; but the +honest and romantic lovers of the Muse can see a joke and sit down +to laugh with Apollo. + +The prospect of your return to Europe is very agreeable; and I was +pleased by what you said about your parents. One of my oldest +friends died recently, and this has given me new thoughts of death. +Up to now I had rather thought of him as a mere personal enemy of +my own; but now that I see him hunting after my friends, he looks +altogether darker. My own father is not well; and Henley, of whom +you must have heard me speak, is in a questionable state of health. +These things are very solemn, and take some of the colour out of +life. It is a great thing, after all, to be a man of reasonable +honour and kindness. Do you remember once consulting me in Paris +whether you had not better sacrifice honesty to art; and how, after +much confabulation, we agreed that your art would suffer if you +did? We decided better than we knew. In this strange welter where +we live, all hangs together by a million filaments; and to do +reasonably well by others, is the first prerequisite of art. Art +is a virtue; and if I were the man I should be, my art would rise +in the proportion of my life. + +If you were privileged to give some happiness to your parents, I +know your art will gain by it. BY GOD, IT WILL! SIC SUBSCRIBITUR, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS [OCTOBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR BOB, - Yes, I got both your letters at Lyons, but have been +since then decading in several steps Toothache; fever; Ferrier's +death; lung. Now it is decided I am to leave to-morrow, penniless, +for Nice to see Dr. Williams. + +I was much struck by your last. I have written a breathless note +on Realism for Henley; a fifth part of the subject, hurriedly +touched, which will show you how my thoughts are driving. You are +now at last beginning to think upon the problems of executive, +plastic art, for you are now for the first time attacking them. +Hitherto you have spoken and thought of two things - technique and +the ARS ARTIUM, or common background of all arts. Studio work is +the real touch. That is the genial error of the present French +teaching. Realism I regard as a mere question of method. The +'brown foreground,' 'old mastery,' and the like, ranking with +villanelles, as technical sports and pastimes. Real art, whether +ideal or realistic, addresses precisely the same feeling, and seeks +the same qualities - significance or charm. And the same - very +same - inspiration is only methodically differentiated according as +the artist is an arrant realist or an arrant idealist. Each, by +his own method, seeks to save and perpetuate the same significance +or charm; the one by suppressing, the other by forcing, detail. +All other idealism is the brown foreground over again, and hence +only art in the sense of a game, like cup and ball. All other +realism is not art at all - but not at all. It is, then, an +insincere and showy handicraft. + +Were you to re-read some Balzac, as I have been doing, it would +greatly help to clear your eyes. He was a man who never found his +method. An inarticulate Shakespeare, smothered under forcible- +feeble detail. It is astounding to the riper mind how bad he is, +how feeble, how untrue, how tedious; and, of course, when he +surrendered to his temperament, how good and powerful. And yet +never plain nor clear. He could not consent to be dull, and thus +became so. He would leave nothing undeveloped, and thus drowned +out of sight of land amid the multitude of crying and incongruous +details. There is but one art - to omit! O if I knew how to omit, +I would ask no other knowledge. A man who knew how to omit would +make an ILIAD of a daily paper. + +Your definition of seeing is quite right. It is the first part of +omission to be partly blind. Artistic sight is judicious +blindness. Sam Bough must have been a jolly blind old boy. He +would turn a corner, look for one-half or quarter minute, and then +say, 'This'll do, lad.' Down he sat, there and then, with whole +artistic plan, scheme of colour, and the like, and begin by laying +a foundation of powerful and seemingly incongruous colour on the +block. He saw, not the scene, but the water-colour sketch. Every +artist by sixty should so behold nature. Where does he learn that? +In the studio, I swear. He goes to nature for facts, relations, +values - material; as a man, before writing a historical novel, +reads up memoirs. But it is not by reading memoirs that he has +learned the selective criterion. He has learned that in the +practice of his art; and he will never learn it well, but when +disengaged from the ardent struggle of immediate representation, of +realistic and EX FACTO art. He learns it in the crystallisation of +day-dreams; in changing, not in copying, fact; in the pursuit of +the ideal, not in the study of nature. These temples of art are, +as you say, inaccessible to the realistic climber. It is not by +looking at the sea that you get + + +'The multitudinous seas incarnadine,' + + +nor by looking at Mont Blanc that you find + + +'And visited all night by troops of stars.' + + +A kind of ardour of the blood is the mother of all this; and +according as this ardour is swayed by knowledge and seconded by +craft, the art expression flows clear, and significance and charm, +like a moon rising, are born above the barren juggle of mere +symbols. + +The painter must study more from nature than the man of words. But +why? Because literature deals with men's business and passions +which, in the game of life, we are irresistibly obliged to study; +but painting with relations of light, and colour, and +significances, and form, which, from the immemorial habit of the +race, we pass over with an unregardful eye. Hence this crouching +upon camp-stools, and these crusts. But neither one nor other is a +part of art, only preliminary studies. + +I want you to help me to get people to understand that realism is a +method, and only methodic in its consequences; when the realist is +an artist, that is, and supposing the idealist with whom you +compare him to be anything but a FARCEUR and a DILETTANTE. The two +schools of working do, and should, lead to the choice of different +subjects. But that is a consequence, not a cause. See my chaotic +note, which will appear, I fancy, in November in Henley's sheet. + +Poor Ferrier, it bust me horrid. He was, after you, the oldest of +my friends. + +I am now very tired, and will go to bed having prelected freely. +Fanny will finish. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, 12TH OCTOBER 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I have just lunched; the day is exquisite, the +air comes though the open window rich with odour, and I am by no +means spiritually minded. Your letter, however, was very much +valued, and has been read oftener than once. What you say about +yourself I was glad to hear; a little decent resignation is not +only becoming a Christian, but is likely to be excellent for the +health of a Stevenson. To fret and fume is undignified, suicidally +foolish, and theologically unpardonable; we are here not to make, +but to tread predestined, pathways; we are the foam of a wave, and +to preserve a proper equanimity is not merely the first part of +submission to God, but the chief of possible kindnesses to those +about us. I am lecturing myself, but you also. To do our best is +one part, but to wash our hands smilingly of the consequence is the +next part, of any sensible virtue. + +I have come, for the moment, to a pause in my moral works; for I +have many irons in the fire, and I wish to finish something to +bring coin before I can afford to go on with what I think +doubtfully to be a duty. It is a most difficult work; a touch of +the parson will drive off those I hope to influence; a touch of +overstrained laxity, besides disgusting, like a grimace, may do +harm. Nothing that I have ever seen yet speaks directly and +efficaciously to young men; and I do hope I may find the art and +wisdom to fill up a gap. The great point, as I see it, is to ask +as little as possible, and meet, if it may be, every view or +absence of view; and it should be, must be, easy. Honesty is the +one desideratum; but think how hard a one to meet. I think all the +time of Ferrier and myself; these are the pair that I address. +Poor Ferrier, so much a better man than I, and such a temporal +wreck. But the thing of which we must divest our minds is to look +partially upon others; all is to be viewed; and the creature +judged, as he must be by his Creator, not dissected through a prism +of morals, but in the unrefracted ray. So seen, and in relation to +the almost omnipotent surroundings, who is to distinguish between +F. and such a man as Dr. Candlish, or between such a man as David +Hume and such an one as Robert Burns? To compare my poor and good +Walter with myself is to make me startle; he, upon all grounds +above the merely expedient, was the nobler being. Yet wrecked +utterly ere the full age of manhood; and the last skirmishes so +well fought, so humanly useless, so pathetically brave, only the +leaps of an expiring lamp. All this is a very pointed instance. +It shuts the mouth. I have learned more, in some ways, from him +than from any other soul I ever met; and he, strange to think, was +the best gentleman, in all kinder senses, that I ever knew. - Ever +your affectionate son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W H LOW + + + +[CHALET LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, OCT. 23, 1883.] + +MY DEAR LOW, - C'EST D'UN BON CAMARADE; and I am much obliged to +you for your two letters and the inclosure. Times are a lityle +changed with all of us since the ever memorable days of Lavenue: +hallowed be his name! hallowed his old Fleury! - of which you did +not see - I think - as I did - the glorious apotheosis: advanced +on a Tuesday to three francs, on the Thursday to six, and on Friday +swept off, holus bolus, for the proprietor's private consumption. +Well, we had the start of that proprietor. Many a good bottle came +our way, and was, I think, worthily made welcome. + +I am pleased that Mr. Gilder should like my literature; and I ask +you particularly to thank Mr. Bunner (have I the name right?) for +his notice, which was of that friendly, headlong sort that really +pleases an author like what the French call a 'shake-hands.' It +pleased me the more coming from the States, where I have met not +much recognition, save from the buccaneers, and above all from +pirates who misspell my name. I saw my book advertised in a number +of the CRITIC as the work of one R. L. Stephenson; and, I own, I +boiled. It is so easy to know the name of the man whose book you +have stolen; for there it is, at full length, on the title-page of +your booty. But no, damn him, not he! He calls me Stephenson. +These woes I only refer to by the way, as they set a higher value +on the CENTURY notice. + +I am now a person with an established ill-health - a wife - a dog +possessed with an evil, a Gadarene spirit - a chalet on a hill, +looking out over the Mediterranean - a certain reputation - and +very obscure finances. Otherwise, very much the same, I guess; and +were a bottle of Fleury a thing to be obtained, capable of +developing theories along with a fit spirit even as of yore. Yet I +now draw near to the Middle Ages; nearly three years ago, that +fatal Thirty struck; and yet the great work is not yet done - not +yet even conceived. But so, as one goes on, the wood seems to +thicken, the footpath to narrow, and the House Beautiful on the +hill's summit to draw further and further away. We learn, indeed, +to use our means; but only to learn, along with it, the paralysing +knowledge that these means are only applicable to two or three poor +commonplace motives. Eight years ago, if I could have slung ink as +I can now, I should have thought myself well on the road after +Shakespeare; and now - I find I have only got a pair of walking- +shoes and not yet begun to travel. And art is still away there on +the mountain summit. But I need not continue; for, of course, this +is your story just as much as it is mine; and, strange to think, it +was Shakespeare's too, and Beethoven's, and Phidias's. It is a +blessed thing that, in this forest of art, we can pursue our wood- +lice and sparrows, AND NOT CATCH THEM, with almost the same fervour +of exhilaration as that with which Sophocles hunted and brought +down the Mastodon. + +Tell me something of your work, and your wife. - My dear fellow, I +am yours ever, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +My wife begs to be remembered to both of you; I cannot say as much +for my dog, who has never seen you, but he would like, on general +principles, to bite you. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[HYERES, NOVEMBER 1883.] + +MY DEAR LAD, - . . . Of course, my seamanship is jimmy: did I not +beseech you I know not how often to find me an ancient mariner - +and you, whose own wife's own brother is one of the ancientest, did +nothing for me? As for my seamen, did Runciman ever know +eighteenth century buccaneers? No? Well, no more did I. But I +have known and sailed with seamen too, and lived and eaten with +them; and I made my put-up shot in no great ignorance, but as a +put-up thing has to be made, I.E. to be coherent and picturesque, +and damn the expense. Are they fairly lively on the wires? Then, +favour me with your tongues. Are they wooden, and dim, and no +sport? Then it is I that am silent, otherwise not. The work, +strange as it may sound in the ear, is not a work of realism. The +next thing I shall hear is that the etiquette is wrong in Otto's +Court! With a warrant, and I mean it to be so, and the whole +matter never cost me half a thought. I make these paper people to +please myself, and Skelt, and God Almighty, and with no ulterior +purpose. Yet am I mortal myself; for, as I remind you, I begged +for a supervising mariner. However, my heart is in the right +place. I have been to sea, but I never crossed the threshold of a +court; and the courts shall be the way I want 'em. + +I'm glad to think I owe you the review that pleased me best of all +the reviews I ever had; the one I liked best before that was -'s on +the ARABIANS. These two are the flowers of the collection, +according to me. To live reading such reviews and die eating +ortolans - sich is my aspiration. + +Whenever you come you will be equally welcome. I am trying to +finish OTTO ere you shall arrive, so as to take and be able to +enjoy a well-earned - O yes, a well-earned - holiday. Longman +fetched by Otto: is it a spoon or a spoilt horn? Momentous, if +the latter; if the former, a spoon to dip much praise and pudding, +and to give, I do think, much pleasure. The last part, now in +hand, much smiles upon me. - Ever yours, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [NOVEMBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - You must not blame me too much for my silence; I +am over head and ears in work, and do not know what to do first. I +have been hard at OTTO, hard at SILVERADO proofs, which I have +worked over again to a tremendous extent; cutting, adding, +rewriting, until some of the worst chapters of the original are +now, to my mind, as good as any. I was the more bound to make it +good, as I had such liberal terms; it's not for want of trying if I +have failed. + +I got your letter on my birthday; indeed, that was how I found it +out about three in the afternoon, when postie comes. Thank you for +all you said. As for my wife, that was the best investment ever +made by man; but 'in our branch of the family' we seem to marry +well. I, considering my piles of work, am wonderfully well; I have +not been so busy for I know not how long. I hope you will send me +the money I asked however, as I am not only penniless, but shall +remain so in all human probability for some considerable time. I +have got in the mass of my expectations; and the 100 pounds which +is to float us on the new year can not come due till SILVERADO is +all ready; I am delaying it myself for the moment; then will follow +the binders and the travellers and an infinity of other nuisances; +and only at the last, the jingling-tingling. + +Do you know that TREASURE ISLAND has appeared? In the November +number of Henley's Magazine, a capital number anyway, there is a +funny publisher's puff of it for your book; also a bad article by +me. Lang dotes on TREASURE ISLAND: 'Except TOM SAWYER and the +ODYSSEY,' he writes, 'I never liked any romance so much.' I will +inclose the letter though. The Bogue is angelic, although very +dirty. It has rained - at last! It was jolly cold when the rain +came. + +I was overjoyed to hear such good news of my father. Let him go on +at that! Ever your affectionate, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [NOVEMBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no +shame. I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self- +righteous spirit. + +I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and +indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy's ear. + +I suppose you heard of Ferrier's death: my oldest friend, except +Bob. It has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am +strangely concerned about it. + +My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight +nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the +Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world - nest there +like mavises. + + +Here lies +The carcase +of +Robert Louis Stevenson, +An active, austere, and not inelegant +writer, +who, +at the termination of a long career, +wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by +the attention of two hemispheres, +yet owned it to have been his crowning favour +TO INHABIT +LA SOLITUDE. + + +(With the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyeres, he has been +interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden which he honoured +for so long with his poetic presence.) + +I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. Write. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. MILNE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [NOVEMBER 1883]. + +MY DEAR HENRIETTA, - Certainly; who else would they be? More by +token, on that particular occasion, you were sailing under the +title of Princess Royal; I, after a furious contest, under that of +Prince Alfred; and Willie, still a little sulky, as the Prince of +Wales. We were all in a buck basket about half-way between the +swing and the gate; and I can still see the Pirate Squadron heave +in sight upon the weather bow. + +I wrote a piece besides on Giant Bunker; but I was not happily +inspired, and it is condemned. Perhaps I'll try again; he was a +horrid fellow, Giant Bunker! and some of my happiest hours were +passed in pursuit of him. You were a capital fellow to play: how +few there were who could! None better than yourself. I shall +never forget some of the days at Bridge of Allan; they were one +golden dream. See 'A Good Boy' in the PENNY WHISTLES, much of the +sentiment of which is taken direct from one evening at B. of A. +when we had had a great play with the little Glasgow girl. +Hallowed be that fat book of fairy tales! Do you remember acting +the Fair One with Golden Locks? What a romantic drama! Generally +speaking, whenever I think of play, it is pretty certain that you +will come into my head. I wrote a paper called 'Child's Play' +once, where, I believe, you or Willie would recognise things. . . . + +Surely Willie is just the man to marry; and if his wife wasn't a +happy woman, I think I could tell her who was to blame. Is there +no word of it? Well, these things are beyond arrangement; and the +wind bloweth where it listeth - which, I observe, is generally +towards the west in Scotland. Here it prefers a south-easterly +course, and is called the Mistral - usually with an adjective in +front. But if you will remember my yesterday's toothache and this +morning's crick, you will be in a position to choose an adjective +for yourself. Not that the wind is unhealthy; only when it comes +strong, it is both very high and very cold, which makes it the d-v- +l. But as I am writing to a lady, I had better avoid this topic; +winds requiring a great scope of language. + +Please remember me to all at home; give Ramsay a pennyworth of +acidulated drops for his good taste. - And believe me, your +affectionate cousin, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO MISS FERRIER + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, VAR, NOVEMBER 22, 1883. + +DEAR MISS FERRIER, - Many thanks for the photograph. It is - well, +it is like most photographs. The sun is an artist of too much +renown; and, at any rate, we who knew Walter 'in the brave days of +old' will be difficult to please. + +I was inexpressibly touched to get a letter from some lawyers as to +some money. I have never had any account with my friends; some +have gained and some lost; and I should feel there was something +dishonest in a partial liquidation even if I could recollect the +facts, WHICH I CANNOT. But the fact of his having put aside this +memorandum touched me greatly. + +The mystery of his life is great. Our chemist in this place, who +had been at Malvern, recognised the picture. You may remember +Walter had a romantic affection for all pharmacies? and the bottles +in the window were for him a poem? He said once that he knew no +pleasure like driving through a lamplit city, waiting for the +chemists to go by. + +All these things return now. + +He had a pretty full translation of Schiller's AESTHETIC LETTERS, +which we read together, as well as the second part of FAUST, in +Gladstone Terrace, he helping me with the German. There is no +keepsake I should more value than the MS. of that translation. +They were the best days I ever had with him, little dreaming all +would so soon be over. It needs a blow like this to convict a man +of mortality and its burthen. I always thought I should go by +myself; not to survive. But now I feel as if the earth were +undermined, and all my friends have lost one thickness of reality +since that one passed. Those are happy who can take it otherwise; +with that I found things all beginning to dislimn. Here we have no +abiding city, and one felt as though he had - and O too much acted. + +But if you tell me, he did not feel my silence. However, he must +have done so; and my guilt is irreparable now. I thank God at +least heartily that he did not resent it. + +Please remember me to Sir Alexander and Lady Grant, to whose care I +will address this. When next I am in Edinburgh I will take +flowers, alas! to the West Kirk. Many a long hour we passed in +graveyards, the man who has gone and I - or rather not that man - +but the beautiful, genial, witty youth who so betrayed him. - Dear +Miss Ferrier, I am yours most sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, VAR, 13TH DECEMBER 1883. + +MY DEAR LOW, - . . . I was much pleased with what you send about my +work. Ill-health is a great handicapper in the race. I have never +at command that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a +thing red-hot. SILVERADO is an example of stuff worried and pawed +about, God knows how often, in poor health, and you can see for +yourself the result: good pages, an imperfect fusion, a certain +languor of the whole. Not, in short, art. I have told Roberts to +send you a copy of the book when it appears, where there are some +fair passages that will be new to you. My brief romance, PRINCE +OTTO - far my most difficult adventure up to now - is near an end. +I have still one chapter to write DE FOND EN COMBLE, and three or +four to strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I do not know if +I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; but I am tempted to +hope the first. If the present bargain hold, it will not see the +light of day for some thirteen months. Then I shall be glad to +know how it strikes you. There is a good deal of stuff in it, both +dramatic and, I think, poetic; and the story is not like these +purposeless fables of to-day, but is, at least, intended to stand +FIRM upon a base of philosophy - or morals - as you please. It has +been long gestated, and is wrought with care. ENFIN, NOUS VERRONS. +My labours have this year for the first time been rewarded with +upwards of 350 pounds; that of itself, so base we are! encourages +me; and the better tenor of my health yet more. - Remember me to +Mrs. Low, and believe me, yours most sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, DECEMBER 20, 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I do not know which of us is to blame; I suspect +it is you this time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I +was pleased to see; I am, on the whole, very well - suffering a +little still from my fever and liver complications, but better. + +I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you above +all things NOT to read, as it has made me very ill, and would make +you worse - Lockhart's SCOTT. It is worth reading, as all things +are from time to time that keep us nose to nose with fact; though I +think such reading may be abused, and that a great deal of life is +better spent in reading of a light and yet chivalrous strain. +Thus, no Waverley novel approaches in power, blackness, bitterness, +and moral elevation to the diary and Lockhart's narrative of the +end; and yet the Waverley novels are better reading for every day +than the Life. You may take a tonic daily, but not phlebotomy. + +The great double danger of taking life too easily, and taking it +too hard, how difficult it is to balance that! But we are all too +little inclined to faith; we are all, in our serious moments, too +much inclined to forget that all are sinners, and fall justly by +their faults, and therefore that we have no more to do with that +than with the thunder-cloud; only to trust, and do our best, and +wear as smiling a face as may be for others and ourselves. But +there is no royal road among this complicated business. Hegel the +German got the best word of all philosophy with his antinomies: +the contrary of everything is its postulate. That is, of course, +grossly expressed, but gives a hint of the idea, which contains a +great deal of the mysteries of religion, and a vast amount of the +practical wisdom of life. For your part, there is no doubt as to +your duty - to take things easy and be as happy as you can, for +your sake, and my mother's, and that of many besides. Excuse this +sermon. - Ever your loving son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, DECEMBER 25, 1883. + +MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, - This it is supposed will reach you +about Christmas, and I believe I should include Lloyd in the +greeting. But I want to lecture my father; he is not grateful +enough; he is like Fanny; his resignation is not the 'true blue.' +A man who has gained a stone; whose son is better, and, after so +many fears to the contrary, I dare to say, a credit to him; whose +business is arranged; whose marriage is a picture - what I should +call resignation in such a case as his would be to 'take down his +fiddle and play as lood as ever he could.' That and nought else. +And now, you dear old pious ingrate, on this Christmas morning, +think what your mercies have been; and do not walk too far before +your breakfast - as far as to the top of India Street, then to the +top of Dundas Street, and then to your ain stair heid; and do not +forget that even as LABORARE, so JOCULARI, EST ORARE; and to be +happy the first step to being pious. + +I have as good as finished my novel, and a hard job it has been - +but now practically over, LAUS DEO! My financial prospects better +than ever before; my excellent wife a touch dolorous, like Mr. +Tommy; my Bogue quite converted, and myself in good spirits. O, +send Curry Powder per Baxter. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[LA SOLITUDE, HYERES], LAST SUNDAY OF '83. + +MY DEAR MOTHER, - I give my father up. I give him a parable: that +the Waverley novels are better reading for every day than the +tragic Life. And he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his +head, and is gloomier than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I +don't want no such a parent. This is not the man for my money. I +do not call that by the name of religion which fills a man with +bile. I write him a whole letter, bidding him beware of extremes, +and telling him that his gloom is gallows-worthy; and I get back an +answer - Perish the thought of it. + +Here am I on the threshold of another year, when, according to all +human foresight, I should long ago have been resolved into my +elements; here am I, who you were persuaded was born to disgrace +you - and, I will do you the justice to add, on no such +insufficient grounds - no very burning discredit when all is done; +here am I married, and the marriage recognised to be a blessing of +the first order, A1 at Lloyd's. There is he, at his not first +youth, able to take more exercise than I at thirty-three, and +gaining a stone's weight, a thing of which I am incapable. There +are you; has the man no gratitude? There is Smeoroch: is he +blind? Tell him from me that all this is + +NOT THE TRUE BLUE! + +I will think more of his prayers when I see in him a spirit of +PRAISE. Piety is a more childlike and happy attitude than he +admits. Martha, Martha, do you hear the knocking at the door? But +Mary was happy. Even the Shorter Catechism, not the merriest +epitome of religion, and a work exactly as pious although not quite +so true as the multiplication table - even that dry-as-dust epitome +begins with a heroic note. What is man's chief end? Let him study +that; and ask himself if to refuse to enjoy God's kindest gifts is +in the spirit indicated. Up, Dullard! It is better service to +enjoy a novel than to mump. + +I have been most unjust to the Shorter Catechism, I perceive. I +wish to say that I keenly admire its merits as a performance; and +that all that was in my mind was its peculiarly unreligious and +unmoral texture; from which defect it can never, of course, +exercise the least influence on the minds of children. But they +learn fine style and some austere thinking unconsciously. - Ever +your loving son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, JANUARY 1 (1884). + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - A Good New Year to you. The year closes, leaving +me with 50 pounds in the bank, owing no man nothing, 100 pounds +more due to me in a week or so, and 150 pounds more in the course +of the month; and I can look back on a total receipt of 465 pounds, +0s. 6d. for the last twelve months! + +And yet I am not happy! + +Yet I beg! Here is my beggary:- + +1. Sellar's Trial. +2. George Borrow's Book about Wales. +3. My Grandfather's Trip to Holland. +4. And (but this is, I fear, impossible) the Bell Rock Book. + +When I think of how last year began, after four months of sickness +and idleness, all my plans gone to water, myself starting alone, a +kind of spectre, for Nice - should I not be grateful? Come, let us +sing unto the Lord! + +Nor should I forget the expected visit, but I will not believe in +that till it befall; I am no cultivator of disappointments, 'tis a +herb that does not grow in my garden; but I get some good crops +both of remorse and gratitude. The last I can recommend to all +gardeners; it grows best in shiny weather, but once well grown, is +very hardy; it does not require much labour; only that the +husbandman should smoke his pipe about the flower-plots and admire +God's pleasant wonders. Winter green (otherwise known as +Resignation, or the 'false gratitude plant') springs in much the +same soil; is little hardier, if at all; and requires to be so dug +about and dunged, that there is little margin left for profit. The +variety known as the Black Winter green (H. V. Stevensoniana) is +rather for ornament than profit. + +'John, do you see that bed of resignation?' - 'It's doin' bravely, +sir.' - 'John, I will not have it in my garden; it flatters not the +eye and comforts not the stomach; root it out.' - 'Sir, I ha'e seen +o' them that rase as high as nettles; gran' plants!' - 'What then? +Were they as tall as alps, if still unsavoury and bleak, what +matters it? Out with it, then; and in its place put Laughter and a +Good Conceit (that capital home evergreen), and a bush of Flowering +Piety - but see it be the flowering sort - the other species is no +ornament to any gentleman's Back Garden.' + +JNO. BUNYAN. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, 9TH MARCH 1884. + +MY DEAR S. C., - You will already have received a not very sane +note from me; so your patience was rewarded - may I say, your +patient silence? However, now comes a letter, which on receipt, I +thus acknowledge. + +I have already expressed myself as to the political aspect. About +Grahame, I feel happier; it does seem to have been really a good, +neat, honest piece of work. We do not seem to be so badly off for +commanders: Wolseley and Roberts, and this pile of Woods, +Stewarts, Alisons, Grahames, and the like. Had we but ONE +statesman on any side of the house! + +Two chapters of OTTO do remain: one to rewrite, one to create; and +I am not yet able to tackle them. For me it is my chief o' works; +hence probably not so for others, since it only means that I have +here attacked the greatest difficulties. But some chapters towards +the end: three in particular - I do think come off. I find them +stirring, dramatic, and not unpoetical. We shall see, however; as +like as not, the effort will be more obvious than the success. +For, of course, I strung myself hard to carry it out. The next +will come easier, and possibly be more popular. I believe in the +covering of much paper, each time with a definite and not too +difficult artistic purpose; and then, from time to time, drawing +oneself up and trying, in a superior effort, to combine the +facilities thus acquired or improved. Thus one progresses. But, +mind, it is very likely that the big effort, instead of being the +masterpiece, may be the blotted copy, the gymnastic exercise. This +no man can tell; only the brutal and licentious public, snouting in +Mudie's wash-trough, can return a dubious answer. + +I am to-day, thanks to a pure heaven and a beneficent, loud- +talking, antiseptic mistral, on the high places as to health and +spirits. Money holds out wonderfully. Fanny has gone for a drive +to certain meadows which are now one sheet of jonquils: sea-bound +meadows, the thought of which may freshen you in Bloomsbury. 'Ye +have been fresh and fair, Ye have been filled with flowers' - I +fear I misquote. Why do people babble? Surely Herrick, in his +true vein, is superior to Martial himself, though Martial is a very +pretty poet. + +Did you ever read St. Augustine? The first chapters of the +CONFESSIONS are marked by a commanding genius. Shakespearian in +depth. I was struck dumb, but, alas! when you begin to wander into +controversy, the poet drops out. His description of infancy is +most seizing. And how is this: 'Sed majorum nugae negotia +vocantur; puerorum autem talia cum sint puniuntur a majoribus.' +Which is quite after the heart of R. L. S. See also his splendid +passage about the 'luminosus limes amicitiae' and the 'nebulae de +limosa concupiscentia carnis'; going on 'UTRUMQUE in confuso +aestuabat et rapiebat imbecillam aetatem per abrupta cupiditatum.' +That 'Utrumque' is a real contribution to life's science. Lust +ALONE is but a pigmy; but it never, or rarely, attacks us single- +handed. + +Do you ever read (to go miles off, indeed) the incredible Barbey +d'Aurevilly? A psychological Poe - to be for a moment Henley. I +own with pleasure I prefer him with all his folly, rot, sentiment, +and mixed metaphors, to the whole modern school in France. It +makes me laugh when it's nonsense; and when he gets an effect +(though it's still nonsense and mere Poery, not poesy) it wakens +me. CE QUI NE MEURT PAS nearly killed me with laughing, and left +me - well, it left me very nearly admiring the old ass. At least, +it's the kind of thing one feels one couldn't do. The dreadful +moonlight, when they all three sit silent in the room - by George, +sir, it's imagined - and the brief scene between the husband and +wife is all there. QUANT AU FOND, the whole thing, of course, is a +fever dream, and worthy of eternal laughter. Had the young man +broken stones, and the two women been hard-working honest +prostitutes, there had been an end of the whole immoral and +baseless business: you could at least have respected them in that +case. + +I also read PETRONIUS ARBITER, which is a rum work, not so immoral +as most modern works, but singularly silly. I tackled some Tacitus +too. I got them with a dreadful French crib on the same page with +the text, which helps me along and drives me mad. The French do +not even try to translate. They try to be much more classical than +the classics, with astounding results of barrenness and tedium. +Tacitus, I fear, was too solid for me. I liked the war part; but +the dreary intriguing at Rome was too much. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MR. DICK + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, VAR, 12TH MARCH 1884. + +MY DEAR MR. DICK, - I have been a great while owing you a letter; +but I am not without excuses, as you have heard. I overworked to +get a piece of work finished before I had my holiday, thinking to +enjoy it more; and instead of that, the machinery near hand came +sundry in my hands! like Murdie's uniform. However, I am now, I +think, in a fair way of recovery; I think I was made, what there is +of me, of whipcord and thorn-switches; surely I am tough! But I +fancy I shall not overdrive again, or not so long. It is my theory +that work is highly beneficial, but that it should, if possible, +and certainly for such partially broken-down instruments as the +thing I call my body, be taken in batches, with a clear break and +breathing space between. I always do vary my work, laying one +thing aside to take up another, not merely because I believe it +rests the brain, but because I have found it most beneficial to the +result. Reading, Bacon says, makes a full man, but what makes me +full on any subject is to banish it for a time from all my +thoughts. However, what I now propose is, out of every quarter, to +work two months' and rest the third. I believe I shall get more +done, as I generally manage, on my present scheme, to have four +months' impotent illness and two of imperfect health - one before, +one after, I break down. This, at least, is not an economical +division of the year. + +I re-read the other day that heartbreaking book, the LIFE OF SCOTT. +One should read such works now and then, but O, not often. As I +live, I feel more and more that literature should be cheerful and +brave-spirited, even if it cannot be made beautiful and pious and +heroic. We wish it to be a green place; the WAVERLEY NOVELS are +better to re-read than the over-true life, fine as dear Sir Walter +was. The Bible, in most parts, is a cheerful book; it is our +little piping theologies, tracts, and sermons that are dull and +dowie; and even the Shorter Catechism, which is scarcely a work of +consolation, opens with the best and shortest and completest sermon +ever written - upon Man's chief end. - Believe me, my dear Mr. +Dick, very sincerely yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - You see I have changed my hand. I was threatened apparently +with scrivener's cramp, and at any rate had got to write so small, +that the revisal of my MS. tried my eyes, hence my signature alone +remains upon the old model; for it appears that if I changed that, +I should be cut off from my 'vivers.' + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO COSMO MONKHOUSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, MARCH 16, 1884. + +MY DEAR MONKHOUSE, - You see with what promptitude I plunge into +correspondence; but the truth is, I am condemned to a complete +inaction, stagnate dismally, and love a letter. Yours, which would +have been welcome at any time, was thus doubly precious. + +Dover sounds somewhat shiveringly in my ears. You should see the +weather I have - cloudless, clear as crystal, with just a punkah- +draft of the most aromatic air, all pine and gum tree. You would +be ashamed of Dover; you would scruple to refer, sir, to a spot so +paltry. To be idle at Dover is a strange pretension; pray, how do +you warm yourself? If I were there I should grind knives or write +blank verse, or - But at least you do not bathe? It is idle to +deny it: I have - I may say I nourish - a growing jealousy of the +robust, large-legged, healthy Britain-dwellers, patient of grog, +scorners of the timid umbrella, innocuously breathing fog: all +which I once was, and I am ashamed to say liked it. How ignorant +is youth! grossly rolling among unselected pleasures; and how +nobler, purer, sweeter, and lighter, to sip the choice tonic, to +recline in the luxurious invalid chair, and to tread, well-shawled, +the little round of the constitutional. Seriously, do you like to +repose? Ye gods, I hate it. I never rest with any acceptation; I +do not know what people mean who say they like sleep and that +damned bedtime which, since long ere I was breeched, has rung a +knell to all my day's doings and beings. And when a man, seemingly +sane, tells me he has 'fallen in love with stagnation,' I can only +say to him, 'You will never be a Pirate!' This may not cause any +regret to Mrs. Monkhouse; but in your own soul it will clang hollow +- think of it! Never! After all boyhood's aspirations and youth's +immoral day-dreams, you are condemned to sit down, grossly draw in +your chair to the fat board, and be a beastly Burgess till you die. +Can it be? Is there not some escape, some furlough from the Moral +Law, some holiday jaunt contrivable into a Better Land? Shall we +never shed blood? This prospect is too grey. + + +'Here lies a man who never did +Anything but what he was bid; +Who lived his life in paltry ease, +And died of commonplace disease.' + + +To confess plainly, I had intended to spend my life (or any leisure +I might have from Piracy upon the high seas) as the leader of a +great horde of irregular cavalry, devastating whole valleys. I can +still, looking back, see myself in many favourite attitudes; +signalling for a boat from my pirate ship with a pocket- +handkerchief, I at the jetty end, and one or two of my bold blades +keeping the crowd at bay; or else turning in the saddle to look +back at my whole command (some five thousand strong) following me +at the hand-gallop up the road out of the burning valley: this +last by moonlight. + +ET POINT DU TOUT. I am a poor scribe, and have scarce broken a +commandment to mention, and have recently dined upon cold veal! As +for you (who probably had some ambitions), I hear of you living at +Dover, in lodgings, like the beasts of the field. But in heaven, +when we get there, we shall have a good time, and see some real +carnage. For heaven is - must be - that great Kingdom of +Antinomia, which Lamb saw dimly adumbrated in the COUNTRY WIFE, +where the worm which never dies (the conscience) peacefully +expires, and the sinner lies down beside the Ten Commandments. +Till then, here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, with neither +health nor vice for anything more spirited than procrastination, +which I may well call the Consolation Stakes of Wickedness; and by +whose diligent practice, without the least amusement to ourselves, +we can rob the orphan and bring down grey hairs with sorrow to the +dust. + +This astonishing gush of nonsense I now hasten to close, envelope, +and expedite to Shakespeare's Cliff. Remember me to Shakespeare, +and believe me, yours very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, MARCH 17, 1884. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - Your office - office is profanely said - your +bower upon the leads is divine. Have you, like Pepys, 'the right +to fiddle' there? I see you mount the companion, barbiton in hand, +and, fluttered about by city sparrows, pour forth your spirit in a +voluntary. Now when the spring begins, you must lay in your +flowers: how do you say about a potted hawthorn? Would it bloom? +Wallflower is a choice pot-herb; lily-of-the-valley, too, and +carnation, and Indian cress trailed about the window, is not only +beautiful by colour, but the leaves are good to eat. I recommend +thyme and rosemary for the aroma, which should not be left upon one +side; they are good quiet growths. + +On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is still +better - it takes one further - the havens with their little +anchors, the rocks, banks, and soundings, are adorably marine; and +such furniture will suit your ship-shape habitation. I wish I +could see those cabins; they smile upon me with the most intimate +charm. From your leads, do you behold St. Paul's? I always like +to see the Foolscap; it is London PER SE and no spot from which it +is visible is without romance. Then it is good company for the man +of letters, whose veritable nursing Pater-Noster is so near at +hand. + +I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so +pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the +writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a few +days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that structure. +I have worked very hard at it, and so do not expect any great +public favour. IN MOMENTS OF EFFORT, ONE LEARNS TO DO THE EASY +THINGS THAT PEOPLE LIKE. There is the golden maxim; thus one +should strain and then play, strain again and play again. The +strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and +pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two +contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers +would have called 'rank conformity,' and to pour forth cheap +replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, and still more +insidiously present, to forget that art is a diversion and a +decoration, that no triumph or effort is of value, nor anything +worth reaching except charm. - Yours affectionately, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MISS FERRIER + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [MARCH 22, 1884]. + +MY DEAR MISS FERRIER, - Are you really going to fall us? This +seems a dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for +friends on this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have +been promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has +failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know how +delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a visit. Look +at the names: 'The Solitude' - is that romantic? The palm-trees? +- how is that for the gorgeous East? 'Var'? the name of a river - +'the quiet waters by'! 'Tis true, they are in another department, +and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a music, what +a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we have +skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by +the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English +May - for, considering we are in France and serve up our song- +birds, I am ashamed to say, on a little field of toast and with a +sprig of thyme (my own receipt) in their most innocent and now +unvocal bellies - considering all this, we have a wonderfully fair +wood-music round this Solitude of ours. What can I say more? - All +this awaits you. KENNST DU DAS LAND, in short. - Your sincere +friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [APRIL 1884]. + +MY DEAR LOW, - The blind man in these sprawled lines sends +greeting. I have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The +news - 'great news - glorious news - sec-ond ed-ition!' - went the +round in England. + +Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the +Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me) +much liked. + +Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to send +to press. Then I thought of the MANHATTAN, towards whom I have +guilty and compunctious feelings. Last, I had the best thought of +all - to send them to you in case you might think them suitable for +illustration. It seemed to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if +not, hand them on to MANHATTAN, CENTURY, or LIPPINCOTT, at your +pleasure, as all three desire my work or pretend to. But I trust +the lines will not go unattended. Some riverside will haunt you; +and O! be tender to my bathing girls. The lines are copied in my +wife's hand, as I cannot see to write otherwise than with the pen +of Cormoran, Gargantua, or Nimrod. Love to your wife. - Yours +ever, + +R. L. S. + +Copied it myself. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +LA SOLITUDE, APRIL 19, 1884. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - Yesterday I very powerfully stated the HERESIS +STEVENSONIANA, or the complete body of divinity of the family +theologian, to Miss Ferrier. She was much impressed; so was I. +You are a great heresiarch; and I know no better. Whaur the devil +did ye get thon about the soap? Is it altogether your own? I +never heard it elsewhere; and yet I suspect it must have been held +at some time or other, and if you were to look up you would +probably find yourself condemned by some Council. + +I am glad to hear you are so well. The hear is excellent. The +CORNHILLS came; I made Miss Ferrier read us 'Thrawn Janet,' and was +quite bowled over by my own works. The 'Merry Men' I mean to make +much longer, with a whole new denouement, not yet quite clear to +me. 'The Story of a Lie,' I must rewrite entirely also, as it is +too weak and ragged, yet is worth saving for the Admiral. Did I +ever tell you that the Admiral was recognised in America? + +When they are all on their legs this will make an excellent +collection. + +Has Davie never read GUY MANNERING, ROB ROY, or THE ANTIQUARY? All +of which are worth three WAVERLEYS. I think KENILWORTH better than +WAVERLEY; NIGEL, too; and QUENTIN DURWARD about as good. But it +shows a true piece of insight to prefer WAVERLEY, for it IS +different; and though not quite coherent, better worked in parts +than almost any other: surely more carefully. It is undeniable +that the love of the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with +success. Perhaps it does on many of us, which may be the granite +on which D.'s opinion stands. However, I hold it, in Patrick +Walker's phrase, for an 'old, condemned, damnable error.' Dr. +Simson was condemned by P. W. as being 'a bagful of' such. One of +Patrick's amenities! + +Another ground there may be to D.'s opinion; those who avoid (or +seek to avoid) Scott's facility are apt to be continually straining +and torturing their style to get in more of life. And to many the +extra significance does not redeem the strain. + +DOCTOR STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO COSMO MONKHOUSE + + + +LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 24, 1884]. + +DEAR MONKHOUSE, - If you are in love with repose, here is your +occasion: change with me. I am too blind to read, hence no +reading; I am too weak to walk, hence no walking; I am not allowed +to speak, hence no talking; but the great simplification has yet to +be named; for, if this goes on, I shall soon have nothing to eat - +and hence, O Hallelujah! hence no eating. The offer is a fair one: +I have not sold myself to the devil, for I could never find him. I +am married, but so are you. I sometimes write verses, but so do +you. Come! HIC QUIES! As for the commandments, I have broken +them so small that they are the dust of my chambers; you walk upon +them, triturate and toothless; and with the Golosh of Philosophy, +they shall not bite your heel. True, the tenement is falling. Ay, +friend, but yours also. Take a larger view; what is a year or two? +dust in the balance! 'Tis done, behold you Cosmo Stevenson, and me +R. L. Monkhouse; you at Hyeres, I in London; you rejoicing in the +clammiest repose, me proceeding to tear your tabernacle into rags, +as I have already so admirably torn my own. + +My place to which I now introduce you - it is yours - is like a +London house, high and very narrow; upon the lungs I will not +linger; the heart is large enough for a ballroom; the belly greedy +and inefficient; the brain stocked with the most damnable +explosives, like a dynamiter's den. The whole place is well +furnished, though not in a very pure taste; Corinthian much of it; +showy and not strong. + +About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an interesting +exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, falling over a blood- +stained remorse; opening that cupboard in the cerebellum and being +welcomed by the spirit of your murdered uncle. I should probably +not like your remorses; I wonder if you will like mine; I have a +spirited assortment; they whistle in my ear o' nights like a north- +easter. I trust yours don't dine with the family; mine are better +mannered; you will hear nought of them till, 2 A.M., except one, to +be sure, that I have made a pet of, but he is small; I keep him in +buttons, so as to avoid commentaries; you will like him much - if +you like what is genuine. + +Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good article, with a +trick of stopping; cathedral bell note; ornamental dial; supported +by Venus and the Graces; quite a summer-parlour piety. Of yours, +since your last, I fear there is little to be said. + +There is one article I wish to take away with me: my spirits. +They suit me. I don't want yours; I like my own; I have had them a +long while in bottle. It is my only reservation. - Yours (as you +decide), + +R. L. MONKHOUSE. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +HYERES, MAY 1884. + +DEAR BOY, - OLD MORTALITY is out, and I am glad to say Coggie likes +it. We like her immensely. + +I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot work - cannot: that +is flat, not even verses: as for prose, that more active place is +shut on me long since. + +My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically +comic. AS YOU LIKE IT is to me the most bird-haunted spot in +letters; TEMPEST and TWELFTH NIGHT follow. These are what I mean +by poetry and nature. I make an effort of my mind to be quite one +with Moliere, except upon the stage, where his inimitable JEUX DE +SCENE beggar belief; but you will observe they are stage-plays - +things AD HOC; not great Olympian debauches of the heart and fancy; +hence more perfect, and not so great. Then I come, after great +wanderings, to Carmosine and to Fantasio; to one part of La +Derniere Aldini (which, by the by, we might dramatise in a week), +to the notes that Meredith has found, Evan and the postillion, Evan +and Rose, Harry in Germany. And to me these things are the good; +beauty, touched with sex and laughter; beauty with God's earth for +the background. Tragedy does not seem to me to come off; and when +it does, it does so by the heroic illusion; the anti-masque has +been omitted; laughter, which attends on all our steps in life, and +sits by the deathbed, and certainly redacts the epitaph, laughter +has been lost from these great-hearted lies. But the comedy which +keeps the beauty and touches the terrors of our life (laughter and +tragedy-in-a-good-humour having kissed), that is the last word of +moved representation; embracing the greatest number of elements of +fate and character; and telling its story, not with the one eye of +pity, but with the two of pity and mirth. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +FROM MY BED, MAY 29, 1884. + +DEAR GOSSE, - The news of the Professorate found me in the article +of - well, of heads or tails; I am still in bed, and a very poor +person. You must thus excuse my damned delay; but, I assure you, I +was delighted. You will believe me the more, if I confess to you +that my first sentiment was envy; yes, sir, on my blood-boltered +couch I envied the professor. However, it was not of long +duration; the double thought that you deserved and that you would +thoroughly enjoy your success fell like balsam on my wounds. How +came it that you never communicated my rejection of Gilder's offer +for the Rhone? But it matters not. Such earthly vanities are over +for the present. This has been a fine well-conducted illness. A +month in bed; a month of silence; a fortnight of not stirring my +right hand; a month of not moving without being lifted. Come! CA +Y EST: devilish like being dead. - Yours, dear Professor, +academically, + +R. L. S. + +I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with me! I +got him cheap - second-hand. + +In turning over my late friend Ferrier's commonplace book, I find +three poems from VIOL AND FLUTE copied out in his hand: 'When +Flower-time,' 'Love in Winter,' and 'Mistrust.' They are capital +too. But I thought the fact would interest you. He was no poetist +either; so it means the more. 'Love in W.!' I like the best. + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +HOTEL CHABASSIERE, ROYAT, [JULY 1884]. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff +of cold, and was finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day, +however, it has cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to + +(SEVERAL DAYS AFTER.) + +I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am better, and +keep better, but the weather is a mere injustice. The imitation of +Edinburgh is, at times, deceptive; there is a note among the +chimney pots that suggests Howe Street; though I think the +shrillest spot in Christendom was not upon the Howe Street side, +but in front, just under the Miss Graemes' big chimney stack. It +had a fine alto character - a sort of bleat that used to divide the +marrow in my joints - say in the wee, slack hours. That music is +now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, not +regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; a +knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I mind it +above all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was blue and +spotted with rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold evening +was seen blue all over, with the lamps of Queen's and Frederick's +Street dotting it with yellow, and flaring east-ward in the +squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I have been in such circumstances - +I, who have now positively forgotten the colour of unhappiness; who +am full like a fed ox, and dull like a fresh turf, and have no more +spiritual life, for good or evil, than a French bagman. + +We are at Chabassiere's, for of course it was nonsense to go up the +hill when we could not walk. + +The child's poems in a far extended form are likely soon to be +heard of - which Cummy I dare say will be glad to know. They will +make a book of about one hundred pages. - Ever your affectionate, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +[ROYAT, JULY 1884.] + +. . . HERE is a quaint thing, I have read ROBINSON, COLONEL JACK, +MOLL FLANDERS, MEMOIRS OF A CAVALIER, HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE, +HISTORY OF THE GREAT STORM, SCOTCH CHURCH AND UNION. And there my +knowledge of Defoe ends - except a book, the name of which I +forget, about Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not +write, and could not have written if he wanted. To which of these +does B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish +Church. I jest; for, of course, I KNOW it must be a book I have +never read, and which this makes me keen to read - I mean CAPTAIN +SINGLETON. Can it be got and sent to me? If TREASURE ISLAND is at +all like it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day +wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing T. +I., as a mine for pirate tips. T. I. came out of Kingsley's AT +LAST, where I got the Dead Man's Chest - and that was the seed - +and out of the great Captain Johnson's HISTORY OF NOTORIOUS +PIRATES. The scenery is Californian in part, and in part CHIC. + +I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made man - till the next +time. + +R. L. STEVENSON. + +If it was CAPTAIN SINGLETON, send it to me, won't you? + +LATER. - My life dwindles into a kind of valley of the shadow +picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as to-day) I must not +speak above my breath, that to play patience, or to see my wife +play it, is become the be-all and the end-all of my dim career. To +add to my gaiety, I may write letters, but there are few to answer. +Patience and Poesy are thus my rod and staff; with these I not +unpleasantly support my days. + +I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be silenced; +and if to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to understand +them cannot be my wife's. Do not think me unhappy; I have not been +so for years; but I am blurred, inhabit the debatable frontier of +sleep, and have but dim designs upon activity. All is at a +standstill; books closed, paper put aside, the voice, the eternal +voice of R. L. S., well silenced. Hence this plaint reaches you +with no very great meaning, no very great purpose, and written part +in slumber by a heavy, dull, somnolent, superannuated son of a +bedpost. + + + + +CHAPTER VII - LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH, SEPTEMBER 1884-DECEMBER 1885 + + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, SUNDAY, 28TH SEPTEMBER 1884. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - I keep better, and am to-day downstairs for the +first time. I find the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the +front. Will you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale, +and has blown for nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping wind, +lashing rain; the sea is a fine colour, and wind-bound ships lie at +anchor under the Old Harry rocks, to make one glad to be ashore. + +The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I hope they +may produce some of the ready. - I am, ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 1884?] + +DEAR BOY, - I trust this finds you well; it leaves me so-so. The +weather is so cold that I must stick to bed, which is rotten and +tedious, but can't be helped. + +I find in the blotting book the enclosed, which I wrote to you the +eve of my blood. Is it not strange? That night, when I naturally +thought I was coopered, the thought of it was much in my mind; I +thought it had gone; and I thought what a strange prophecy I had +made in jest, and how it was indeed like to be the end of many +letters. But I have written a good few since, and the spell is +broken. I am just as pleased, for I earnestly desire to live. +This pleasant middle age into whose port we are steering is quite +to my fancy. I would cast anchor here, and go ashore for twenty +years, and see the manners of the place. Youth was a great time, +but somewhat fussy. Now in middle age (bar lucre) all seems mighty +placid. It likes me; I spy a little bright cafe in one corner of +the port, in front of which I now propose we should sit down. +There is just enough of the bustle of the harbour and no more; and +the ships are close in, regarding us with stern-windows - the ships +that bring deals from Norway and parrots from the Indies. Let us +sit down here for twenty years, with a packet of tobacco and a +drink, and talk of art and women. By-and-by, the whole city will +sink, and the ships too, and the table, and we also; but we shall +have sat for twenty years and had a fine talk; and by that time, +who knows? exhausted the subject. + +I send you a book which (or I am mistook) will please you; it +pleased me. But I do desire a book of adventure - a romance - and +no man will get or write me one. Dumas I have read and re-read too +often; Scott, too, and I am short. I want to hear swords clash. I +want a book to begin in a good way; a book, I guess, like TREASURE +ISLAND, alas! which I have never read, and cannot though I live to +ninety. I would God that some one else had written it! By all +that I can learn, it is the very book for my complaint. I like the +way I hear it opens; and they tell me John Silver is good fun. And +to me it is, and must ever be, a dream unrealised, a book +unwritten. O my sighings after romance, or even Skeltery, and O! +the weary age which will produce me neither! + + +CHAPTER I + + +The night was damp and cloudy, the ways foul. The single horseman, +cloaked and booted, who pursued his way across Willesden Common, +had not met a traveller, when the sound of wheels - + + +CHAPTER I + + +'Yes, sir,' said the old pilot, 'she must have dropped into the bay +a little afore dawn. A queer craft she looks.' + +'She shows no colours,' returned the young gentleman musingly. + +'They're a-lowering of a quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,' resumed the old +salt. 'We shall soon know more of her.' + +'Ay,' replied the young gentleman called Mark, 'and here, Mr. +Seadrift, comes your sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.' + +'God bless her kind heart, sir,' ejaculated old Seadrift. + + +CHAPTER I + + +The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great +house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties +finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging +from one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way. +Little did he think what strange adventures were to befall him! - + +That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead. + +What should be: What is: +The Filibuster's Cache. Aunt Anne's Tea Cosy. +Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly's Niece. +Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THE REV. PROFESSOR LEWIS CAMPBELL + + + +[WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884.] + +MY DEAR CAMPBELL, - The books came duly to hand. My wife has +occupied the translation ever since, nor have I yet been able to +dislodge her. As for the primer, I have read it with a very +strange result: that I find no fault. If you knew how, dogmatic +and pugnacious, I stand warden on the literary art, you would the +more appreciate your success and my - well, I will own it - +disappointment. For I love to put people right (or wrong) about +the arts. But what you say of Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply +satisfies me; it is well felt and well said; a little less +technically than it is my weakness to desire to see it put, but +clear and adequate. You are very right to express your admiration +for the resource displayed in OEdipus King; it is a miracle. Would +it not have been well to mention Voltaire's interesting onslaught, +a thing which gives the best lesson of the difference of neighbour +arts? - since all his criticisms, which had been fatal to a +narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw in this +masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though such a +fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, so +imperfect, so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required of +these conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts. + +I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by hoping for +better luck next time. My wife begs to be remembered to both of +you. - Yours sincerely, + + + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO ANDREW CHATTO + + + +WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 3, 1884. + +DEAR MR. CHATTO, - I have an offer of 25 pounds for OTTO from +America. I do not know if you mean to have the American rights; +from the nature of the contract, I think not; but if you understood +that you were to sell the sheets, I will either hand over the +bargain to you, or finish it myself and hand you over the money if +you are pleased with the amount. You see, I leave this quite in +your hands. To parody an old Scotch story of servant and master: +if you don't know that you have a good author, I know that I have a +good publisher. Your fair, open, and handsome dealings are a good +point in my life, and do more for my crazy health than has yet been +done by any doctor. - Very truly yours, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, HANTS, ENGLAND, FIRST +WEEK IN NOVEMBER, I GUESS, 1884. + +MY DEAR LOW, - NOW, look here, the above is my address for three +months, I hope; continue, on your part, if you please, to write to +Edinburgh, which is safe; but if Mrs. Low thinks of coming to +England, she might take a run down from London (four hours from +Waterloo, main line) and stay a day or two with us among the pines. +If not, I hope it will be only a pleasure deferred till you can +join her. + +My Children's Verses will be published here in a volume called A +CHILD'S GARDEN. The sheets are in hand; I will see if I cannot +send you the lot, so that you might have a bit of a start. In that +case I would do nothing to publish in the States, and you might try +an illustrated edition there; which, if the book went fairly over +here, might, when ready, be imported. But of this more fully ere +long. You will see some verses of mine in the last MAGAZINE OF +ART, with pictures by a young lady; rather pretty, I think. If we +find a market for PHASELLULUS LOQUITUR, we can try another. I hope +it isn't necessary to put the verse into that rustic printing. I +am Philistine enough to prefer clean printer's type; indeed, I can +form no idea of the verses thus transcribed by the incult and +tottering hand of the draughtsman, nor gather any impression beyond +one of weariness to the eyes. Yet the other day, in the CENTURY, I +saw it imputed as a crime to Vedder that he had not thus travestied +Omar Khayyam. We live in a rum age of music without airs, stories +without incident, pictures without beauty, American wood engravings +that should have been etchings, and dry-point etchings that ought +to have been mezzo-tints. I think of giving 'em literature without +words; and I believe if you were to try invisible illustration, it +would enjoy a considerable vogue. So long as an artist is on his +head, is painting with a flute, or writes with an etcher's needle, +or conducts the orchestra with a meat-axe, all is well; and +plaudits shower along with roses. But any plain man who tries to +follow the obtrusive canons of his art, is but a commonplace +figure. To hell with him is the motto, or at least not that; for +he will have his reward, but he will never be thought a person of +parts. + +JANUARY 3, 1885. + +And here has this been lying near two months. I have failed to get +together a preliminary copy of the Child's Verses for you, in spite +of doughty efforts; but yesterday I sent you the first sheet of the +definitive edition, and shall continue to send the others as they +come. If you can, and care to, work them - why so, well. If not, +I send you fodder. But the time presses; for though I will delay a +little over the proofs, and though - it is even possible they may +delay the English issue until Easter, it will certainly not be +later. Therefore perpend, and do not get caught out. Of course, +if you can do pictures, it will be a great pleasure to me to see +our names joined; and more than that, a great advantage, as I +daresay you may be able to make a bargain for some share a little +less spectral than the common for the poor author. But this is all +as you shall choose; I give you CARTE BLANCHE to do or not to do. - +Yours most sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +O, Sargent has been and painted my portrait; a very nice fellow he +is, and is supposed to have done well; it is a poetical but very +chicken-boned figure-head, as thus represented. R. L. S. Go on. + +P.P.S. - Your picture came; and let me thank you for it very much. +I am so hunted I had near forgotten. I find it very graceful; and +I mean to have it framed. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I have no hesitation in recommending you to let +your name go up; please yourself about an address; though I think, +if we could meet, we could arrange something suitable. What you +propose would be well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest +a whine. From that point of view it would be better to change a +little; but this, whether we meet or not, we must discuss. Tait, +Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, all think you amply deserve +this honour and far more; it is not the True Blue to call this +serious compliment a 'trial'; you should be glad of this +recognition. As for resigning, that is easy enough if found +necessary; but to refuse would be husky and unsatisfactory. SIC +SUBS. + +R. L. S. + +My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well. Fanny is very +very much out of sorts, principally through perpetual misery with +me. I fear I have been a little in the dumps, which, AS YOU KNOW, +SIR, is a very great sin. I must try to be more cheerful; but my +cough is so severe that I have sometimes most exhausting nights and +very peevish wakenings. However, this shall be remedied, and last +night I was distinctly better than the night before. There is, my +dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise blandly as we sit together on the +devil's garden-wall), no more abominable sin than this gloom, this +plaguey peevishness; why (say I) what matters it if we be a little +uncomfortable - that is no reason for mangling our unhappy wives. +And then I turn and GIRN on the unfortunate Cassandra. - Your +fellow culprit, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884. + +DEAR HENLEY, - We are all to pieces in health, and heavily +handicapped with Arabs. I have a dreadful cough, whose attacks +leave me AETAT. 90. I never let up on the Arabs, all the same, and +rarely get less than eight pages out of hand, though hardly able to +come downstairs for twittering knees. + +I shall put in -'s letter. He says so little of his circumstances +that I am in an impossibility to give him advice more specific than +a copybook. Give him my love, however, and tell him it is the mark +of the parochial gentleman who has never travelled to find all +wrong in a foreign land. Let him hold on, and he will find one +country as good as another; and in the meanwhile let him resist the +fatal British tendency to communicate his dissatisfaction with a +country to its inhabitants. 'Tis a good idea, but it somehow fails +to please. In a fortnight, if I can keep my spirit in the box at +all, I should be nearly through this Arabian desert; so can tackle +something fresh. - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH (THE THREE B'S) +[NOVEMBER 5, 1884]. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, +that you are a silly fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I +be offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you had +the same impression of the DEACON; and yet, when you saw it played, +were less revolted than you looked for; and I will still hope that +the ADMIRAL also is not so bad as you suppose. There is one point, +however, where I differ from you very frankly. Religion is in the +world; I do not think you are the man to deny the importance of its +role; and I have long decided not to leave it on one side in art. +The opposition of the Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, +either horrible or irreverent; but it may be, and it probably is, +very ill done: what then? This is a failure; better luck next +time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, more wisdom in the +design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the new victory. +Concern yourself about no failure; they do not cost lives, as in +engineering; they are the PIERRES PERDUES of successes. Fame is +(truly) a vapour; do not think of it; if the writer means well and +tries hard, no failure will injure him, whether with God or man. + +I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am +inclined to acquit the ADMIRAL of having a share in the +responsibility. My very heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; and +the change to this charming house in the forest will, I hope, +complete my re-establishment. - With love to all, believe me, your +ever affectionate, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 11, [1884]. + +MY DEAR CHARLES, - I am in my new house, thus proudly styled, as +you perceive; but the deevil a tower ava' can be perceived (except +out of window); this is not as it should be; one might have hoped, +at least, a turret. We are all vilely unwell. I put in the dark +watches imitating a donkey with some success, but little pleasure; +and in the afternoon I indulge in a smart fever, accompanied by +aches and shivers. There is thus little monotony to be deplored. +I at least am a REGULAR invalid; I would scorn to bray in the +afternoon; I would indignantly refuse the proposal to fever in the +night. What is bred in the bone will come out, sir, in the flesh; +and the same spirit that prompted me to date my letter regulates +the hour and character of my attacks. - I am, sir, yours, + +THOMSON. + + + +Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +POSTMARK, BOURNEMOUTH, 13TH NOVEMBER 1884. + +MY DEAR THOMSON, - It's a maist remarkable fac', but nae shuner had +I written yon braggin', blawin' letter aboot ma business habits, +when bang! that very day, ma hoast begude in the aifternune. It is +really remaurkable; it's providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae +fair dry, the words werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got +the lee. The mair ye think o't, Thomson, the less ye'll like the +looks o't. Proavidence (I'm no' sayin') is all verra weel IN ITS +PLACE; but if Proavidence has nae mainners, wha's to learn't? +Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo would you like Proavidence to +keep your till for ye? The richt place for Proavidence is in the +kirk; it has naething to do wi' private correspondence between twa +gentlemen, nor freendly cracks, nor a wee bit word of sculduddery +ahint the door, nor, in shoart, wi' ony HOLE-AND-CORNER WARK, what +I would call. I'm pairfec'ly willin' to meet in wi' Proavidence, +I'll be prood to meet in wi' him, when my time's come and I cannae +dae nae better; but if he's to come skinking aboot my stair-fit, +damned, I micht as weel be deid for a' the comfort I'll can get in +life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it's beneath him? +Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae steir my heid for a +plain, auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he taks himsel,' 's just +aboot as honest as he can weel afford, an' but for a wheen auld +scandals, near forgotten noo, is a pairfec'ly respectable and +thoroughly decent man. Or if I fashed wi' him ava', it wad be kind +o' handsome like; a pun'-note under his stair door, or a bottle o' +auld, blended malt to his bit marnin', as a teshtymonial like yon +ye ken sae weel aboot, but mair successfu'. + +Dear Thomson, have I ony money? If I have, SEND IT, for the +loard's sake. + +JOHNSON. + + + +Letter: TO MISS FERRIER + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 12, 1884. + +MY DEAR COGGIE, - Many thanks for the two photos which now decorate +my room. I was particularly glad to have the Bell Rock. I wonder +if you saw me plunge, lance in rest, into a controversy thereanent? +It was a very one-sided affair. I slept upon the field of battle, +paraded, sang Te Deum, and came home after a review rather than a +campaign. + +Please tell Campbell I got his letter. The Wild Woman of the West +has been much amiss and complaining sorely. I hope nothing more +serious is wrong with her than just my ill-health, and consequent +anxiety and labour; but the deuce of it is, that the cause +continues. I am about knocked out of time now: a miserable, +snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee- +jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting shadow and remains of man. But +we'll no gie ower jist yet a bittie. We've seen waur; and dod, +mem, it's my belief that we'll see better. I dinna ken 'at I've +muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but jist here's +guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale o' guid fortune to your +bonny sel'; and my respecs to the Perfessor and his wife, and the +Prinshiple, an' the Bell Rock, an' ony ither public chara'ters that +I'm acquaunt wi'. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, NOV. 15, 1884. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - This Mr. Morley of yours is a most desperate +fellow. He has sent me (for my opinion) the most truculent +advertisement I ever saw, in which the white hairs of Gladstone are +dragged round Troy behind my chariot wheels. What can I say? I +say nothing to him; and to you, I content myself with remarking +that he seems a desperate fellow. + +All luck to you on your American adventure; may you find health, +wealth, and entertainment! If you see, as you likely will, Frank +R. Stockton, pray greet him from me in words to this effect:- + + +My Stockton if I failed to like, +It were a sheer depravity, +For I went down with the THOMAS HYKE +And up with the NEGATIVE GRAVITY! + + +I adore these tales. + +I hear flourishing accounts of your success at Cambridge, so you +leave with a good omen. Remember me to GREEN CORN if it is in +season; if not, you had better hang yourself on a sour apple tree, +for your voyage has been lost. - Yours affectionately, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO AUSTIN DOBSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH [DECEMBER 1884?]. + +DEAR DOBSON, - Set down my delay to your own fault; I wished to +acknowledge such a gift from you in some of my inapt and slovenly +rhymes; but you should have sent me your pen and not your desk. +The verses stand up to the axles in a miry cross-road, whence the +coursers of the sun shall never draw them; hence I am constrained +to this uncourtliness, that I must appear before one of the kings +of that country of rhyme without my singing robes. For less than +this, if we may trust the book of Esther, favourites have tasted +death; but I conceive the kingdom of the Muses mildlier mannered; +and in particular that county which you administer and which I seem +to see as a half-suburban land; a land of holly-hocks and country +houses; a land where at night, in thorny and sequestered bypaths, +you will meet masqueraders going to a ball in their sedans, and the +rector steering homeward by the light of his lantern; a land of the +windmill, and the west wind, and the flowering hawthorn with a +little scented letter in the hollow of its trunk, and the kites +flying over all in the season of kites, and the far away blue +spires of a cathedral city. + +Will you forgive me, then, for my delay and accept my thanks not +only for your present, but for the letter which followed it, and +which perhaps I more particularly value, and believe me to be, with +much admiration, yours very truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO HENRY JAMES + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 8, 1884. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES, - This is a very brave hearing from more +points than one. The first point is that there is a hope of a +sequel. For this I laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of +information and thoughtful interest in the art of literature, those +who try to practise it with any deliberate purpose run the risk of +finding no fit audience. People suppose it is 'the stuff' that +interests them; they think, for instance, that the prodigious fine +thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare impress by their own weight, +not understanding that the unpolished diamond is but a stone. They +think that striking situations, or good dialogue, are got by +studying life; they will not rise to understand that they are +prepared by deliberate artifice and set off by painful +suppressions. Now, I want the whole thing well ventilated, for my +own education and the public's; and I beg you to look as quick as +you can, to follow me up with every circumstance of defeat where we +differ, and (to prevent the flouting of the laity) to emphasise the +points where we agree. I trust your paper will show me the way to +a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I shall hope to make with so much +art as to woo or drive you from your threatened silence. I would +not ask better than to pass my life in beating out this quarter of +corn with such a seconder as yourself. + +Point the second - I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak so kindly +of my work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to myself a very rude, +left-handed countryman; not fit to be read, far less complimented, +by a man so accomplished, so adroit, so craftsmanlike as you. You +will happily never have cause to understand the despair with which +a writer like myself considers (say) the park scene in Lady +Barberina. Every touch surprises me by its intangible precision; +and the effect when done, as light as syllabub, as distinct as a +picture, fills me with envy. Each man among us prefers his own +aim, and I prefer mine; but when we come to speak of performance, I +recognise myself, compared with you, to be a lout and slouch of the +first water. + +Where we differ, both as to the design of stories and the +delineation of character, I begin to lament. Of course, I am not +so dull as to ask you to desert your walk; but could you not, in +one novel, to oblige a sincere admirer, and to enrich his shelves +with a beloved volume, could you not, and might you not, cast your +characters in a mould a little more abstract and academic (dear +Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your other work, a taste of what I +mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not say in any stronger, but +in a slightly more emphatic key - as it were an episode from one of +the old (so-called) novels of adventure? I fear you will not; and +I suppose I must sighingly admit you to be right. And yet, when I +see, as it were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite +precision and shot through with those side-lights of reflection in +which you excel, I relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think +upon it. + +As you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid: +this puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is possible +that some day you may feel that a day near the sea and among +pinewoods would be a pleasant change from town. If so, please let +us know; and my wife and I will be delighted to put you up, and +give you what we can to eat and drink (I have a fair bottle of +claret). - On the back of which, believe me, yours sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - I reopen this to say that I have re-read my paper, and +cannot think I have at all succeeded in being either veracious or +polite. I knew, of course, that I took your paper merely as a pin +to hang my own remarks upon; but, alas! what a thing is any paper! +What fine remarks can you not hang on mine! How I have sinned +against proportion, and with every effort to the contrary, against +the merest rudiments of courtesy to you! You are indeed a very +acute reader to have divined the real attitude of my mind; and I +can only conclude, not without closed eyes and shrinking shoulders, +in the well-worn words + +Lay on, Macduff! + + + +Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 9, 1884. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The dreadful tragedy of the PALL MALL has come to +a happy but ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale +writ for them is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to +flash out before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, 'The +Body Snatcher.' When you come, please to bring - + +(1) My MONTAIGNE, or, at least, the two last volumes. +(2) My MILTON in the three vols. in green. +(3) The SHAKESPEARE that Babington sent me for a wedding-gift. +(4) Hazlitt's TABLE TALK AND PLAIN SPEAKER. + +If you care to get a box of books from Douglas and Foulis, let them +be SOLID. CROKER PAPERS, CORRESPONDENCE OF NAPOLEON, HISTORY OF +HENRY IV., Lang's FOLK LORE, would be my desires. + +I had a charming letter from Henry James about my LONGMAN paper. I +did not understand queries about the verses; the pictures to the +Seagull I thought charming; those to the second have left me with a +pain in my poor belly and a swimming in the head. + +About money, I am afloat and no more, and I warn you, unless I have +great luck, I shall have to fall upon you at the New Year like a +hundredweight of bricks. Doctor, rent, chemist, are all +threatening; sickness has bitterly delayed my work; and unless, as +I say, I have the mischief's luck, I shall completely break down. +VERBUM SAPIENTIBUS. I do not live cheaply, and I question if I +ever shall; but if only I had a halfpenny worth of health, I could +now easily suffice. The last breakdown of my head is what makes +this bankruptcy probable. + +Fanny is still out of sorts; Bogue better; self fair, but a +stranger to the blessings of sleep. - Ever affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, [DECEMBER 1884]. + +DEAR LAD, - I have made up my mind about the P. M. G., and send you +a copy, which please keep or return. As for not giving a +reduction, what are we? Are we artists or city men? Why do we +sneer at stock-brokers? O nary; I will not take the 40 pounds. I +took that as a fair price for my best work; I was not able to +produce my best; and I will be damned if I steal with my eyes open. +SUFFICIT. This is my lookout. As for the paper being rich, +certainly it is; but I am honourable. It is no more above me in +money than the poor slaveys and cads from whom I look for honesty +are below me. Am I Pepys, that because I can find the countenance +of 'some of our ablest merchants,' that because - and - pour forth +languid twaddle and get paid for it, I, too, should 'cheerfully +continue to steal'? I am not Pepys. I do not live much to God and +honour; but I will not wilfully turn my back on both. I am, like +all the rest of us, falling ever lower from the bright ideas I +began with, falling into greed, into idleness, into middle-aged and +slippered fireside cowardice; but is it you, my bold blade, that I +hear crying this sordid and rank twaddle in my ear? Preaching the +dankest Grundyism and upholding the rank customs of our trade - +you, who are so cruel hard upon the customs of the publishers? O +man, look at the Beam in our own Eyes; and whatever else you do, do +not plead Satan's cause, or plead it for all; either embrace the +bad, or respect the good when you see a poor devil trying for it. +If this is the honesty of authors - to take what you can get and +console yourself because publishers are rich - take my name from +the rolls of that association. 'Tis a caucus of weaker thieves, +jealous of the stronger. - Ever yours, + +THE ROARING R. L. S. + +You will see from the enclosed that I have stuck to what I think my +dues pretty tightly in spite of this flourish: these are my words +for a poor ten-pound note! + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, [WINTER, 1884]. + +MY DEAR LAD, - Here was I in bed; not writing, not hearing, and +finding myself gently and agreeably ill used; and behold I learn +you are bad yourself. Get your wife to send us a word how you are. +I am better decidedly. Bogue got his Christmas card, and behaved +well for three days after. It may interest the cynical to learn +that I started my last haemorrhage by too sedulous attentions to my +dear Bogue. The stick was broken; and that night Bogue, who was +attracted by the extraordinary aching of his bones, and is always +inclined to a serious view of his own ailments, announced with his +customary pomp that he was dying. In this case, however, it was +not the dog that died. (He had tried to bite his mother's ankles.) +I have written a long and peculiarly solemn paper on the technical +elements of style. It is path-breaking and epoch-making; but I do +not think the public will be readily convoked to its perusal. Did +I tell you that S. C. had risen to the paper on James? At last! O +but I was pleased; he's (like Johnnie) been lang, lang o' comin', +but here he is. He will not object to my future manoeuvres in the +same field, as he has to my former. All the family are here; my +father better than I have seen him these two years; my mother the +same as ever. I do trust you are better, and I am yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO H. A. JONES + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, DEC. 30, 1884. + +DEAR SIR, - I am so accustomed to hear nonsense spoken about all +the arts, and the drama in particular, that I cannot refrain from +saying 'Thank you,' for your paper. In my answer to Mr. James, in +the December LONGMAN, you may see that I have merely touched, I +think in a parenthesis, on the drama; but I believe enough was said +to indicate our agreement in essentials. + +Wishing you power and health to further enunciate and to act upon +these principles, believe me, dear sir, yours truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, JAN. 4, 1885. + +DEAR S. C., - I am on my feet again, and getting on my boots to do +the IRON DUKE. Conceive my glee: I have refused the 100 pounds, +and am to get some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. 'Tis +for Longman's ENGLISH WORTHIES, edited by A. Lang. Aw haw, haw! + +Now, look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or is +that a dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and certainly +note pages on the fly. If you think it a dream, will Bain get me a +second-hand copy, or who would? The sooner, and cheaper, I can get +it the better. If there is anything in your weird library that +bears on either the man or the period, put it in a mortar and fire +it here instanter; I shall catch. I shall want, of course, an +infinity of books: among which, any lives there may be; a life of +the Marquis Marmont (the Marechal), MARMONT'S MEMOIRS, GREVILLE'S +MEMOIRS, PEEL'S MEMOIRS, NAPIER, that blind man's history of +England you once lent me, Hamley's WATERLOO; can you get me any of +these? Thiers, idle Thiers also. Can you help a man getting into +his boots for such a huge campaign? How are you? A Good New Year +to you. I mean to have a good one, but on whose funds I cannot +fancy: not mine leastways, as I am a mere derelict and drift beam- +on to bankruptcy. + +For God's sake, remember the man who set out for to conquer Arthur +Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty pocket. - Yours ever, + +R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH,] 14TH JANUARY 1885. + +MY DEAR FATHER, - I am glad you like the changes. I own I was +pleased with my hand's darg; you may observe, I have corrected +several errors which (you may tell Mr. Dick) he had allowed to pass +his eagle eye; I wish there may be none in mine; at least, the +order is better. The second title, 'Some new Engineering Questions +involved in the M. S. C. Scheme of last Session of P.', likes me +the best. I think it a very good paper; and I am vain enough to +think I have materially helped to polish the diamond. I ended by +feeling quite proud of the paper, as if it had been mine; the next +time you have as good a one, I will overhaul it for the wages of +feeling as clever as I did when I had managed to understand and +helped to set it clear. I wonder if I anywhere misapprehended you? +I rather think not at the last; at the first shot I know I missed a +point or two. Some of what may appear to you to be wanton changes, +a little study will show to be necessary. + +Yes, Carlyle was ashamed of himself as few men have been; and let +all carpers look at what he did. He prepared all these papers for +publication with his own hand; all his wife's complaints, all the +evidence of his own misconduct: who else would have done so much? +Is repentance, which God accepts, to have no avail with men? nor +even with the dead? I have heard too much against the thrawn, +discomfortable dog: dead he is, and we may be glad of it; but he +was a better man than most of us, no less patently than he was a +worse. To fill the world with whining is against all my views: I +do not like impiety. But - but - there are two sides to all +things, and the old scalded baby had his noble side. - Ever +affectionate son, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, JANUARY 1885. + +DEAR S. C., - I have addressed a letter to the G. O. M., A PROPOS +of Wellington; and I became aware, you will be interested to hear, +of an overwhelming respect for the old gentleman. I can BLAGUER +his failures; but when you actually address him, and bring the two +statures and records to confrontation, dismay is the result. By +mere continuance of years, he must impose; the man who helped to +rule England before I was conceived, strikes me with a new sense of +greatness and antiquity, when I must actually beard him with the +cold forms of correspondence. I shied at the necessity of calling +him plain 'Sir'! Had he been 'My lord,' I had been happier; no, I +am no equalitarian. Honour to whom honour is due; and if to none, +why, then, honour to the old! + +These, O Slade Professor, are my unvarnished sentiments: I was a +little surprised to find them so extreme, and therefore I +communicate the fact. + +Belabour thy brains, as to whom it would be well to question. I +have a small space; I wish to make a popular book, nowhere obscure, +nowhere, if it can be helped, unhuman. It seems to me the most +hopeful plan to tell the tale, so far as may be, by anecdote. He +did not die till so recently, there must be hundreds who remember +him, and thousands who have still ungarnered stories. Dear man, to +the breach! Up, soldier of the iron dook, up, Slades, and at 'em! +(which, conclusively, he did not say: the at 'em-ic theory is to +be dismissed). You know piles of fellows who must reek with +matter; help! help! - Yours ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, FEBRUARY 1885. + +MY DEAR COLVIN, - You are indeed a backward correspondent, and much +may be said against you. But in this weather, and O dear! in this +political scene of degradation, much must be forgiven. I fear +England is dead of Burgessry, and only walks about galvanised. I +do not love to think of my countrymen these days; nor to remember +myself. Why was I silent? I feel I have no right to blame any +one; but I won't write to the G. O. M. I do really not see my way +to any form of signature, unless 'your fellow criminal in the eyes +of God,' which might disquiet the proprieties. + +About your book, I have always said: go on. The drawing of +character is a different thing from publishing the details of a +private career. No one objects to the first, or should object, if +his name be not put upon it; at the other, I draw the line. In a +preface, if you chose, you might distinguish; it is, besides, a +thing for which you are eminently well equipped, and which you +would do with taste and incision. I long to see the book. People +like themselves (to explain a little more); no one likes his life, +which is a misbegotten issue, and a tale of failure. To see these +failures either touched upon, or COASTED, to get the idea of a +spying eye and blabbing tongue about the house, is to lose all +privacy in life. To see that thing, which we do love, our +character, set forth, is ever gratifying. See how my TALK AND +TALKERS went; every one liked his own portrait, and shrieked about +other people's; so it will be with yours. If you are the least +true to the essential, the sitter will be pleased; very likely not +his friends, and that from VARIOUS MOTIVES. + +R. L. S. + +When will your holiday be? I sent your letter to my wife, and +forget. Keep us in mind, and I hope we shall he able to receive +you. + + + +Letter: TO J. A. SYMONDS + + + +BOURNEMOUTH, FEBRUARY 1885. + +MY DEAR SYMONDS, - Yes, we have both been very neglectful. I had +horrid luck, catching two thundering influenzas in August and +November. I recovered from the last with difficulty, but have come +through this blustering winter with some general success; in the +house, up and down. My wife, however, has been painfully upset by +my health. Last year, of course, was cruelly trying to her nerves; +Nice and Hyeres are bad experiences; and though she is not ill, the +doctor tells me that prolonged anxiety may do her a real mischief. + +I feel a little old and fagged, and chary of speech, and not very +sure of spirit in my work; but considering what a year I have +passed, and how I have twice sat on Charon's pierhead, I am +surprising. + +My father has presented us with a very pretty home in this place, +into which we hope to move by May. My CHILD'S VERSES come out next +week. OTTO begins to appear in April; MORE NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS as +soon as possible. Moreover, I am neck deep in Wellington; also a +story on the stocks, GREAT NORTH ROAD. O, I am busy! Lloyd is at +college in Edinburgh. That is, I think, all that can be said by +way of news. + +Have you read HUCKLEBERRY FINN? It contains many excellent things; +above all, the whole story of a healthy boy's dealings with his +conscience, incredibly well done. + +My own conscience is badly seared; a want of piety; yet I pray for +it, tacitly, every day; believing it, after courage, the only gift +worth having; and its want, in a man of any claims to honour, quite +unpardonable. The tone of your letter seemed to me very sound. In +these dark days of public dishonour, I do not know that one can do +better than carry our private trials piously. What a picture is +this of a nation! No man that I can see, on any side or party, +seems to have the least sense of our ineffable shame: the +desertion of the garrisons. I tell my little parable that Germany +took England, and then there was an Indian Mutiny, and Bismarck +said: 'Quite right: let Delhi and Calcutta and Bombay fall; and +let the women and children be treated Sepoy fashion,' and people +say, 'O, but that is very different!' And then I wish I were dead. +Millais (I hear) was painting Gladstone when the news came of +Gordon's death; Millais was much affected, and Gladstone said, +'Why? IT IS THE MAN'S OWN TEMERITY!' Voila le Bourgeois! le voila +nu! But why should I blame Gladstone, when I too am a Bourgeois? +when I have held my peace? Why did I hold my peace? Because I am +a sceptic: I.E. a Bourgeois. We believe in nothing, Symonds; you +don't, and I don't; and these are two reasons, out of a handful of +millions, why England stands before the world dripping with blood +and daubed with dishonour. I will first try to take the beam out +of my own eye, trusting that even private effort somehow betters +and braces the general atmosphere. See, for example, if England +has shown (I put it hypothetically) one spark of manly sensibility, +they have been shamed into it by the spectacle of Gordon. Police- +Officer Cole is the only man that I see to admire. I dedicate my +NEW ARABS to him and Cox, in default of other great public +characters. - Yours ever most affectionately, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 12, 1885. + +MY DEAR GOSSE, - I was indeed much exercised how I could be worked +into Gray; and lo! when I saw it, the passage seemed to have been +written with a single eye to elucidate the - worst? - well, not a +very good poem of Gray's. Your little life is excellent, clean, +neat, efficient. I have read many of your notes, too, with +pleasure. Your connection with Gray was a happy circumstance; it +was a suitable conjunction. + +I did not answer your letter from the States, for what was I to +say? I liked getting it and reading it; I was rather flattered +that you wrote it to me; and then I'll tell you what I did - I put +it in the fire. Why? Well, just because it was very natural and +expansive; and thinks I to myself, if I die one of these fine +nights, this is just the letter that Gosse would not wish to go +into the hands of third parties. Was I well inspired? And I did +not answer it because you were in your high places, sailing with +supreme dominion, and seeing life in a particular glory; and I was +peddling in a corner, confined to the house, overwhelmed with +necessary work, which I was not always doing well, and, in the very +mild form in which the disease approaches me, touched with a sort +of bustling cynicism. Why throw cold water? How ape your +agreeable frame of mind? In short, I held my tongue. + +I have now published on 101 small pages THE COMPLETE PROOF OF MR. +R. L. STEVENSON'S INCAPACITY TO WRITE VERSE, in a series of +graduated examples with table of contents. I think I shall issue a +companion volume of exercises: 'Analyse this poem. Collect and +comminate the ugly words. Distinguish and condemn the CHEVILLES. +State Mr. Stevenson's faults of taste in regard to the measure. +What reasons can you gather from this example for your belief that +Mr. S. is unable to write any other measure?' + +They look ghastly in the cold light of print; but there is +something nice in the little ragged regiment for all; the +blackguards seem to me to smile, to have a kind of childish treble +note that sounds in my ears freshly; not song, if you will, but a +child's voice. + +I was glad you enjoyed your visit to the States. Most Englishmen +go there with a confirmed design of patronage, as they go to France +for that matter; and patronage will not pay. Besides, in this year +of - grace, said I? - of disgrace, who should creep so low as an +Englishman? 'It is not to be thought of that the flood' - ah, +Wordsworth, you would change your note were you alive to-day! + +I am now a beastly householder, but have not yet entered on my +domain. When I do, the social revolution will probably cast me +back upon my dung heap. There is a person called Hyndman whose eye +is on me; his step is beHynd me as I go. I shall call my house +Skerryvore when I get it: SKERRYVORE: C'EST BON POUR LA POESHIE. +I will conclude with my favourite sentiment: 'The world is too +much with me.' + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, +THE HERMIT OF SKERRYVORE. + +Author of 'John Vane Tempest: a Romance,' 'Herbert and Henrietta: +or the Nemesis of Sentiment,' 'The Life and Adventures of Colonel +Bludyer Fortescue,' 'Happy Homes and Hairy Faces,' 'A Pound of +Feathers and a Pound of Lead,' part author of 'Minn's Complete +Capricious Correspondent: a Manual of Natty, Natural, and Knowing +Letters,' and editor of the 'Poetical Remains of Samuel Burt +Crabbe, known as the melodious Bottle-Holder.' + +Uniform with the above: + +'The Life and Remains of the Reverend Jacob Degray Squah,' author +of 'Heave-yo for the New Jerusalem.' 'A Box of Candles; or the +Patent Spiritual Safety Match,' and 'A Day with the Heavenly +Harriers.' + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 13, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW, - Your success has been immense. I wish your letter +had come two days ago: OTTO, alas! has been disposed of a good +while ago; but it was only day before yesterday that I settled the +new volume of Arabs. However, for the future, you and the sons of +the deified Scribner are the men for me. Really they have behaved +most handsomely. I cannot lay my hand on the papers, or I would +tell you exactly how it compares with my English bargain; but it +compares well. Ah, if we had that copyright, I do believe it would +go far to make me solvent, ill-health and all. + +I wrote you a letter to the Rembrandt, in which I stated my views +about the dedication in a very brief form. It will give me sincere +pleasure, and will make the second dedication I have received, the +other being from John Addington Symonds. It is a compliment I +value much; I don't know any that I should prefer. + +I am glad to hear you have windows to do; that is a fine business, +I think; but, alas! the glass is so bad nowadays; realism invading +even that, as well as the huge inferiority of our technical +resource corrupting every tint. Still, anything that keeps a man +to decoration is, in this age, good for the artist's spirit. + +By the way, have you seen James and me on the novel? James, I +think in the August or September - R. L. S. in the December +LONGMAN. I own I think the ECOLE BETE, of which I am the champion, +has the whip hand of the argument; but as James is to make a +rejoinder, I must not boast. Anyway the controversy is amusing to +see. I was terribly tied down to space, which has made the end +congested and dull. I shall see if I can afford to send you the +April CONTEMPORARY - but I dare say you see it anyway - as it will +contain a paper of mine on style, a sort of continuation of old +arguments on art in which you have wagged a most effective tongue. +It is a sort of start upon my Treatise on the Art of Literature: a +small, arid book that shall some day appear. + +With every good wish from me and mine (should I not say 'she and +hers'?) to you and yours, believe me yours ever, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO P. G. HAMERTON + + + +BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 16, 1885. + +MY DEAR HAMERTON, - Various things have been reminding me of my +misconduct: First, Swan's application for your address; second, a +sight of the sheets of your LANDSCAPE book; and last, your note to +Swan, which he was so kind as to forward. I trust you will never +suppose me to be guilty of anything more serious than an idleness, +partially excusable. My ill-health makes my rate of life heavier +than I can well meet, and yet stops me from earning more. My +conscience, sometimes perhaps too easily stifled, but still (for my +time of life and the public manners of the age) fairly well alive, +forces me to perpetual and almost endless transcriptions. On the +back of all this, my correspondence hangs like a thundercloud; and +just when I think I am getting through my troubles, crack, down +goes my health, I have a long, costly sickness, and begin the world +again. It is fortunate for me I have a father, or I should long +ago have died; but the opportunity of the aid makes the necessity +none the more welcome. My father has presented me with a beautiful +house here - or so I believe, for I have not yet seen it, being a +cage bird but for nocturnal sorties in the garden. I hope we shall +soon move into it, and I tell myself that some day perhaps we may +have the pleasure of seeing you as our guest. I trust at least +that you will take me as I am, a thoroughly bad correspondent, and +a man, a hater, indeed, of rudeness in others, but too often rude +in all unconsciousness himself; and that you will never cease to +believe the sincere sympathy and admiration that I feel for you and +for your work. + +About the LANDSCAPE, which I had a glimpse of while a friend of +mine was preparing a review, I was greatly interested, and could +write and wrangle for a year on every page; one passage +particularly delighted me, the part about Ulysses - jolly. Then, +you know, that is just what I fear I have come to think landscape +ought to be in literature; so there we should be at odds. Or +perhaps not so much as I suppose, as Montaigne says it is a pot +with two handles, and I own I am wedded to the technical handle, +which (I likewise own and freely) you do well to keep for a +mistress. I should much like to talk with you about some other +points; it is only in talk that one gets to understand. Your +delightful Wordsworth trap I have tried on two hardened +Wordsworthians, not that I am not one myself. By covering up the +context, and asking them to guess what the passage was, both (and +both are very clever people, one a writer, one a painter) +pronounced it a guide-book. 'Do you think it an unusually good +guide-book?' I asked, and both said, 'No, not at all!' Their +grimace was a picture when I showed the original. + +I trust your health and that of Mrs. Hamerton keep better; your +last account was a poor one. I was unable to make out the visit I +had hoped, as (I do not know if you heard of it) I had a very +violent and dangerous haemorrhage last spring. I am almost glad to +have seen death so close with all my wits about me, and not in the +customary lassitude and disenchantment of disease. Even thus +clearly beheld I find him not so terrible as we suppose. But, +indeed, with the passing of years, the decay of strength, the loss +of all my old active and pleasant habits, there grows more and more +upon me that belief in the kindness of this scheme of things, and +the goodness of our veiled God, which is an excellent and pacifying +compensation. I trust, if your health continues to trouble you, +you may find some of the same belief. But perhaps my fine +discovery is a piece of art, and belongs to a character cowardly, +intolerant of certain feelings, and apt to self-deception. I don't +think so, however; and when I feel what a weak and fallible vessel +I was thrust into this hurly-burly, and with what marvellous +kindness the wind has been tempered to my frailties, I think I +should be a strange kind of ass to feel anything but gratitude. + +I do not know why I should inflict this talk upon you; but when I +summon the rebellous pen, he must go his own way; I am no Michael +Scott, to rule the fiend of correspondence. Most days he will none +of me; and when he comes, it is to rape me where he will. - Yours +very sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 29, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER, - Yes, I have heard of you and read some of your +work; but I am bound in particular to thank you for the notice of +my verses. 'There,' I said, throwing it over to the friend who was +staying with me, 'it's worth writing a book to draw an article like +that.' Had you been as hard upon me as you were amiable, I try to +tell myself I should have been no blinder to the merits of your +notice. For I saw there, to admire and to be very grateful for, a +most sober, agile pen; an enviable touch; the marks of a reader, +such as one imagines for one's self in dreams, thoughtful, +critical, and kind; and to put the top on this memorial column, a +greater readiness to describe the author criticised than to display +the talents of his censor. + +I am a man BLASE to injudicious praise (though I hope some of it +may be judicious too), but I have to thank you for THE BEST +CRITICISM I EVER HAD; and am therefore, dear Mr. Archer, the most +grateful critickee now extant. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - I congratulate you on living in the corner of all London +that I like best. A PROPOS, you are very right about my voluntary +aversion from the painful sides of life. My childhood was in +reality a very mixed experience, full of fever, nightmare, +insomnia, painful days and interminable nights; and I can speak +with less authority of gardens than of that other 'land of +counterpane.' But to what end should we renew these sorrows? The +sufferings of life may be handled by the very greatest in their +hours of insight; it is of its pleasures that our common poems +should be formed; these are the experiences that we should seek to +recall or to provoke; and I say with Thoreau, 'What right have I to +complain, who have not ceased to wonder?' and, to add a rider of my +own, who have no remedy to offer. + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, JUNE 1885.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN, - You know how much and for how long I have +loved, respected, and admired him; I am only able to feel a little +with you. But I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never +knew a better man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel +the loss more greatly as time goes on. It scarce seems life to me; +what must it be to you? Yet one of the last things that he said to +me was, that from all these sad bereavements of yours he had +learned only more than ever to feel the goodness and what we, in +our feebleness, call the support of God; he had been ripening so +much - to other eyes than ours, we must suppose he was ripe, and +try to feel it. I feel it is better not to say much more. It will +be to me a great pride to write a notice of him: the last I can +now do. What more in any way I can do for you, please to think and +let me know. For his sake and for your own, I would not be a +useless friend: I know, you know me a most warm one; please +command me or my wife, in any way. Do not trouble to write to me; +Austin, I have no doubt, will do so, if you are, as I fear you will +be, unfit. + +My heart is sore for you. At least you know what you have been to +him; how he cherished and admired you; how he was never so pleased +as when he spoke of you; with what a boy's love, up to the last, he +loved you. This surely is a consolation. Yours is the cruel part +- to survive; you must try and not grudge to him his better +fortune, to go first. It is the sad part of such relations that +one must remain and suffer; I cannot see my poor Jenkin without +you. Nor you indeed without him; but you may try to rejoice that +he is spared that extremity. Perhaps I (as I was so much his +confidant) know even better than you can do what your loss would +have been to him; he never spoke of you but his face changed; it +was - you were - his religion. + +I write by this post to Austin and to the ACADEMY. - Yours most +sincerely, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, + + + +Letter: TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, JUNE 1885.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN, - I should have written sooner, but we are in +a bustle, and I have been very tired, though still well. Your very +kind note was most welcome to me. I shall be very much pleased to +have you call me Louis, as he has now done for so many years. +Sixteen, you say? is it so long? It seems too short now; but of +that we cannot judge, and must not complain. + +I wish that either I or my wife could do anything for you; when we +can, you will, I am sure, command us. + +I trust that my notice gave you as little pain as was possible. I +found I had so much to say, that I preferred to keep it for another +place and make but a note in the ACADEMY. To try to draw my friend +at greater length, and say what he was to me and his intimates, +what a good influence in life and what an example, is a desire that +grows upon me. It was strange, as I wrote the note, how his old +tests and criticisms haunted me; and it reminded me afresh with +every few words how much I owe to him. + +I had a note from Henley, very brief and very sad. We none of us +yet feel the loss; but we know what he would have said and wished. + +Do you know that Dew Smith has two photographs of him, neither very +bad? and one giving a lively, though not flattering air of him in +conversation? If you have not got them, would you like me to write +to Dew and ask him to give you proofs? + +I was so pleased that he and my wife made friends; that is a great +pleasure. We found and have preserved one fragment (the head) of +the drawing he made and tore up when he was last here. He had +promised to come and stay with us this summer. May we not hope, at +least, some time soon to have one from you? - Believe me, my dear +Mrs. Jenkin, with the most real sympathy, your sincere friend, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Dear me, what happiness I owe to both of you! + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 22, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW, - I trust you are not annoyed with me beyond +forgiveness; for indeed my silence has been devilish prolonged. I +can only tell you that I have been nearly six months (more than +six) in a strange condition of collapse, when it was impossible to +do any work, and difficult (more difficult than you would suppose) +to write the merest note. I am now better, but not yet my own man +in the way of brains, and in health only so-so. I suppose I shall +learn (I begin to think I am learning) to fight this vast, vague +feather-bed of an obsession that now overlies and smothers me; but +in the beginnings of these conflicts, the inexperienced wrestler is +always worsted, and I own I have been quite extinct. I wish you to +know, though it can be no excuse, that you are not the only one of +my friends by many whom I have thus neglected; and even now, having +come so very late into the possession of myself, with a substantial +capital of debts, and my work still moving with a desperate +slowness - as a child might fill a sandbag with its little handfuls +- and my future deeply pledged, there is almost a touch of virtue +in my borrowing these hours to write to you. Why I said 'hours' I +know not; it would look blue for both of us if I made good the +word. + +I was writing your address the other day, ordering a copy of my +next, PRINCE OTTO, to go your way. I hope you have not seen it in +parts; it was not meant to be so read; and only my poverty +(dishonourably) consented to the serial evolution. + +I will send you with this a copy of the English edition of the +CHILD'S GARDEN. I have heard there is some vile rule of the post- +office in the States against inscriptions; so I send herewith a +piece of doggerel which Mr. Bunner may, if he thinks fit, copy off +the fly leaf. + +Sargent was down again and painted a portrait of me walking about +in my own dining-room, in my own velveteen jacket, and twisting as +I go my own moustache; at one corner a glimpse of my wife, in an +Indian dress, and seated in a chair that was once my grandfather's; +but since some months goes by the name of Henry James's, for it was +there the novelist loved to sit - adds a touch of poesy and +comicality. It is, I think, excellent, but is too eccentric to be +exhibited. I am at one extreme corner; my wife, in this wild +dress, and looking like a ghost, is at the extreme other end; +between us an open door exhibits my palatial entrance hall and a +part of my respected staircase. All this is touched in lovely, +with that witty touch of Sargent's; but, of course, it looks dam +queer as a whole. + +Pray let me hear from you, and give me good news of yourself and +your wife, to whom please remember me. - + +Yours most sincerely, my dear Low, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, AUTUMN 1885.] + +DEAR LAD, - If there was any more praise in what you wrote, I think +[the editor] has done us both a service; some of it stops my +throat. What, it would not have been the same if Dumas or Musset +had done it, would it not? Well, no, I do not think it would, do +you know, now; I am really of opinion it would not; and a dam good +job too. Why, think what Musset would have made of Otto! Think +how gallantly Dumas would have carried his crowd through! And +whatever you do, don't quarrel with -. It gives me much pleasure +to see your work there; I think you do yourself great justice in +that field; and I would let no annoyance, petty or justifiable, +debar me from such a market. I think you do good there. Whether +(considering our intimate relations) you would not do better to +refrain from reviewing me, I will leave to yourself: were it all +on my side, you could foresee my answer; but there is your side +also, where you must be the judge. + +As for the SATURDAY. Otto is no 'fool,' the reader is left in no +doubt as to whether or not Seraphina was a Messalina (though much +it would matter, if you come to that); and therefore on both these +points the reviewer has been unjust. Secondly, the romance lies +precisely in the freeing of two spirits from these court intrigues; +and here I think the reviewer showed himself dull. Lastly, if +Otto's speech is offensive to him, he is one of the large class of +unmanly and ungenerous dogs who arrogate and defile the name of +manly. As for the passages quoted, I do confess that some of them +reek Gongorically; they are excessive, but they are not inelegant +after all. However, had he attacked me only there, he would have +scored. + +Your criticism on Gondremark is, I fancy, right. I thought all +your criticisms were indeed; only your praise - chokes me. - Yours +ever, + +R. L. S. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 28, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER, - I have read your paper with my customary +admiration; it is very witty, very adroit; it contains a great deal +that is excellently true (particularly the parts about my stories +and the description of me as an artist in life); but you will not +be surprised if I do not think it altogether just. It seems to me, +in particular, that you have wilfully read all my works in terms of +my earliest; my aim, even in style, has quite changed in the last +six or seven years; and this I should have thought you would have +noticed. Again, your first remark upon the affectation of the +italic names; a practice only followed in my two affected little +books of travel, where a typographical MINAUDERIE of the sort +appeared to me in character; and what you say of it, then, is quite +just. But why should you forget yourself and use these same +italics as an index to my theology some pages further on? This is +lightness of touch indeed; may I say, it is almost sharpness of +practice? + +Excuse these remarks. I have been on the whole much interested, +and sometimes amused. Are you aware that the praiser of this +'brave gymnasium' has not seen a canoe nor taken a long walk since +'79? that he is rarely out of the house nowadays, and carries his +arm in a sling? Can you imagine that he is a backslidden +communist, and is sure he will go to hell (if there be such an +excellent institution) for the luxury in which he lives? And can +you believe that, though it is gaily expressed, the thought is hag +and skeleton in every moment of vacuity or depression? Can you +conceive how profoundly I am irritated by the opposite affectation +to my own, when I see strong men and rich men bleating about their +sorrows and the burthen of life, in a world full of 'cancerous +paupers,' and poor sick children, and the fatally bereaved, ay, and +down even to such happy creatures as myself, who has yet been +obliged to strip himself, one after another, of all the pleasures +that he had chosen except smoking (and the days of that I know in +my heart ought to be over), I forgot eating, which I still enjoy, +and who sees the circle of impotence closing very slowly but quite +steadily around him? In my view, one dank, dispirited word is +harmful, a crime of LESE- HUMANITE, a piece of acquired evil; every +gay, every bright word or picture, like every pleasant air of +music, is a piece of pleasure set afloat; the reader catches it, +and, if he be healthy, goes on his way rejoicing; and it is the +business of art so to send him, as often as possible. + +For what you say, so kindly, so prettily, so precisely, of my +style, I must in particular thank you; though even here, I am vexed +you should not have remarked on my attempted change of manner: +seemingly this attempt is still quite unsuccessful! Well, we shall +fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. + +And now for my last word: Mrs. Stevenson is very anxious that you +should see me, and that she should see you, in the flesh. If you +at all share in these views, I am a fixture. Write or telegraph +(giving us time, however, to telegraph in reply, lest the day be +impossible), and come down here to a bed and a dinner. What do you +say, my dear critic? I shall be truly pleased to see you; and to +explain at greater length what I meant by saying narrative was the +most characteristic mood of literature, on which point I have great +hopes I shall persuade you. - Yours truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +P.S. - My opinion about Thoreau, and the passage in THE WEEK, is +perhaps a fad, but it is sincere and stable. I am still of the +same mind five years later; did you observe that I had said +'modern' authors? and will you observe again that this passage +touches the very joint of our division? It is one that appeals to +me, deals with that part of life that I think the most important, +and you, if I gather rightly, so much less so? You believe in the +extreme moment of the facts that humanity has acquired and is +acquiring; I think them of moment, but still or much less than +those inherent or inherited brute principles and laws that sit upon +us (in the character of conscience) as heavy as a shirt of mail, +and that (in the character of the affections and the airy spirit of +pleasure) make all the light of our lives. The house is, indeed, a +great thing, and should be rearranged on sanitary principles; but +my heart and all my interest are with the dweller, that ancient of +days and day-old infant man. + +R. L. S. + +An excellent touch is p. 584. 'By instinct or design he eschews +what demands constructive patience.' I believe it is both; my +theory is that literature must always be most at home in treating +movement and change; hence I look for them. + + + +Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH,] OCTOBER 28, 1885. + +MY DEAREST FATHER, - Get the November number of TIME, and you will +see a review of me by a very clever fellow, who is quite furious at +bottom because I am too orthodox, just as Purcell was savage +because I am not orthodox enough. I fall between two stools. It +is odd, too, to see how this man thinks me a full-blooded fox- +hunter, and tells me my philosophy would fail if I lost my health +or had to give up exercise! + +An illustrated TREASURE ISLAND will be out next month. I have had +an early copy, and the French pictures are admirable. The artist +has got his types up in Hogarth; he is full of fire and spirit, can +draw and can compose, and has understood the book as I meant it, +all but one or two little accidents, such as making the HISPANIOLA +a brig. I would send you my copy, BUT I CANNOT; it is my new toy, +and I cannot divorce myself from this enjoyment. + +I am keeping really better, and have been out about every second +day, though the weather is cold and very wild. + +I was delighted to hear you were keeping better; you and Archer +would agree, more shame to you! (Archer is my pessimist critic.) +Good-bye to all of you, with my best love. We had a dreadful +overhauling of my conduct as a son the other night; and my wife +stripped me of my illusions and made me admit I had been a +detestable bad one. Of one thing in particular she convicted me in +my own eyes: I mean, a most unkind reticence, which hung on me +then, and I confess still hangs on me now, when I try to assure you +that I do love you. - Ever your bad son, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO HENRY JAMES + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 28, 1885. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES, - At last, my wife being at a concert, and a +story being done, I am at some liberty to write and give you of my +views. And first, many thanks for the works that came to my +sickbed. And second, and more important, as to the PRINCESS. +Well, I think you are going to do it this time; I cannot, of +course, foresee, but these two first numbers seem to me picturesque +and sound and full of lineament, and very much a new departure. As +for your young lady, she is all there; yes, sir, you can do low +life, I believe. The prison was excellent; it was of that nature +of touch that I sometimes achingly miss from your former work; with +some of the grime, that is, and some of the emphasis of skeleton +there is in nature. I pray you to take grime in a good sense; it +need not be ignoble: dirt may have dignity; in nature it usually +has; and your prison was imposing. + +And now to the main point: why do we not see you? Do not fail us. +Make an alarming sacrifice, and let us see 'Henry James's chair' +properly occupied. I never sit in it myself (though it was my +grandfather's); it has been consecrated to guests by your approval, +and now stands at my elbow gaping. We have a new room, too, to +introduce to you - our last baby, the drawing-room; it never cries, +and has cut its teeth. Likewise, there is a cat now. It promises +to be a monster of laziness and self-sufficiency. + +Pray see, in the November TIME (a dread name for a magazine of +light reading), a very clever fellow, W. Archer, stating his views +of me; the rosy-gilled 'athletico-aesthete'; and warning me, in a +fatherly manner, that a rheumatic fever would try my philosophy (as +indeed it would), and that my gospel would not do for 'those who +are shut out from the exercise of any manly virtue save +renunciation.' To those who know that rickety and cloistered +spectre, the real R. L. S., the paper, besides being clever in +itself, presents rare elements of sport. The critical parts are in +particular very bright and neat, and often excellently true. Get +it by all manner of means. + +I hear on all sides I am to be attacked as an immoral writer; this +is painful. Have I at last got, like you, to the pitch of being +attacked? 'Tis the consecration I lack - and could do without. +Not that Archer's paper is an attack, or what either he or I, I +believe, would call one; 'tis the attacks on my morality (which I +had thought a gem of the first water) I referred to. + +Now, my dear James, come - come - come. The spirit (that is me) +says, Come; and the bride (and that is my wife) says, Come; and the +best thing you can do for us and yourself and your work is to get +up and do so right away, - Yours affectionately, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH,] OCTOBER 30, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER. - It is possible my father may be soon down with +me; he is an old man and in bad health and spirits; and I could +neither leave him alone, nor could we talk freely before him. If +he should be here when you offer your visit, you will understand if +I have to say no, and put you off. + +I quite understand your not caring to refer to things of private +knowledge. What still puzzles me is how you ('in the witness box' +- ha! I like the phrase) should have made your argument actually +hinge on a contention which the facts answered. + +I am pleased to hear of the correctness of my guess. It is then as +I supposed; you are of the school of the generous and not the +sullen pessimists; and I can feel with you. I used myself to rage +when I saw sick folk going by in their Bath-chairs; since I have +been sick myself (and always when I was sick myself), I found life, +even in its rough places, to have a property of easiness. That +which we suffer ourselves has no longer the same air of monstrous +injustice and wanton cruelty that suffering wears when we see it in +the case of others. So we begin gradually to see that things are +not black, but have their strange compensations; and when they draw +towards their worst, the idea of death is like a bed to lie on. I +should bear false witness if I did not declare life happy. And +your wonderful statement that happiness tends to die out and misery +to continue, which was what put me on the track of your frame of +mind, is diagnostic of the happy man raging over the misery of +others; it could never be written by the man who had tried what +unhappiness was like. And at any rate, it was a slip of the pen: +the ugliest word that science has to declare is a reserved +indifference to happiness and misery in the individual; it declares +no leaning toward the black, no iniquity on the large scale in +fate's doings, rather a marble equality, dread not cruel, giving +and taking away and reconciling. + +Why have I not written my TIMON? Well, here is my worst quarrel +with you. You take my young books as my last word. The tendency +to try to say more has passed unperceived (my fault, that). And +you make no allowance for the slowness with which a man finds and +tries to learn his tools. I began with a neat brisk little style, +and a sharp little knack of partial observation; I have tried to +expand my means, but still I can only utter a part of what I wish +to say, and am bound to feel; and much of it will die unspoken. +But if I had the pen of Shakespeare, I have no TIMON to give forth. +I feel kindly to the powers that be; I marvel they should use me so +well; and when I think of the case of others, I wonder too, but in +another vein, whether they may not, whether they must not, be like +me, still with some compensation, some delight. To have suffered, +nay, to suffer, sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. +This is a great truth, and has to be learned in the fire. - Yours +very truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +We expect you, remember that. + + + +Letter: TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1, 1885. + +DEAR MR. ARCHER, - You will see that I had already had a sight of +your article and what were my thoughts. + +One thing in your letter puzzles me. Are you, too, not in the +witness-box? And if you are, why take a wilfully false hypothesis? +If you knew I was a chronic invalid, why say that my philosophy was +unsuitable to such a case? My call for facts is not so general as +yours, but an essential fact should not be put the other way about. + +The fact is, consciously or not, you doubt my honesty; you think I +am making faces, and at heart disbelieve my utterances. And this I +am disposed to think must spring from your not having had enough of +pain, sorrow, and trouble in your existence. It is easy to have +too much; easy also or possible to have too little; enough is +required that a man may appreciate what elements of consolation and +joy there are in everything but absolutely over-powering physical +pain or disgrace, and how in almost all circumstances the human +soul can play a fair part. You fear life, I fancy, on the +principle of the hand of little employment. But perhaps my +hypothesis is as unlike the truth as the one you chose. Well, if +it be so, if you have had trials, sickness, the approach of death, +the alienation of friends, poverty at the heels, and have not felt +your soul turn round upon these things and spurn them under - you +must be very differently made from me, and I earnestly believe from +the majority of men. But at least you are in the right to wonder +and complain. + +To 'say all'? Stay here. All at once? That would require a word +from the pen of Gargantua. We say each particular thing as it +comes up, and 'with that sort of emphasis that for the time there +seems to be no other.' Words will not otherwise serve us; no, nor +even Shakespeare, who could not have put AS YOU LIKE IT and TIMON +into one without ruinous loss both of emphasis and substance. Is +it quite fair then to keep your face so steadily on my most light- +hearted works, and then say I recognise no evil? Yet in the paper +on Burns, for instance, I show myself alive to some sorts of evil. +But then, perhaps, they are not your sorts. + +And again: 'to say all'? All: yes. Everything: no. The task +were endless, the effect nil. But my all, in such a vast field as +this of life, is what interests me, what stands out, what takes on +itself a presence for my imagination or makes a figure in that +little tricky abbreviation which is the best that my reason can +conceive. That I must treat, or I shall be fooling with my +readers. That, and not the all of some one else. + +And here we come to the division: not only do I believe that +literature should give joy, but I see a universe, I suppose, +eternally different from yours; a solemn, a terrible, but a very +joyous and noble universe, where suffering is not at least wantonly +inflicted, though it falls with dispassionate partiality, but where +it may be and generally is nobly borne; where, above all (this I +believe; probably you don't: I think he may, with cancer), ANY +BRAVE MAN MAY MAKE out a life which shall be happy for himself, +and, by so being, beneficent to those about him. And if he fails, +why should I hear him weeping? I mean if I fail, why should I +weep? Why should YOU hear ME? Then to me morals, the conscience, +the affections, and the passions are, I will own frankly and +sweepingly, so infinitely more important than the other parts of +life, that I conceive men rather triflers who become immersed in +the latter; and I will always think the man who keeps his lip +stiff, and makes 'a happy fireside clime,' and carries a pleasant +face about to friends and neighbours, infinitely greater (in the +abstract) than an atrabilious Shakespeare or a backbiting Kant or +Darwin. No offence to any of these gentlemen, two of whom probably +(one for certain) came up to my standard. + +And now enough said; it were hard if a poor man could not criticise +another without having so much ink shed against him. But I shall +still regret you should have written on an hypothesis you knew to +be untenable, and that you should thus have made your paper, for +those who do not know me, essentially unfair. The rich, fox- +hunting squire speaks with one voice; the sick man of letters with +another. - Yours very truly, + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +(PROMETHEUS-HEINE IN MINIMIS). + +P.S. - Here I go again. To me, the medicine bottles on my chimney +and the blood on my handkerchief are accidents; they do not colour +my view of life, as you would know, I think, if you had experience +of sickness; they do not exist in my prospect; I would as soon drag +them under the eyes of my readers as I would mention a pimple I +might chance to have (saving your presence) on my posteriors. What +does it prove? what does it change? it has not hurt, it has not +changed me in any essential part; and I should think myself a +trifler and in bad taste if I introduced the world to these +unimportant privacies. + +But, again, there is this mountain-range between us - THAT YOU DO +NOT BELIEVE ME. It is not flattering, but the fault is probably in +my literary art. + + + +Letter: TO W. H. LOW + + + +SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 26, 1885. + +MY DEAR LOW, - LAMIA has not yet turned up, but your letter came to +me this evening with a scent of the Boulevard Montparnasse that was +irresistible. The sand of Lavenue's crumbled under my heel; and +the bouquet of the old Fleury came back to me, and I remembered the +day when I found a twenty franc piece under my fetish. Have you +that fetish still? and has it brought you luck? I remembered, too, +my first sight of you in a frock coat and a smoking-cap, when we +passed the evening at the Cafe de Medicis; and my last when we sat +and talked in the Parc Monceau; and all these things made me feel a +little young again, which, to one who has been mostly in bed for a +month, was a vivifying change. + +Yes, you are lucky to have a bag that holds you comfortably. Mine +is a strange contrivance; I don't die, damme, and I can't get along +on both feet to save my soul; I am a chronic sickist; and my work +cripples along between bed and the parlour, between the medicine +bottle and the cupping glass. Well, I like my life all the same; +and should like it none the worse if I could have another talk with +you, though even my talks now are measured out to me by the minute +hand like poisons in a minim glass. + +A photograph will be taken of my ugly mug and sent to you for +ulterior purposes: I have another thing coming out, which I did +not put in the way of the Scribners, I can scarce tell how; but I +was sick and penniless and rather back on the world, and mismanaged +it. I trust they will forgive me. + +I am sorry to hear of Mrs. Low's illness, and glad to hear of her +recovery. I will announce the coming LAMIA to Bob: he steams away +at literature like smoke. I have a beautiful Bob on my walls, and +a good Sargent, and a delightful Lemon; and your etching now hangs +framed in the dining-room. So the arts surround me. - Yours, + +R. L. S. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg eText The Letters of Robert Louis +Stevenson, Volume 1. + diff --git a/old/rlsl110.zip b/old/rlsl110.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..faac7c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/rlsl110.zip |
