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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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