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diff --git a/622-h/622-h.htm b/622-h/622-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..93bb77c --- /dev/null +++ b/622-h/622-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15052 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his Family and Friends - Volume 1 [of 2], by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .5em; + text-decoration: none;} + span.red { color: red; } + body {background-color: #ffffc0; } + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1906 Methuen and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/cover.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" +title= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1><span class="GutSmall">THE LETTERS OF</span><br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SELECTED AND +EDITED WITH</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">SIDNEY COLVIN</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">VOLUME +I</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +METHUEN AND CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">36 ESSEX STREET</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><i>Seventh +Edition</i></span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Published</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1899</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1899</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>April 1900</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fourth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1900</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fifth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>January 1901</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Sixth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>October 1902</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Seventh Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>December 1906</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the present edition, several +minor errors and misprints have been corrected, and three new +letters have been printed, one addressed to Mr. Austin Dobson +(vol. i. p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page340">340</a></span>), one to Mr. Rudyard Kipling (vol. +ii. p. 215), and one to Mr. George Meredith (vol. ii. p. +302). The two former replace other letters which seemed of +less interest; the last is an addition to the book.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">S. C.</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall"><b>PAGE</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>INTRODUCTION</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagexv">xv</a></span>–xliv</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>I</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH</b><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall"><b>TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Introductory</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p class="gutindent"><span +class="smcap">letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Churchill Babington</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span><b>II</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>STUDENT +DAYS—</b><b><i>continued</i></b><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><b>ORDERED SOUTH</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page92">92</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>III</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR</b><br /> +<span +class="GutSmall"><b>EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page106">106</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. de Mattos</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page116">116</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To A. Patchett Martin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page132">132</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page134">134</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>IV</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT</b><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><b>MONTEREY AND SAN +FRANCISCO</b></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page151">151</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page160">160</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pageix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ix</span>To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. W. Bamford</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To C. W. Stoddard</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page174">174</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>V</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>ALPINE WINTERS</b><br /> +<b>AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS</b></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To A. G. Dew-Smith</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page185">185</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To C. W. Stoddard</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page192">192</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page195">195</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page197">197</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Horatio F. Brown</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page199">199</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page200">200</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page200">200</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagex"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. x</span>To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page201">201</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page202">202</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Professor Æneas Mackay</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page206">206</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page208">208</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page211">211</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page212">212</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page213">213</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page215">215</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page216">216</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page218">218</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page222">222</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page224">224</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alexander Ireland</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page233">233</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Dr. Alexander Japp</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xi</span>To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. T. Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page240">240</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page241">241</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>VI</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>MARSEILLES AND +HYÈRES</b></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Editor of the <i>New York +Tribune</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To R. A. M. Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page252">252</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page253">253</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page254">254</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page254">254</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page256">256</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page257">257</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page261">261</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page262">262</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Sitwell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page263">263</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page265">265</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page266">266</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page267">267</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page268">268</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page269">269</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page270">270</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page271">271</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page272">272</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xii</span>To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page273">273</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page274">274</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Alison Cunningham</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page275">275</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page277">277</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page278">278</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page279">279</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page283">283</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page284">284</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page286">286</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To R. A. M. Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page288">288</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page291">291</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page292">292</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page294">294</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page295">295</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page296">296</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Milne</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page297">297</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Miss Ferrier</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page299">299</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page300">300</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page301">301</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page302">302</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page303">303</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page304">304</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page305">305</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. Dick</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page308">308</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Cosmo Monkhouse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page310">310</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page312">312</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Miss Ferrier</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page313">313</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page314">314</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page315">315</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Cosmo Monkhouse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page316">316</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page318">318</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page319">319</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page320">320</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page321">321</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><b>VII</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH</b></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Letters</span>:—</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page328">328</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page328">328</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Rev. Professor Lewis Campbell</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page330">330</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Andrew Chatto</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page331">331</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page332">332</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page334">334</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Charles Baxter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page337">337</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page337">337</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Miss Ferrier</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page338">338</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page339">339</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Austin Dobson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page340">340</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Henry James</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page341">341</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page343">343</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page344">344</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page345">345</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To H. A. Jones</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page346">346</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page346">346</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page347">347</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Sidney Colvin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page348">348</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page349">349</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>To J. A. Symonds</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page350">350</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Edmund Gosse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page352">352</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page354">354</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To P. G. Hamerton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page356">356</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To William Archer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page358">358</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page359">359</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page360">360</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page361">361</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. E. Henley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page363">363</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To William Archer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page364">364</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Thomas Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page367">367</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Henry James</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page368">368</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To William Archer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page369">369</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To the Same</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page371">371</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To W. H. Low</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page374">374</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Frontispiece</i>—PORTRAIT +OF R. L. STEVENSON, <i>æt.</i> 35<br /> +<i>From a photograph by</i> Mr. <span class="smcap">Lloyd +Osbourne</span></p> +<h2><a name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xv</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> day in the autumn of 1888, in +the island of Tahiti, during an illness which he supposed might +be his last, Stevenson put into the hands of his stepson, Mr. +Lloyd Osbourne, a sealed paper with the request that it should be +opened after his death. He recovered, as every one knows, +and had strength enough to enjoy six years more of active life +and work in the Pacific Islands. When the end came, and the +paper was opened, it was found to contain, among other things, +the expression of his wish that I should be asked to prepare for +publication ‘a selection of his letters and a sketch of his +life.’ The journal letters written to myself from his +Samoan home, subsequently to the date of the request, offered the +readiest material towards fulfilling promptly a part at least of +the duty thus laid upon me; and a selection from these was +accordingly published in the autumn following his death. <a +name="citationxv"></a><a href="#footnotexv" +class="citation">[xv]</a></p> +<p>The scanty leisure of an official life (chiefly employed as it +was for several years in seeing my friend’s collected and +posthumous works through the press) did not allow me to complete +the remainder of my task without considerable delay. For +one thing, the body of correspondence <a name="pagexvi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xvi</span>which came in from various quarters +turned out much larger than had been anticipated, and the labour +of sifting and arranging it much greater. The author of +<i>Treasure Island</i> and <i>Across the Plains</i> and <i>Weir +of Hermiston</i> did not love writing letters, and will be found +somewhere in the following pages referring to himself as one +‘essentially and originally incapable of the art +epistolary.’ That he was a bad correspondent had even +come to be an accepted view among his friends; but in truth it +was only during one particular period of his life (see below, +vol. i. p. 103) that he at all deserved such a reproach. At +other times, as is now apparent, he had shown a degree of +industry and spirit in letter-writing extraordinary considering +his health and occupations, and especially considering his +declared aversion for the task. His letters, it is true, +were often the most informal in the world, and he generally +neglected to date them, a habit which is the despair of editors; +but after his own whim and fashion he wrote a vast number; so +that for every one here included some half-a-dozen at least have +had to be rejected.</p> +<p>In considering the scale and plan on which my friend’s +instruction should be carried out, it seemed necessary to take +into account, not his own always modest opinion of himself, but +the place which, as time went on, he seemed likely to take +ultimately in the world’s regard. The four or five +years following the death of a writer much applauded in his +lifetime are generally the years when the decline of his +reputation begins, if it is going to suffer decline at all. +At present, certainly, Stevenson’s name <a +name="pagexvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xvii</span>seems in +no danger of going down. On the stream of daily literary +reference and allusion it floats more actively than ever. +In another sense its vitality is confirmed by the material test +of continued sales and of the market. Since we have lost +him other writers, whose beginnings he watched with sympathetic +interest, have come to fill a greater immediate place in public +attention; one especially has struck notes which appeal to +dominant fibres in our Anglo-Saxon stock with irresistible force; +but none has exercised Stevenson’s peculiar and personal +power to charm, to attach, and to inspirit. By his study of +perfection in form and style—qualities for which his +countrymen in general have been apt to care little—he might +seem destined to give pleasure chiefly to the fastidious and the +artistically minded. But as to its matter, the main appeal +of his work is not to any mental tastes and fashions of the few; +it is rather to universal, hereditary instincts, to the primitive +sources of imaginative excitement and entertainment in the +race.</p> +<p>By virtue, then, of this double appeal of form and matter; by +his especial hold upon the young, in whose spirit so much of his +best work was done; by his undecaying influence on other writers; +by the spell which he still exercises from the grave, and +exercises most strongly on those who are most familiar with the +best company whether of the living or the dead, Stevenson’s +name and memory, so far as can be judged at present, seem +destined not to dwindle, but to grow. The voice of the +<i>advocatus diaboli</i> has been heard against him, as it is +right and proper that it should be heard <a +name="pagexviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xviii</span>against +any man before his reputation can be held fully +established. One such advocate in this country has thought +to dispose of him by the charge of +‘externality.’ But the reader who remembers +things like the sea-frenzy of Gordon Darnaway, or the dialogue of +Markheim with his other self in the house of murder, or the +re-baptism of the spirit of Seraphina in the forest dews, or the +failure of Herrick to find in the waters of the island lagoon a +last release from dishonour, or the death of Goguelat, or the +appeal of Kirstie Elliot in the midnight chamber—such a +reader can only smile at a criticism like this and put it +by. These and a score of other passages breathe the +essential poetry and significance of things as they reveal +themselves to true masters only—are instinct at once with +the morality and the romance which lie deep together at the soul +of nature and experience. Not in vain had Stevenson read +the lesson of the Lantern-Bearers, and hearkened to the music of +the pipes of Pan. He was feeling his way all his life +towards a fuller mastery of his means, preferring always to leave +unexpressed what he felt that he could not express perfectly; and +in much of his work was content merely to amuse himself and +others. But even when he is playing most fancifully with +his art and his readers, as in the shudders, tempered with +laughter, of the Suicide Club, or the airy sentimental comedy of +Providence and the Guitar, or the schoolboy historical inventions +of Dickon Crookback and the old sailor Arblaster, a writer of his +quality cannot help striking notes from the heart of life and the +inwardness <a name="pagexix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xix</span>of things deeper than will ever be struck, or even +apprehended, by another who labours, with never a smile either of +his own or of his reader’s, upon the most solemn +enterprises of realistic fiction, but is born without the +magician’s touch and insight.</p> +<p>Another advocate on the same side, in the United States, has +made much of the supposed dependence of this author on his +models, and classed him among writers whose inspiration is +imitative and second-hand. But this, surely, is to be quite +misled by the well-known passage of Stevenson’s own, in +which he speaks of himself as having in his prentice years played +the ‘sedulous ape’ to many writers of different +styles and periods. In doing this he was not seeking +inspiration, but simply practising the use of the tools which +were to help him to express his own inspirations. Truly he +was always much of a reader; but it was life, not books, that +always in the first degree allured and taught him.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘He loved of life the myriad sides,<br /> +Pain, prayer, or pleasure, act or sleep,<br /> +As wallowing narwhals love the deep’—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>so with just self-knowledge he wrote of himself; and the books +which he most cared for and lived with were those of which the +writers seemed—to quote again a phrase of his own—to +have been ‘eavesdropping at the door of his heart’; +those which told of moods, impressions, experiences or cravings +after experience, pains, pleasures, opinions or conflicts of the +spirit, which in the eagerness of youthful living and thinking +had already <a name="pagexx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xx</span>been his own. No man, in fact, was ever less +inclined to take anything at second-hand. The root of all +originality was in him, in the shape of an extreme natural +vividness of perception, imagination, and feeling. An +instinctive and inbred unwillingness to accept the accepted and +conform to the conventional was of the essence of his character, +whether in life or art, and was a source to him both of strength +and weakness. He would not follow a general +rule—least of all if it was a prudential rule—of +conduct unless he was clear that it was right according to his +private conscience; nor would he join, in youth, in the ordinary +social amusements of his class when he had once found out that +they did not amuse <i>him</i>; nor wear their clothes if he could +not feel at ease and be himself in them; nor use, whether in +speech or writing, any trite or inanimate form of words that did +not faithfully and livingly express his thought. A readier +acceptance of current usages might have been better for him, but +was simply not in his nature. ‘Damp gingerbread +puppets’ were to him the persons who lived and thought and +felt and acted only as was expected of them. ‘To see +people skipping all round us with their eyes sealed up with +indifference, knowing nothing of the earth or man or woman, going +automatically to offices and saying they are happy or unhappy, +out of a sense of duty I suppose, surely at least from no sense +of happiness or unhappiness, unless perhaps they have a tooth +that twinges—is it not like a bad dream?’ No +reader of this book will close it, I am sure, without feeling +that he has been throughout in the company of a spirit various <a +name="pagexxi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxi</span>indeed and +many-mooded, but profoundly sincere and real. Ways that in +another might easily have been mere signs of affectation were in +him the true expression of a nature ten times more spontaneously +itself and individually alive than that of others. +Self-consciousness, in many characters that possess it, deflects +and falsifies conduct; and so does the dramatic instinct. +Stevenson was self-conscious in a high degree, but only as a part +of his general activity of mind; only in so far as he could not +help being an extremely intelligent spectator of his own doings +and feelings; these themselves came from springs of character and +impulse much too deep and strong to be diverted. He loved +also, with a child’s or actor’s gusto, to play a part +and make a drama out of life; <a name="citationxxi"></a><a +href="#footnotexxi" class="citation">[xxi]</a> but the part was +always for the moment his very own: he had it not in him to pose +for anything but what he truly was.</p> +<p>When a man so constituted had once mastered his craft of +letters, he might take up whatever instrument he pleased with the +instinctive and just confidence that he would play upon it to a +tune and with a manner of his own. This is indeed the true +mark and test of his originality. He has no need to be, or +to seem, especially original in the form and mode of literature +which he attempts. By his choice of these he may at any +time give himself and his reader the pleasure of recalling, like +a familiar air, some strain of literary association; but in so +doing he only adds a secondary charm to his work; the vision, the +temperament, the mode of conceiving and handling, are in every +case <a name="pagexxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxii</span>strongly personal to himself. He may try his +hand in youth at a Sentimental Journey, but R. L. S. cannot +choose but be at the opposite pole of human character and feeling +from Laurence Sterne. In tales of mystery, allegorical or +other, he may bear in mind the precedent of Edgar Poe, and yet +there is nothing in style and temper much wider apart than +<i>Markheim</i> and <i>Jekyll and Hyde</i> are from the +<i>Murders in the Rue Morgue</i> or <i>William Wilson</i>. +He may set out to tell a pirate story for boys ‘exactly in +the ancient way,’ and it will come from him not in the +ancient way at all, but re-minted; marked with a sharpness and +saliency in the characters, a private stamp of buccaneering +ferocity combined with smiling humour, an energy of vision and +happy vividness of presentment, which are shiningly his +own. Another time, he may desert the paths of Kingston and +Ballantyne the brave for those of Sir Walter Scott; but +literature presents few stronger contrasts than between any scene +of <i>Waverley</i> or <i>Redgauntlet</i> and any scene of the +<i>Master of Ballantrae</i> or <i>Catriona</i>, whether in their +strength or weakness: and it is the most loyal lovers of the +older master who take the greatest pleasure in reading the work +of the younger, so much less opulently gifted as is +probable—though we must remember that Stevenson died at the +age when Scott wrote <i>Waverley</i>—so infinitely more +careful of his gift. Stevenson may even blow upon the pipe +of Burns, and yet his tune will be no echo, but one which utters +the heart and mind of a Scots poet who has his own outlook on +life, his own special and profitable vein of smiling or satirical +contemplation.</p> +<p><a name="pagexxiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxiii</span>Not by reason, then, of ‘externality,’ +for sure, nor yet of imitativeness, will this writer lose his +hold on the attention and regard of his countrymen. The +debate, before his place in literature is settled, must rather +turn on other points: as whether the genial essayist and egoist +or the romantic inventor and narrator was the stronger in +him—whether the Montaigne and Pepys elements prevailed in +his literary composition or the Scott and Dumas elements—a +question indeed which among those who care for him most has +always been at issue. Or again, what degree of true +inspiring and illuminating power belongs to the gospel, or +gospels, airily encouraging or gravely didactic, which are set +forth in the essays with so captivating a grace? Or whether +in romance and tale he had a power of happily inventing and +soundly constructing a whole fable comparable to his +unquestionable power of conceiving and presenting single scenes +and situations in a manner which stamps them indelibly on the +reader’s mind. And whether his figures are sustained +continuously by the true, large, spontaneous breath of creation, +or are but transitorily animated at critical and happy moments by +flashes of spiritual and dramatic insight, aided by the conscious +devices of his singularly adroit and spirited art? This is +a question which no criticism but that of time can solve; it +takes the consenting instinct of generations to feel whether the +creatures of fiction, however powerfully they may strike at +first, are durably and equably, or ephemerally and fitfully, +alive. To contend, as some do, that strong creative +impulse, and so keen an artistic <a name="pagexxiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxiv</span>self-consciousness as +Stevenson’s was, cannot exist together, is quite +idle. The truth, of course, is that the deep-seated +energies of imaginative creation are found sometimes in +combination, and sometimes not in combination, with an artistic +intelligence thus keenly conscious of its own purpose and +watchful of its own working.</p> +<p>Once more, it may be questioned whether, among the many +varieties of work which Stevenson has left, all touched with +genius, all charming and stimulating to the literary sense, all +distinguished by a grace and precision of workmanship which are +the rarest qualities in English art, there are any which can be +pointed to as absolute masterpieces, such as the future cannot be +expected to let die. Let the future decide. What is +certain is that posterity must either be very well, or very ill, +occupied if it can consent to give up so much sound +entertainment, and better than entertainment, as this writer +afforded his contemporaries. In the meantime, among +judicious readers on both sides of the Atlantic, Stevenson +stands, I think it may safely be said, as a true master of +English prose; unsurpassed for the union of lenity and lucidity +with suggestive pregnancy and poetic animation; for harmony of +cadence and the well-knit structure of sentences; and for the art +of imparting to words the vital quality of things, and making +them convey the precise—sometimes, let it be granted, the +too curiously precise—expression of the very shade and +colour of the thought, feeling, or vision in his mind. He +stands, moreover, as the writer who, in the last quarter of the +nineteenth <a name="pagexxv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxv</span>century, has handled with the most of freshness and +inspiriting power the widest range of established literary +forms—the moral, critical, and personal essay, travels +sentimental and other, romances and short tales both historical +and modern, parables and tales of mystery, boys’ stories of +adventure, memoirs—nor let lyrical and meditative verse +both English and Scottish, and especially nursery verse, a new +vein for genius to work in, be forgotten. To some of these +forms Stevenson gave quite new life; through all alike he +expressed vividly an extremely personal way of seeing and being, +a sense of nature and romance, of the aspects of human existence +and problems of human conduct, which was essentially his +own. And in so doing he contrived to make friends and even +lovers of his readers. Those whom he attracts at all (and +there is no writer who attracts every one) are drawn to him over +and over again, finding familiarity not lessen but increase the +charm of his work, and desiring ever closer intimacy with the +spirit and personality which they divine behind it.</p> +<p>As to the fitting scale, then, on which to treat the memory of +a man who fills five years after his death such a place as this +in the public regard, the words ‘selection’ and +‘sketch’ have evidently to be given a pretty liberal +interpretation. Readers, it must be supposed, will scarce +be content without both a fairly full biography, and the +opportunity of a fairly ample intercourse with the man as he was +accustomed to reveal himself in writing to his familiars. +As to form—Stevenson’s own words and the nature of +the material alike seem to <a name="pagexxvi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxvi</span>indicate that the <i>Life</i> and +the <i>Letters</i> should be kept separate. There are some +kinds of correspondence which can conveniently be woven into the +body and texture of a biography, though indeed I think it is a +plan to which biographers are much too partial. Nothing, +surely, more checks the flow of a narrative than its interruption +by stationary blocks of correspondence; nothing more disconcerts +the reader than a too frequent or too abrupt alternation of +voices between the subject of a biography speaking in his letters +and the writer of it speaking in his narrative. At least it +is only when letters are occupied, as Macaulay’s for +instance were, almost entirely with facts and events, that they +can without difficulty be handled in this way. But events +and facts, ‘sordid facts,’ as he called them, were +not very often suffered to intrude into Stevenson’s +correspondence. ‘I deny,’ he writes, +‘that letters should contain news (I mean mine; those of +other people should). But mine should contain appropriate +sentiments and humorous nonsense, or nonsense without the +humour.’ Business letters, letters of information, +and letters of courtesy he had sometimes to write: but when he +wrote best was under the influence of the affection or +impression, or the mere whim or mood, of the moment; pouring +himself out in all manner of rhapsodical confessions and +speculations, grave or gay, notes of observation and criticism, +snatches of remembrance and autobiography, moralisings on matters +uppermost for the hour in his mind, comments on his own work or +other people’s, or mere idle fun and foolery.</p> +<p><a name="pagexxvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxvii</span>With a letter-writer of this character, as it seems +to me, a judicious reader desires to be left as much alone as +possible. What he wants is to relish the correspondence by +itself, or with only just so much in the way of notes and +introductions as may serve to make allusions and situations +clear. Two volumes, then, of letters so edited, to be +preceded by a separate introductory volume of narrative and +critical memoir, or <i>étude</i>—such was to be the +memorial to my friend which I had planned, and hoped by this time +to have ready. Unfortunately, the needful leisure has +hitherto failed me, and might fail me for some time yet, to +complete the separate volume of biography. That is now, at +the wish of the family, to be undertaken by Stevenson’s +cousin and my friend, Mr. Graham Balfour. Meanwhile the +<i>Letters</i>, with introductions and notes somewhat extended +from the original plan, are herewith presented as a substantive +work by themselves.</p> +<p>The book will enable those who know and love their Stevenson +already to know him more intimately, and, as I hope, to love him +more. It contains, certainly, much that is most essentially +characteristic of the man. To some, perhaps, that very lack +of art as a correspondent of which we have found him above +accusing himself may give the reading an added charm and +flavour. What he could do as an artist we know—what a +telling power and heightened thrill he could give to all his +effects, in so many different modes of expression and +composition, by calculated skill and the deliberate exercise of a +perfectly trained faculty. This is the quality which nobody +<a name="pagexxviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxviii</span>denies him, and which so deeply impressed his +fellow-craftsmen of all kinds. I remember the late Sir John +Millais, a shrewd and very independent judge of books, calling +across to me at a dinner-table, ‘You know Stevenson, +don’t you?’ and then going on, ‘Well, I wish +you would tell him from me, if he cares to know, that to my mind +he is the very first of living artists. I don’t mean +writers merely, but painters and all of us: nobody living can see +with such an eye as that fellow, and nobody is such a master of +his tools.’ Now in his letters, excepting a few +written in youth, and having more or less the character of +exercises, and a few in after years which were intended for the +public eye, Stevenson the deliberate artist is scarcely +forthcoming at all. He does not care a fig for order or +logical sequence or congruity, or for striking a key of +expression and keeping it, but becomes simply the most +spontaneous and unstudied of human beings. He will write +with the most distinguished elegance on one day, with simple good +sense and good feeling on a second, with flat triviality on +another, and with the most slashing, often ultra-colloquial, +vehemence on a fourth, or will vary through all these moods and +more in one and the same letter. He has at his command the +whole vocabularies of the English and Scottish languages, +classical and slang, with good stores of the French, and tosses +and tumbles them about irresponsibly to convey the impression or +affection, the mood or freak of the moment. Passages or +phrases of the craziest schoolboy or seafaring slang come +tumbling after and capping others of classical <a +name="pagexxix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxix</span>cadence +and purity, of poetical and heartfelt eloquence. By<span +class="smcap"> </span>this medley of moods and manners, +Stevenson’s letters at their best—the pick, let us +say, of those in the following volumes which were written from +Hyères or Bournemouth—come nearer than anything else +to the full-blooded charm and variety of his conversation.</p> +<p>Nearer, yet not quite near; for it was in company only that +this genial spirit rose to his very best. Those whom his +writings charm or impress, but who never knew him, can but +imagine how doubly they would have been charmed and impressed by +his presence. Few men probably, certainly none that I have +ever seen or read of, have had about them such a richness and +variety of human nature; and few can ever have been better gifted +than he was to express the play of being that was in him by means +of the apt, expressive word and the animated look and +gesture. <i>Divers et ondoyant</i>, in the words of +Montaigne, beyond other men, he seemed to contain within himself +a whole troop of singularly assorted characters—the poet +and artist, the moralist and preacher, the humourist and jester, +the man of great heart and tender conscience, the man of eager +appetite and curiosity, the Bohemian, impatient of restraints and +shams, the adventurer and lover of travel and of action: +characters, several of them, not rare separately, especially +among his Scottish fellow-countrymen, but rare indeed to be found +united, and each in such fulness and intensity, within the bounds +of a single personality.</p> +<p>Before all things Stevenson was a born poet, to whom the world +was full of enchantment and of latent romance, <a +name="pagexxx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxx</span>only +waiting to take shape and substance in the forms art. It +was his birthright—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘to +hear<br /> +The great bell beating far and near—<br /> +The odd, unknown, enchanted gong<br /> +That on the road hales men along,<br /> +That from the mountain calls afar,<br /> +That lures the vessel from a star,<br /> +And with a still, aerial sound<br /> +Makes all the earth enchanted ground.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>At the same time, he was not less a born preacher and moralist +after his fashion. A true son of the Covenanters, he had +about him little spirit of social or other conformity; but an +active and searching private conscience kept him for ever calling +in question both the grounds of his own conduct and the validity +of the accepted codes and compromises of society. He must +try to work out a scheme of morality suitable to his own case and +temperament, which found the prohibitory law of Moses chill and +uninspiring, but in the Sermon on the Mount a strong incentive to +all those impulses of pity and charity to which his heart was +prone. In youth his sense of social injustice and the +inequalities of human opportunity made him inwardly much of a +rebel, who would have embraced and acted on theories of socialism +or communism, could he have found any that did not seem to him at +variance with ineradicable instincts of human nature. <a +name="citationxxx"></a><a href="#footnotexxx" +class="citation">[xxx]</a> <a name="pagexxxi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxxi</span>All his life the artist and the +moralist in him alike were in rebellion against the bourgeois +spirit,—against timid, negative, and shuffling substitutes +for active and courageous well-doing,—and declined to +worship at the shrine of what he called the bestial goddesses +Comfort and Respectability. The moralist in him helped the +artist by backing with the force of a highly sensitive conscience +his instinctive love of perfection in his work. The poet +and artist qualified the moralist by discountenancing any +preference for the harsh, the sour, or the self-mortifying forms +of virtue, and encouraging the love for all tender or heroic, +glowing, generous and cheerful forms.</p> +<p>In another aspect of his many-sided being Stevenson was not +less a born adventurer and practical experimentalist in +life. Many poets are content to dream, and many, perhaps +most, moralists to preach; but Stevenson must ever be doing and +undergoing. He was no sentimentalist, to pay himself with +fine feelings whether for mean action or slack inaction. He +had an insatiable zest for all experiences, not the pleasurable +only, but including even the more harsh and biting—those +that bring home to a man the pinch and sting of existence as it +is realised by the disinherited of the world, and excluding only +what he thought the prim, the conventional, the dead-alive, and +the cut-and-dry. On occasion the experimentalist and man of +adventure in him would enter into special partnership with the +moralist and man of conscience; he loved to find himself in +difficult social passes and ethical dilemmas for the sake of +trying to behave in them to the utmost <a +name="pagexxxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxii</span>according to his own personal sense of the +obligations of honour, duty, and kindness. In yet another +part of his being, he cherished, as his great countryman Scott +had done before him, an intense underlying longing for the life +of action, danger, and command. ‘Action, Colvin, +action,’ I remember his crying eagerly to me with his hand +on my arm as we lay basking for his health’s sake in a boat +off the scented shores of the Cap St. Martin. Another +time—this was on his way to a winter cure at +Davos—some friend had given him General Hamley’s +<i>Operations of War</i>:—‘in which,’ he writes +to his father, ‘I am drowned a thousand fathoms deep, and O +that I had been a soldier is still my cry.’ In so +frail a tabernacle was it that the aspirations of the artist, the +unconventional moralist, the lover of all experience, and the +lover of daring action had to learn to reconcile themselves as +best they might. Frail as it was, it contained withal a +strong animal nature, and he was as much exposed to the storms +and solicitations of sense as to the cravings and questionings of +the spirit. Fortunately, with all these ardent and divers +instincts, there were present two invaluable gifts +besides—that of humour, which for all his stress of being +and vivid consciousness of self saved him from ever seeing +himself for long together out of a just proportion, and kept +wholesome laughter always ready at his lips; and that of a +perfectly warm, loyal, and tender heart, which through all his +experiments and agitations made the law of kindness the one +ruling law of his life. In the end, lack of health +determined his <a name="pagexxxiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxiii</span>career, giving the chief part in his life to the +artist and man of imagination, and keeping the man of action a +prisoner in the sickroom until, by a singular turn of destiny, he +was able to wring a real, prolonged, and romantically successful +adventure out of that voyage to the Pacific which had been, in +its origin, the last despairing resource of the invalid.</p> +<p>To take this multiple personality from another point of view, +it was part of his genius that he never seemed to be cramped like +the rest of us, at any given time of life, within the limits of +his proper age, but to be child, boy, young man, and old man all +at once. There was never a time in his life when Stevenson +had to say with St. Augustine, ‘Behold! my childhood is +dead, but I am alive.’ The child, as his <i>Garden of +Verses</i> vividly attests, and as will be seen by abundant +evidence in the course of the following pages, lived on always in +him, not in memory only, but in real survival, with all its +freshness of perception unimpaired, and none of its play +instincts in the least degree extinguished or made ashamed. +As for the perennial boy in Stevenson, that is too apparent to +need remark. It was as a boy for boys that he wrote the +best known of his books, <i>Treasure Island</i>; with all boys +that he met, provided they were really boys and not prigs nor +puppies, he was instantly at home; and the ideal of a career +which he most inwardly and longingly cherished, the ideals of +practical adventure and romance, of desirable predicaments and +gratifying modes of escape from them, were from first to last +those of a boy. At the same time, even when I first <a +name="pagexxxiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxiv</span>knew +him, there were about him occasional traits and glimpses of old +sagacity, of premature life-wisdom and experience, such as find +expression, for instance, in the essay <i>Virginibus +Puerisque</i>, among other matter more according with his then +age of twenty-six.</p> +<p>Again, it is said that in every poet there must be something +of the woman—the receptivity, the emotional nature. +If to be impressionable in the extreme, quick in sympathy and +feeling, ardent in attachment, and full of pity for the weak and +suffering, is to be womanly, Stevenson was certainly all those; +he was even like a woman in being +<i>ἀρτίδακρυς</i>, +easily moved to tears at the touch of pity or affection, or even +at any specially poignant impression of art or beauty. But +yet, if any one word were to be chosen for the predominant +quality of his character and example, I suppose that word would +be manly. In all his habits and instincts he was the least +effeminate of men; and effeminacy, or aught approaching +sexlessness, was perhaps the only quality in man with which he +had no patience. In his gentle and complying nature there +were strains of iron tenacity and will. He had both kinds +of physical courage—the active, delighting in danger, and +the passive, unshaken in endurance. In the moral courage of +facing situations and consequences, of cheerful self-discipline +and readiness to pay for faults committed, of outspokenness, +admitting no ambiguous relations and clearing away the clouds +from human intercourse, I have not known his equal. His +great countryman Scott, as this book will prove, was not more +manfully free from artistic jealousy or the <a +name="pagexxxv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxv</span>least +shade of irritability under criticism, or more modestly and +unfeignedly inclined to exaggerate the qualities of other +people’s work and to underrate those of his own. His +severest critic was always himself; the next most severe, those +of his own household and intimacy, whose love made them jealous +lest he should fall short of his best; for he lived in an +atmosphere of love, indeed, but not of flattery. Of the +humorous and engaging parts of vanity and egoism, which led him +to make infinite talk and fun about himself, and use his own +experiences as a key for unlocking the confidences of others, +Stevenson had plenty; but of the morose and fretful parts never a +shade. ‘A little Irish girl,’ he wrote once +during a painful crisis of his life, ‘is now reading my +book aloud to her sister at my elbow; they chuckle, and I feel +flattered.—Yours, R. L. S. <i>P.S.</i> Now they yawn, +and I am indifferent. Such a wisely conceived thing is +vanity.’ If only vanity so conceived were +commoner! And whatever might be the abstract and +philosophical value of that somewhat grimly stoical conception of +the universe, of conduct and duty, at which in mature years he +had arrived, want of manliness is certainly not its fault. +Nor is any such want to be found in the practice which he founded +on or combined with it; in his invincible gaiety and sweetness +under sufferings and deprivations the most galling to him; in the +temper which made his presence in health or sickness a perpetual +sunshine to those about him. Take the kind of maxims of +life which he was accustomed to forge for himself and to act +by:—‘Acts may be forgiven; not <a +name="pagexxxvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxvi</span>even +God can forgive the hanger-back.’ ‘Choose the +best, if you can; or choose the worst; that which hangs in the +wind dangles from a gibbet.’ ‘“Shall +I?” said Feeble-mind; and the echo said, +“Fie!”’ ‘“Do I love?” +said Loveless; and the echo laughed.’ ‘A fault +known is a fault cured to the strong; but to the weak it is a +fetter riveted.’ ‘The mean man doubts, the +great-hearted is deceived.’ ‘Great-heart was +deceived. “Very well,” said +Great-heart.’ ‘“I have not forgotten my +umbrella,” said the careful man; but the lightning struck +him.’ ‘Nullity wanted nothing; so he supposed +he wanted advice.’ ‘Evil was called Youth till +he was old, and then he was called Habit.’ +‘Fear kept the house; and still he must pay +taxes.’ ‘Shame had a fine bed, but where was +slumber? Once he was in jail he slept.’ With +this moralist maxims meant actions; and where shall we easily +find a much manlier spirit of wisdom than this?</p> +<p>There was yet another and very different side to Stevenson +which struck others more than it struck myself, namely, that of +the perfectly freakish, not perfectly human, irresponsible madcap +or jester which sometimes appeared in him. It is true that +his demoniac quickness of wit and intelligence suggested +occasionally a ‘spirit of air and fire’ rather than +one of earth; that he was abundantly given to all kinds of quirk +and laughter; and that there was no jest (saving the unkind) he +would not make and relish. In the streets of Edinburgh he +had certainly been known for queer pranks and mystifications in +youth; and up to middle life there seemed <a +name="pagexxxvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxvii</span>to +some of his friends to be much, if not of the Puck, at least of +the Ariel, about him. The late Mr. J. A. Symonds always +called him Sprite; qualifying the name, however, by the epithets +‘most fantastic, but most human.’ To me the +essential humanity was always the thing most apparent. In a +fire well nourished of seasoned ship-timber, the flames glance +fantastically and of many colours, but the glow at heart is ever +deep and strong; it was at such a glow that the friends of +Stevenson were accustomed to warm their hands, while they admired +and were entertained by the shifting lights.</p> +<p>It was only in talk, as I have said, that all the many lights +and colours of this richly compounded spirit could be seen in +full play. He would begin no matter how—in early days +often with a jest at his own absurd garments, or with the +recitation, in his vibrating voice and full Scotch accent, of +some snatch of poetry that was haunting him, or with a rhapsody +of analytic delight over some minute accident of beauty or +expressiveness that had struck his observation, and would have +escaped that of everybody else, in man, woman, child, or external +nature. And forthwith the floodgates would be opened, and +the talk would stream on in endless, never importunate, flood and +variety. A hundred fictitious characters would be invented, +differentiated, and launched on their imaginary careers; a +hundred ingenious problems of conduct and cases of honour would +be set and solved, in a manner often quite opposed to +conventional precept; romantic voyages would be planned and +followed out in vision, with a thousand incidents, to all the +corners <a name="pagexxxviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xxxviii</span>of our own planet and of others; the possibilities +of life and art would be illuminated with glancing search-lights +of bewildering range and penetration, the most sober argument +alternating with the maddest freaks of fancy, high poetic +eloquence with coruscations of insanely apposite slang—the +earthiest jape anon shooting up into the empyrean and changing +into the most ethereal fantasy—the stalest and most +vulgarised forms of speech gaining brilliancy and illuminating +power from some hitherto undreamt-of application—and all +the while an atmosphere of goodwill diffusing itself from the +speaker, a glow of eager benignity and affectionate laughter +emanating from his presence, till every one about him seemed to +catch something of his own gift and inspiration. This +sympathetic power of inspiring others was the special and +distinguishing note of Stevenson’s conversation. He +would keep a houseful or a single companion entertained all day, +and day after day and half the nights, yet never seemed to +dominate the talk or absorb it; rather he helped every one about +him to discover and to exercise unexpected powers of their +own. The point could hardly be better brought out than it +is in a fragment which I borrow from Mr. Henley of an unpublished +character-sketch of his friend: ‘I leave his praise in this +direction (the telling of Scottish vernacular stories) to +others. It is more to my purpose to note that he will +discourse with you of morals, music, marbles, men, manners, +metaphysics, medicine, mangold-wurzel—<i>que +scays-je</i>?—with equal insight into essentials and equal +pregnancy and felicity of utterance; and that he will <a +name="pagexxxix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxxix</span>stop +with you to make mud pies in the first gutter, range in your +company whatever heights of thought and feeling you have found +accessible, and end by guiding you to altitudes far nearer the +stars than you have ever dreamed of footing it; and that at the +last he makes you wonder which to admire the more—his easy +familiarity with the Eternal Veracities or the brilliant flashes +of imbecility with which his excursions into the Infinite are +sometimes diversified. He radiates talk, as the sun does +light and heat; and after an evening—or a week—with +him, you come forth with a sense of satisfaction in your own +capacity which somehow proves superior even to the inevitable +conclusion that your brilliance was but the reflection of his +own, and that all the while you were only playing the part of +Rubinstein’s piano or Sarasate’s violin.’</p> +<p>All this the reader should imagine as helped by the most +speaking of presences: a steady, penetrating fire in the wide-set +eyes, a compelling power and sweetness in the smile; courteous, +waving gestures of the arms and long, nervous hands, a lit +cigarette generally held between the fingers; continual rapid +shiftings and pacings to and fro as he conversed: rapid, but not +flurried nor awkward, for there was a grace in his attenuated but +well-carried figure, and his movements were light, deft, and full +of spring. When I first knew him he was passing through a +period of neatness between two of Bohemian carelessness as to +dress; so that the effect of his charm was immediate. At +other times of his youth there was something for strangers, and +even for friends, to get over in <a name="pagexl"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xl</span>the odd garments which it was his +whim to wear—the badge, as they always seemed to me, partly +of a genuine carelessness, certainly of a genuine lack of cash +(the little he had was always absolutely at the disposal of his +friends), partly of a deliberate detachment from any particular +social class or caste, partly of his love of pickles and +adventures, which he thought befel a man thus attired more +readily than another. But this slender, slovenly, +nondescript apparition, long-visaged and long-haired, had only to +speak in order to be recognised in the first minute for a witty +and charming gentleman, and within the first five for a master +spirit and man of genius. There were, indeed, certain +stolidly conventional and superciliously official kinds of +persons, both at home and abroad, who were incapable of looking +beyond the clothes, and eyed him always with frozen +suspicion. This attitude used sometimes in youth to drive +him into fits of flaming anger, which put him helplessly at a +disadvantage unless, or until, he could call the sense of humour +to his help. For the rest, his human charm was the same for +all kinds of people, without the least distinction of class or +caste; for worldly wise old great ladies, whom he reminded of +famous poets in their youth; for his brother artists and men of +letters, perhaps, above all; for the ordinary clubman; for his +physicians, who could never do enough for him; for domestic +servants, who adored him; for the English policeman even, on whom +he often tried, quite in vain, to pass himself as one of the +criminal classes; for the common seaman, the shepherd, the street +arab, or the tramp. Even in the imposed silence <a +name="pagexli"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xli</span>and +restraint of extreme sickness the magnetic power and attraction +of the man made itself felt, and there seemed to be more vitality +and fire of the spirit in him as he lay exhausted and speechless +in bed than in an ordinary roomful of people in health.</p> +<p>But I have strayed from my purpose, which is only to indicate +that in the best of these letters of Stevenson’s you have +some echo, far away indeed, but yet the nearest, of his +talk—talk which could never be taken down, and has left +only an ineffaceable impression in the memory of his +friends. The letters, it should be added, do not represent +him at all fully until about the thirtieth year of his age, the +beginning of the settled and married period of his life. +From then onwards, and especially from the beginning of Part +<span class="GutSmall">VI</span>. (the Hyères period), +they present a pretty full and complete autobiography, if not of +doings, at any rate of moods and feelings. In the earlier +periods, his correspondence for the most part expresses his real +self either too little or else one-sidedly. I have omitted +very many letters of his boyish and student days as being too +immature or uninteresting; and many of the confidences and +confessions of his later youth, though they are those of a +beautiful spirit, whether as too intimate, or as giving a +disproportionate prominence to passing troubles. When he is +found in these days writing in a melancholy or minor key, it must +be remembered that at the same moment, in direct intercourse with +any friend, his spirits would instantly rise, and he would be +found the gayest of laughing companions. Very many letters +or snatches <a name="pagexlii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xlii</span>of letters of nearly all dates to his familiars have +also been omitted as not intelligible without a knowledge of the +current jests, codes, and catchwords of conversation between him +and them. At one very interesting period of his life, from +about his twenty-fifth to his twenty-ninth year, he disused the +habit of letter-writing almost entirely.</p> +<p>In choosing from among what remained I have used the best +discretion that I could. Stevenson’s feelings and +relations throughout life were in almost all directions so warm +and kindly, that next to nothing had to be suppressed from fear +of giving pain. On the other hand, he drew people towards +him with so much confidence and affection, and met their openness +with so much of his own, that an editor could not but feel the +frequent risk of inviting readers to trespass too far on purely +private affairs and feelings, including those of the +living. This was a point upon which in his lifetime he felt +strongly. That excellent critic, Mr. Walter Raleigh, has +noticed, as one of the merits of Stevenson’s personal +essays and accounts of travel, that few men have written more or +more attractively of themselves without ever taking the public +unduly into familiarity or overstepping proper bounds of +reticence. Public prying into private lives, the +propagation of gossip by the press, and printing of private +letters during the writer’s lifetime, were things he +hated. Once, indeed, he very superfluously gave himself a +dangerous cold by dancing before a bonfire in his garden at the +news of a ‘society’ editor having been committed to +prison; and the only approach to a difference he ever had with +one of his lifelong friends <a name="pagexliii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xliii</span>arose from the publication, +without permission, of one of his letters written on his first +Pacific voyage (see below, vol. ii. p. 121).</p> +<p>How far, then, must I regard his instructions about +publication as authorising me to go after his death beyond the +limits which he had been so careful in observing and desiring +others to observe in life? How much may now fairly become +public of that which had been held sacred and hitherto private +among his friends? To cut out all that is strictly personal +and intimate were to leave his story untold and half the charm of +his character unrevealed; to put in too much were to break all +bonds of that privacy which he so carefully regarded while he +lived. I know not if I have at all been able to hit the +mean, and to succeed in making these letters, as it has been my +object to make them, present, without offence or intrusion, a +just, a living, and a proportionate picture of the man, so far as +they will yield it. There is one respect in which his own +practice and principle has had to be in some degree violated, if +the work was to be done at all. Except in the single case +of the essay ‘Ordered South,’ he would never in +writing for the public adopt the invalid point of view, or invite +any attention to his infirmities. ‘To me,’ he +says, ‘the medicine bottles on my chimney and the blood on +my handkerchief are accidents; they do not colour my view of +life; and I should think myself a trifler and in bad taste if I +introduced the world to these unimportant privacies.’ +But from his letters to his family and friends, these matters +could not possibly be quite left out. <a +name="pagexliv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xliv</span>The tale +of his life, in the years when he was most of a correspondent, +was in truth a tale of daily and nightly battle against weakness +and physical distress and danger. To those who loved him, +the incidents of this battle were communicated, sometimes +gravely, sometimes laughingly. I have very greatly cut down +such bulletins, but could not manage to omit them +altogether. Generally speaking, I have used the editorial +privilege of omission without scruple where I thought it +desirable. And in regard to the text, I have not held +myself bound to reproduce all the author’s minor +eccentricities of spelling and the like. As all his friends +are aware, to spell in a quite accurate and grown-up manner was a +thing which this master of English letters was never able to +learn; but to reproduce such trivial slips in print is, I think, +to distract the reader’s attention from the main +matter. A normal orthography has therefore been adopted +throughout.</p> +<p>Lastly, I have to express my thanks to my friend Mr. George +Smith, proprietor of the <i>Dictionary of National Biography</i>, +for permission to reprint in this and in following sectional +introductions a few paragraphs from that work.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">S. C.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 1899.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>I<br /> +STUDENT DAYS AT EDINBURGH<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TRAVELS AND EXCURSIONS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1868–1873</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>INTRODUCTION.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following section consists +chiefly of extracts from the correspondence and journals +addressed by Louis Stevenson, as a lad of eighteen to twenty-two, +to his father and mother during summer excursions to the Scottish +coast or to the continent. There exist enough of them to +fill a volume; but it is not in letters of this kind to his +family that a young man unbosoms himself most freely, and these +are perhaps not quite devoid of the qualities of the guide-book +and the descriptive exercise. Nevertheless, they seem to me +to contain enough signs of the future master-writer, enough of +character, observation, and skill in expression, to make a few +worth giving by way of an opening chapter to the present +book. Among them are interspersed one or two of a different +character addressed to other correspondents.</p> +<p>But, first, it is desirable that readers not acquainted with +the circumstances and conditions of Stevenson’s parentage +and early life should be here, as briefly as possible, informed +of them. On both sides of the house he came of capable and +cultivated stock. His grandfather was Robert Stevenson, +civil engineer, highly distinguished as the builder of the Bell +Rock lighthouse. By this Robert Stevenson, his three sons, +and two of his grandsons now living, the business of civil +engineers in general, and of official engineers to the +Commissioners <a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>of Northern Lights in particular, has been carried on at +Edinburgh with high credit and public utility for almost a +century. Thomas Stevenson, the youngest of the three sons +of the original Robert, was Robert Louis Stevenson’s +father. He was a man not only of mark, zeal, and +inventiveness in his profession, but of a singularly interesting +personality; a staunch friend and sagacious adviser, trenchant in +judgment and demonstrative in emotion, outspoken, +dogmatic,—despotic, even, in little things, but withal +essentially chivalrous and soft-hearted; apt to pass with the +swiftest transition from moods of gloom or sternness to those of +tender or freakish gaiety, and commanding a gift of humorous and +figurative speech second only to that of his more famous son.</p> +<p>Thomas Stevenson was married to Margaret Isabella, youngest +daughter of the Rev. Lewis Balfour, for many years minister of +the parish of Colinton in Midlothian. This Mr. Balfour +(described by his grandson in the essay called ‘The +Manse’) was of the stock of the Balfours of Pilrig, and +grandson to that James Balfour, professor first of moral +philosophy, and afterwards of the law of nature and of nations, +who was held in particular esteem as a philosophical +controversialist by David Hume. His wife, Henrietta Smith, +a daughter of the Rev. George Smith of Galston, to whose gift as +a preacher Burns refers scoffingly in the <i>Holy Fair</i>, is +said to have been a woman of uncommon beauty and charm of +manner. Their daughter, Mrs. Thomas Stevenson, suffered in +early and middle life from chest and nerve troubles, and her son +may have inherited from her some of his constitutional <a +name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>weakness as +well as of his social and intellectual vivacity and his taste for +letters. Robert Louis (baptized Robert Lewis Balfour) +Stevenson was born on November 13, 1850, at 8 Howard Place, +Edinburgh, and was the only child of his parents. His +health was infirm from the first, and he was with difficulty kept +alive by the combined care of a capable and watchful mother and a +perfectly devoted nurse, Alison Cunningham; to whom his lifelong +gratitude will be found touchingly expressed in the course of the +following letters. In 1858 he was near dying of a gastric +fever, and was at all times subject to acute catarrhal and +bronchial affections and extreme nervous excitability. In +January 1853 his parents moved to 1 Inverleith Terrace, and in +May 1857 to 17 Heriot Row, which continued to be their Edinburgh +home until the death of Thomas Stevenson in 1887. Much of +his time was also spent in the manse of Colinton on the Water of +Leith, the home of his maternal grandfather. Of this place +his childish recollections were happy and idyllic, while those of +city life were coloured rather by impressions of sickness, fever, +and nocturnal terrors. If, however, he suffered much as a +child from the distresses, he also enjoyed to the full the +pleasures, of imagination. Illness confined him much within +the house, but imagination kept him always content and +busy. In the days of the Crimean war some one gave the +child a cheap toy sword; and when his father depreciated it, he +said, ‘I tell you, the sword is of gold, and the sheath of +silver, and the boy is very well off and quite +contented.’ As disabilities closed in on him in after +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>life, he +would never grumble at any gift, however niggardly, of fortune, +and the anecdote is as characteristic of the man as of the +child. He was eager and full of invention in every kind of +play, whether solitary or sociable, and seems to have been +treated as something of a small, sickly prince among a whole +cousinhood of playmates of both the Balfour and the Stevenson +connections. He was also a greedy reader, or rather +listener to reading; for it was not until his eighth year that he +began to read easily or habitually to himself. He has +recorded how his first conscious impression of pleasure from the +sound and cadence of words was received from certain passages in +M‘Cheyne’s hymns as recited to him by his +nurse. Bible stories, the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, +and Mayne Reid’s tales were especially, and it would seem +equally, his delight. He began early to take pleasure in +attempts at composition of his own. A history of Moses, +dictated in his sixth year, and an account of travels in Perth, +in his ninth, are still extant. Ill health prevented him +getting much regular or continuous schooling. He attended +first (1858–61) a preparatory school kept by a Mr. +Henderson in India Street; and next (at intervals for some time +after the autumn of 1861) the Edinburgh Academy. One of his +tutors at the former school writes: ‘He was the most +delightful boy I ever knew; full of fun, full of tender feeling, +ready for his lessons, ready for a story, ready for +fun.’ From very early days, both as child and boy, he +must have had something of that power to charm which +distinguished him above other men in after life. ‘I +loike that bo-o-o-o-y,’ a heavy Dutchman <a +name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>was heard +saying to himself over and over again, whom at the age of about +thirteen he had held in amused conversation during a whole +passage from Ostend. The same quality, with the signs which +he always showed of quick natural intelligence when he chose to +learn, must have helped to spare him many punishments from +teachers which he earned by persistent and ingenious +truantry. ‘I think,’ remarks his mother, +‘they liked talking to him better than teaching +him.’</p> +<p>For a few months in the autumn of 1863, when his parents had +been ordered to winter at Mentone for the sake of his +mother’s health, he was sent to a boarding-school kept by a +Mr. Wyatt at Spring Grove, near London. It is not my +intention to treat the reader to the series of childish and +boyish letters of these days which parental fondness has +preserved. But here is one written from his English school +when he was about thirteen, which is both amusing in itself and +had a certain influence on his destiny, inasmuch as his appeal +led to his being taken out to join his parents on the French +Riviera; which from that day forward he never ceased to love, and +for which the longing, amid the gloom of Edinburgh winters, often +afterwards gripped him by the heart.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Spring Grove School</i>, +12<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1863.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MA CHERE MAMAN</span>,—Jai recu +votre lettre Aujourdhui et comme le jour prochaine est mon jour +de naisance je vous écrit ce lettre. Ma grande +gatteaux est arrivé il leve 12 livres et demi le prix +etait 17 shillings. Sur la soirée de Monseigneur +Faux il y etait quelques belles feux d’artifice. Mais +les polissons entrent dans notre champ et nos feux <a +name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>d’artifice et handkerchiefs disappeared quickly, +but we charged them out of the field. Je suis presque +driven mad par une bruit terrible tous les garcons kik up comme +grand un bruit qu’ll est possible. I hope you will +find your house at Mentone nice. I have been obliged to +stop from writing by the want of a pen, but now I have one, so I +will continue.</p> +<p>My dear papa, you told me to tell you whenever I was +miserable. I do not feel well, and I wish to get home.</p> +<p>Do take me with you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">2 <i>Sulyarde Terrace</i>, +<i>Torquay</i>, <i>Thursday</i> (<i>April</i> 1866).</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">RESPECTED PATERNAL +RELATIVE</span>,—I write to make a request of the most +moderate nature. Every year I have cost you an +enormous—nay, elephantine—sum of money for drugs and +physician’s fees, and the most expensive time of the twelve +months was March.</p> +<p>But this year the biting Oriental blasts, the howling +tempests, and the general ailments of the human race have been +successfully braved by yours truly.</p> +<p>Does not this deserve remuneration?</p> +<p>I appeal to your charity, I appeal to your generosity, I <a +name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>appeal to your +justice, I appeal to your accounts, I appeal, in fine, to your +purse.</p> +<p>My sense of generosity forbids the receipt of more—my +sense of justice forbids the receipt of less—than +half-a-crown.—Greeting from, Sir, your most affectionate +and needy son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wick</i>, <i>Friday</i>, +<i>September</i> 11, 1868.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—. . . Wick +lies at the end or elbow of an open triangular bay, hemmed on +either side by shores, either cliff or steep earth-bank, of no +great height. The grey houses of Pulteney extend along the +southerly shore almost to the cape; and it is about half-way down +this shore—no, six-sevenths way down—that the new +breakwater extends athwart the bay.</p> +<p>Certainly Wick in itself possesses no beauty: bare, grey +shores, grim grey houses, grim grey sea; not even the gleam of +red tiles; not even the greenness of a tree. The southerly +heights, when I came here, were black with people, fishers +waiting on wind and night. Now all the S.Y.S. (Stornoway +boats) have beaten out of the bay, and the Wick men stay indoors +or wrangle on the quays <a name="page16"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 16</span>with dissatisfied fish-curers, +knee-high in brine, mud, and herring refuse. The day when +the boats put out to go home to the Hebrides, the girl here told +me there was ‘a black wind’; and on going out, I +found the epithet as justifiable as it was picturesque. A +cold, <i>black</i> southerly wind, with occasional rising showers +of rain; it was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of +it.</p> +<p>In Wick I have never heard any one greet his neighbour with +the usual ‘Fine day’ or ‘Good +morning.’ Both come shaking their heads, and both +say, ‘Breezy, breezy!’ And such is the +atrocious quality of the climate, that the remark is almost +invariably justified by the fact.</p> +<p>The streets are full of the Highland fishers, lubberly, +stupid, inconceivably lazy and heavy to move. You bruise +against them, tumble over them, elbow them against the +wall—all to no purpose; they will not budge; and you are +forced to leave the pavement every step.</p> +<p>To the south, however, is as fine a piece of coast scenery as +I ever saw. Great black chasms, huge black cliffs, rugged +and over-hung gullies, natural arches, and deep green pools below +them, almost too deep to let you see the gleam of sand among the +darker weed: there are deep caves too. In one of these +lives a tribe of gipsies. The men are <i>always</i> drunk, +simply and truthfully always. From morning to evening the +great villainous-looking fellows are either sleeping off the last +debauch, or hulking about the cove ‘in the +horrors.’ The cave is deep, high, and airy, and might +be made comfortable enough. But they just live among heaped +boulders, damp with continual droppings from above, with no more +furniture than two or three tin pans, a truss of rotten straw, +and a few ragged cloaks. In winter the surf bursts into the +mouth and often forces them to abandon it.</p> +<p>An <i>émeute</i> of disappointed fishers was feared, +and two ships of war are in the bay to render assistance to the +municipal authorities. This is the ides; and, to all +intents and purposes, said ides are passed. Still there is +a good <a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>deal of disturbance, many drunk men, and a double supply +of police. I saw them sent for by some people and enter an +inn, in a pretty good hurry: what it was for I do not know.</p> +<p>You would see by papa’s letter about the carpenter who +fell off the staging: I don’t think I was ever so much +excited in my life. The man was back at his work, and I +asked him how he was; but he was a Highlander, and—need I +add it?—dickens a word could I understand of his +answer. What is still worse, I find the people +here-about—that is to say, the Highlanders, not the +northmen—don’t understand <i>me</i>.</p> +<p>I have lost a shilling’s worth of postage stamps, which +has damped my ardour for buying big lots of ’em: I’ll +buy them one at a time as I want ’em for the future.</p> +<p>The Free Church minister and I got quite thick. He left +last night about two in the morning, when I went to turn +in. He gave me the enclosed.—I remain your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wick</i>, September 5, +1868. <i>Monday</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MAMMA</span>,—This +morning I got a delightful haul: your letter of the fourth +(surely mis-dated); Papa’s of same day; Virgil’s +<i>Bucolics</i>, very thankfully received; and Aikman’s +<i>Annals</i>, <a name="citation17"></a><a href="#footnote17" +class="citation">[17]</a> a precious and most acceptable +donation, for which I tender my most ebullient +thanksgivings. I almost forgot to drink my tea and eat mine +egg.</p> +<p>It contains more detailed accounts than anything I ever saw, +except Wodrow, without being so portentously tiresome and so +desperately overborne with footnotes, proclamations, acts of +Parliament, and citations as that last history.</p> +<p><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>I have +been reading a good deal of Herbert. He’s a clever +and a devout cove; but in places awfully twaddley (if I may use +the word). Oughtn’t this to rejoice Papa’s +heart—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Carve or discourse; do not a famine +fear.<br /> +Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.’</p> +<p>You understand? The ‘fearing a famine’ is +applied to people gulping down solid vivers without a word, as if +the ten lean kine began to-morrow.</p> +<p>Do you remember condemning something of mine for being too +obtrusively didactic. Listen to Herbert—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Is it not verse except enchanted +groves<br /> +And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?<br /> +Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves?<br /> +<i>Must all be veiled</i>, <i>while he that reads divines</i><br +/> +<i>Catching the sense at two removes</i>?’</p> +<p>You see, ‘except’ was used for +‘unless’ before 1630.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Tuesday</i>.—The riots were a hum. No more has +been heard; and one of the war-steamers has deserted in +disgust.</p> +<p>The <i>Moonstone</i> is frightfully interesting: isn’t +the detective prime? Don’t say anything about the +plot; for I have only read on to the end of Betteredge’s +narrative, so don’t know anything about it yet.</p> +<p>I thought to have gone on to Thurso to-night, but the coach +was full; so I go to-morrow instead.</p> +<p>To-day I had a grouse: great glorification.</p> +<p>There is a drunken brute in the house who disturbed my rest +last night. He’s a very respectable man in general, +but when on the ‘spree’ a most consummate fool. +When he came in he stood on the top of the stairs and preached in +the dark with great solemnity and no audience from 12 <span +class="GutSmall">P.M.</span> to half-past one. At last I +opened my door. ‘Are we to have no sleep at all for +that <i>drunken brute</i>?’ I said. As I hoped, +it had the desired effect. <a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span>‘Drunken brute!’ he +howled, in much indignation; then after a pause, in a voice of +some contrition, ‘Well, if I am a drunken brute, it’s +only once in the twelvemonth!’ And that was the end +of him; the insult rankled in his mind; and he retired to +rest. He is a fish-curer, a man over fifty, and pretty rich +too. He’s as bad again to-day; but I’ll be shot +if he keeps me awake, I’ll douse him with water if he makes +a row.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wick</i>, <i>September</i> +1868. <i>Saturday</i>, 10 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span></p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—The last +two days have been dreadfully hard, and I was so tired in the +evenings that I could not write. In fact, last night I went +to sleep immediately after dinner, or very nearly so. My +hours have been 10–2 and 3–7 out in the lighter or +the small boat, in a long, heavy roll from the +nor’-east. When the dog was taken out, he got awfully +ill; one of the men, Geordie Grant by name and surname, followed +<i>shoot</i> with considerable <i>éclat</i>; but, +wonderful to relate! I kept well. My hands are all skinned, +blistered, discoloured, and engrained with tar, some of which +latter has established itself under my nails in a position of +such natural strength that it defies all my efforts to dislodge +it. The worst work I had was when David (MacDonald’s +eldest) and I took the charge ourselves. He remained in the +lighter to tighten or slacken the guys as we raised the pole +towards the perpendicular, with two men. I was with four +men in the boat. We dropped an anchor out a good bit, then +tied a cord to the pole, took a turn round the sternmost thwart +with it, and pulled on the anchor line. As the great, big, +wet hawser came in it soaked you to the skin: I was the sternest +(used, by way of variety, for sternmost) of the lot, and had to +coil it—a work which involved, from <i>its</i> being so +stiff and <i>your</i> <a name="page20"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 20</span>being busy pulling with all your +might, no little trouble and an extra ducking. We got it +up; and, just as we were going to sing ‘Victory!’ one +of the guys slipped in, the pole tottered—went over on its +side again like a shot, and behold the end of our labour.</p> +<p>You see, I have been roughing it; and though some parts of the +letter may be neither very comprehensible nor very interesting to +<i>you</i>, I think that perhaps it might amuse Willie Traquair, +who delights in all such dirty jobs.</p> +<p>The first day, I forgot to mention, was like mid-winter for +cold, and rained incessantly so hard that the livid white of our +cold-pinched faces wore a sort of inflamed rash on the windward +side.</p> +<p>I am not a bit the worse of it, except fore-mentioned state of +hands, a slight crick in my neck from the rain running down, and +general stiffness from pulling, hauling, and tugging for dear +life.</p> +<p>We have got double weights at the guys, and hope to get it up +like a shot.</p> +<p>What fun you three must be having! I hope the cold +don’t disagree with you.—I remain, my dear mother, +your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pulteney</i>, <i>Wick</i>, +<i>Sunday</i>, <i>September</i> 1868.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Another +storm: wind higher, rain thicker: the wind still rising as the +night closes in and the sea slowly rising along with it; it looks +like a three days’ gale.</p> +<p><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>Last +week has been a blank one: always too much sea.</p> +<p>I enjoyed myself very much last night at the R.’s. +There was a little dancing, much singing and supper.</p> +<p>Are you not well that you do not write? I haven’t +heard from you for more than a fortnight.</p> +<p>The wind fell yesterday and rose again to-day; it is a +dreadful evening; but the wind is keeping the sea down as +yet. Of course, nothing more has been done to the poles; +and I can’t tell when I shall be able to leave, not for a +fortnight yet, I fear, at the earliest, for the winds are +persistent. Where’s Murra? Is Cummie struck +dumb about the boots? I wish you would get somebody to +write an interesting letter and say how you are, for you’re +on the broad of your back I see. There hath arrived an +inroad of farmers to-night; and I go to avoid them to M— if +he’s disengaged, to the R.’s if not.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Sunday</i> (<i>later</i>).—Storm without: wind and +rain: a confused mass of wind-driven rain-squalls, wind-ragged +mist, foam, spray, and great, grey waves. Of this +hereafter; in the meantime let us follow the due course of +historic narrative.</p> +<p>Seven <span class="GutSmall">P.M.</span> found me at +Breadalbane Terrace, clad in spotless blacks, white tie, shirt, +et cætera, and finished off below with a pair of +navvies’ boots. How true that the devil is betrayed +by his feet! A message to Cummy at last. Why, O +treacherous woman! were my dress boots withheld?</p> +<p>Dramatis personæ: père R., amusing, long-winded, +in many points like papa; mère R., nice, delicate, likes +hymns, knew Aunt Margaret (’t’ould man knew Uncle +Alan); fille R., nommée Sara (no h), rather nice, lights +up well, good voice, <i>interested</i> face; Miss L., nice also, +washed out a little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils R., +in a Leith office, smart, full of happy epithet, amusing. +They are very nice and very kind, asked me to come +back—‘any night you feel dull; and any night <a +name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>doesn’t +mean no night: we’ll be so glad to see you.’ +<i>Cest la mère qui parle</i>.</p> +<p>I was back there again to-night. There was hymn-singing, +and general religious controversy till eight, after which talk +was secular. Mrs. S. was deeply distressed about the boot +business. She consoled me by saying that many would be glad +to have such feet whatever shoes they had on. +Unfortunately, fishers and seafaring men are too facile to be +compared with! This looks like enjoyment: better speck than +Anster.</p> +<p>I have done with frivolity. This morning I was awakened +by Mrs. S. at the door. ‘There’s a ship ashore +at Shaltigoe!’ As my senses slowly flooded, I heard +the whistling and the roaring of wind, and the lashing of +gust-blown and uncertain flaws of rain. I got up, dressed, +and went out. The mizzled sky and rain blinded you.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p22b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Diagram" +title= +"Diagram" + src="images/p22s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>C D is the new pier.</p> +<p>A the schooner ashore. B the salmon house.</p> +<p>She was a Norwegian: coming in she saw our first gauge-pole, +standing at point E. Norse skipper thought it was a sunk smack, +and dropped his anchor in full drift of sea: chain broke: +schooner came ashore. Insured laden with wood: skipper +owner of vessel and cargo bottom out.</p> +<p>I was in a great fright at first lest we should be liable; but +it seems that’s all right.</p> +<p>Some of the waves were twenty feet high. The spray <a +name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>rose eighty +feet at the new pier. Some wood has come ashore, and the +roadway seems carried away. There is something fishy at the +far end where the cross wall is building; but till we are able to +get along, all speculation is vain.</p> +<p>I am so sleepy I am writing nonsense.</p> +<p>I stood a long while on the cope watching the sea below me; I +hear its dull, monotonous roar at this moment below the shrieking +of the wind; and there came ever recurring to my mind the verse I +am so fond of:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But yet the Lord that is on high<br /> + Is more of might by far<br /> +Than noise of many waters is<br /> + Or great sea-billows are.’</p> +<p>The thunder at the wall when it first struck—the rush +along ever growing higher—the great jet of snow-white spray +some forty feet above you—and the ‘noise of many +waters,’ the roar, the hiss, the ‘shrieking’ +among the shingle as it fell head over heels at your feet. +I watched if it threw the big stones at the wall; but it never +moved them.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Monday</i>.—The end of the work displays gaps, cairns +of ten ton blocks, stones torn from their places and turned right +round. The damage above water is comparatively little: what +there may be below, <i>on ne sait pas encore</i>. The +roadway is torn away, cross heads, broken planks tossed here and +there, planks gnawn and mumbled as if a starved bear had been +trying to eat them, planks with spales lifted from them as if +they had been dressed with a rugged plane, one pile swaying to +and fro clear of the bottom, the rails in one place sunk a foot +at least. This was not a great storm, the waves were light +and short. Yet when we are standing at the office, I felt +the ground beneath me <i>quail</i> as a huge roller thundered on +the work at the last year’s cross wall.</p> +<p><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>How +could <i>noster amicus Q. maximus</i> appreciate a storm at +Wick? It requires a little of the artistic temperament, of +which Mr. T. S., <a name="citation24"></a><a href="#footnote24" +class="citation">[24]</a> C.E., possesses some, whatever he may +say. I can’t look at it practically however: that +will come, I suppose, like grey hair or coffin nails.</p> +<p>Our pole is snapped: a fortnight’s work and the loss of +the Norse schooner all for nothing!—except experience and +dirty clothes.—Your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Churchill babington</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston Cottage</i>, +<i>Lothianburn</i>, <i>Summer</i> 1871.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MAUD</span>,—If you have +forgotten the hand-writing—as is like enough—you will +find the name of a former correspondent (don’t know how to +spell that word) at the end. I have begun to write to you +before now, but always stuck somehow, and left it to drown in a +drawerful of like fiascos. This time I am determined to +carry through, though I have nothing specially to say.</p> +<p>We look fairly like summer this morning; the trees are +blackening out of their spring greens; the warmer suns have +melted the hoarfrost of daisies of the paddock; and the +blackbird, I fear, already beginning to ‘stint his pipe of +mellower days’—which is very apposite (I can’t +spell anything to-day—<i>one</i> p or <i>two</i>?) and +pretty. All the same, we have been having shocking +weather—cold winds and grey skies.</p> +<p>I have been reading heaps of nice books; but I can’t go +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>back so +far. I am reading Clarendon’s <i>Hist. Rebell.</i> at +present, with which I am more pleased than I expected, which is +saying a good deal. It is a pet idea of mine that one gets +more real truth out of one avowed partisan than out of a dozen of +your sham impartialists—wolves in sheep’s +clothing—simpering honesty as they suppress +documents. After all, what one wants to know is not what +people did, but why they did it—or rather, why they +<i>thought</i> they did it; and to learn that, you should go to +the men themselves. Their very falsehood is often more than +another man’s truth.</p> +<p>I have possessed myself of Mrs. Hutchinson, which, of course, +I admire, etc. But is there not an irritating deliberation +and correctness about her and everybody connected with her? +If she would only write bad grammar, or forget to finish a +sentence, or do something or other that looks fallible, it would +be a relief. I sometimes wish the old Colonel had got drunk +and beaten her, in the bitterness of my spirit. I know I +felt a weight taken off my heart when I heard he was +extravagant. It is quite possible to be too good for this +evil world; and unquestionably, Mrs. Hutchinson was. The +way in which she talks of herself makes one’s blood run +cold. There—I am glad to have got that out—but +don’t say it to anybody—seal of secrecy.</p> +<p>Please tell Mr. Babington that I have never forgotten one of +his drawings—a Rubens, I think—a woman holding up a +model ship. That woman had more life in her than ninety per +cent. of the lame humans that you see crippling about this +earth.</p> +<p>By the way, that is a feature in art which seems to have come +in with the Italians. Your old Greek statues have scarce +enough vitality in them to keep their monstrous bodies fresh +withal. A shrewd country attorney, in a turned white +neckcloth and rusty blacks, would just take one of these +Agamemnons and Ajaxes quietly by his beautiful, strong arm, trot +the unresisting statue down a <a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>little gallery of legal shams, and +turn the poor fellow out at the other end, ‘naked, as from +the earth he came.’ There is more latent life, more +of the coiled spring in the sleeping dog, about a recumbent +figure of Michael Angelo’s than about the most excited of +Greek statues. The very marble seems to wrinkle with a wild +energy that we never feel except in dreams.</p> +<p>I think this letter has turned into a sermon, but I had +nothing interesting to talk about.</p> +<p>I do wish you and Mr. Babington would think better of it and +come north this summer. We should be so glad to see you +both. <i>Do</i> reconsider it.—Believe me, my dear +Maud, ever your most affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">1871?</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—I was +greatly pleased by your letter in many ways. Of course, I +was glad to hear from you; you know, you and I have so many old +stories between us, that even if there was nothing else, even if +there was not a very sincere respect and affection, we should +always be glad to pass a nod. I say ‘even if there +was not.’ But you know right well there is. Do +not suppose that I shall ever forget those long, bitter nights, +when I coughed and coughed and was so unhappy, and you were so +patient and loving with a poor, sick child. Indeed, Cummy, +I wish I might become a man worth talking of, if it were only +that you should not have thrown away your pains.</p> +<p><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>Happily, it is not the result of our acts that makes +them brave and noble, but the acts themselves and the unselfish +love that moved us to do them. ‘Inasmuch as you have +done it unto one of the least of these.’ My dear old +nurse, and you know there is nothing a man can say nearer his +heart except his mother or his wife—my dear old nurse, God +will make good to you all the good that you have done, and +mercifully forgive you all the evil. And next time when the +spring comes round, and everything is beginning once again, if +you should happen to think that you might have had a child of +your own, and that it was hard you should have spent so many +years taking care of some one else’s prodigal, just you +think this—you have been for a great deal in my life; you +have made much that there is in me, just as surely as if you had +conceived me; and there are sons who are more ungrateful to their +own mothers than I am to you. For I am not ungrateful, my +dear Cummy, and it is with a very sincere emotion that I write +myself your little boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Louis</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Dunblane</i>, <i>Friday</i>, +5<i>th</i> <i>March</i> 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—By the +date you may perhaps understand the purport of my letter without +any words wasted about the matter. I cannot walk with you +to-morrow, and you must not expect me. I came yesterday +afternoon to Bridge of Allan, and have been very happy ever +since, as every place is sanctified by the eighth sense, +Memory. I walked up here this morning (three miles, +<i>tu-dieu</i>! a good stretch for me), and passed one of my +favourite places in the world, and one that I very much affect in +spirit when the body is tied down and brought immovably <a +name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>to anchor on +a sickbed. It is a meadow and bank on a corner on the +river, and is connected in my mind inseparably with +Virgil’s <i>Eclogues</i>. <i>Hic corulis mistos inter +consedimus ulmos</i>, or something very like that, the passage +begins (only I know my short-winded Latinity must have come to +grief over even this much of quotation); and here, to a wish, is +just such a cavern as Menalcas might shelter himself withal from +the bright noon, and, with his lips curled backward, pipe himself +blue in the face, while <i>Messieurs les Arcadiens</i> would roll +out those cloying hexameters that sing themselves in one’s +mouth to such a curious lifting chant.</p> +<p>In such weather one has the bird’s need to whistle; and +I, who am specially incompetent in this art, must content myself +by chattering away to you on this bit of paper. All the way +along I was thanking God that he had made me and the birds and +everything just as they are and not otherwise; for although there +was no sun, the air was so thrilled with robins and blackbirds +that it made the heart tremble with joy, and the leaves are far +enough forward on the underwood to give a fine promise for the +future. Even myself, as I say, I would not have had changed +in one <i>iota</i> this forenoon, in spite of all my idleness and +Guthrie’s lost paper, which is ever present with me—a +horrible phantom.</p> +<p>No one can be alone at home or in a quite new place. +Memory and you must go hand in hand with (at least) decent +weather if you wish to cook up a proper dish of solitude. +It is in these little flights of mine that I get more pleasure +than in anything else. Now, at present, I am supremely +uneasy and restless—almost to the extent of pain; but O! +how I enjoy it, and how I <i>shall</i> enjoy it afterwards +(please God), if I get years enough allotted to me for the thing +to ripen in. When I am a very old and very respectable +citizen with white hair and bland manners and a gold watch, I +shall hear three crows cawing in my heart, as I heard them this +morning: I vote for <a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>old age and eighty years of retrospect. Yet, after +all, I dare say, a short shrift and a nice green grave are about +as desirable.</p> +<p>Poor devil! how I am wearying you! Cheer up. Two +pages more, and my letter reaches its term, for I have no more +paper. What delightful things inns and waiters and bagmen +are! If we didn’t travel now and then, we should +forget what the feeling of life is. The very cushion of a +railway carriage—‘the things restorative to the +touch.’ I can’t write, confound it! +That’s because I am so tired with my walk. Believe +me, ever your affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Dunblane</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +9<i>th</i> <i>April</i> 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—I +don’t know what you mean. I know nothing about the +Standing Committee of the Spec., did not know that such a body +existed, and even if it doth exist, must sadly repudiate all +association with such ‘goodly fellowship.’ I am +a ‘Rural Voluptuary’ at present. <i>That</i> is +what is the matter with me. The Spec. may go whistle. +As for ‘C. Baxter, Esq.,’ who is he? ‘One +Baxter, or Bagster, a secretary,’ I say to mine +acquaintance, ‘is at present disquieting my leisure with +certain illegal, uncharitable, unchristian, and unconstitutional +documents called <i>Business Letters</i>: <i>The affair is in the +hands of the Police</i>.’ Do you hear <i>that</i>, +you evildoer? Sending business letters is surely a far more +hateful and slimy degree of wickedness than sending threatening +letters; the man who throws grenades and torpedoes is less +malicious; the Devil in red-hot hell rubs his hands with glee as +he reckons <a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>up the number that go forth spreading pain and anxiety +with each delivery of the post.</p> +<p>I have been walking to-day by a colonnade of beeches along the +brawling Allan. My character for sanity is quite gone, +seeing that I cheered my lonely way with the following, in a +triumphant chaunt: ‘Thank God for the grass, and the +fir-trees, and the crows, and the sheep, and the sunshine, and +the shadows of the fir-trees.’ I hold that he is a +poor mean devil who can walk alone, in such a place and in such +weather, and doesn’t set up his lungs and cry back to the +birds and the river. Follow, follow, follow me. Come +hither, come hither, come hither—here shall you +see—no enemy—except a very slight remnant of winter +and its rough weather. My bedroom, when I awoke this +morning, was full of bird-songs, which is the greatest pleasure +in life. Come hither, come hither, come hither, and when +you come bring the third part of the <i>Earthly Paradise</i>; you +can get it for me in Elliot’s for two and tenpence (2s. +10d.) (<i>business habits</i>). Also bring an ounce of +honeydew from Wilson’s.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Brussels</i>, <i>Thursday</i>, +25<i>th July</i> 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I am here +at last, sitting in my room, without coat or waistcoat, and with +both window and door open, and yet perspiring like a terra-cotta +jug or a Gruyère cheese.</p> +<p>We had a very good passage, which we certainly <a +name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>deserved, in +compensation for having to sleep on cabin floor, and finding +absolutely nothing fit for human food in the whole filthy +embarkation. We made up for lost time by sleeping on deck a +good part of the forenoon. When I woke, Simpson was still +sleeping the sleep of the just, on a coil of ropes and (as +appeared afterwards) his own hat; so I got a bottle of Bass and a +pipe and laid hold of an old Frenchman of somewhat filthy aspect +(<i>fiat</i> <i>experimentum in corpore vili</i>) to try my +French upon. I made very heavy weather of it. The +Frenchman had a very pretty young wife; but my French always +deserted me entirely when I had to answer her, and so she soon +drew away and left me to her lord, who talked of French politics, +Africa, and domestic economy with great vivacity. From +Ostend a smoking-hot journey to Brussels. At Brussels we +went off after dinner to the Parc. If any person wants to +be happy, I should advise the Parc. You sit drinking iced +drinks and smoking penny cigars under great old trees. The +band place, covered walks, etc., are all lit up. And you +can’t fancy how beautiful was the contrast of the great +masses of lamplit foliage and the dark sapphire night sky with +just one blue star set overhead in the middle of the largest +patch. In the dark walks, too, there are crowds of people +whose faces you cannot see, and here and there a colossal white +statue at the corner of an alley that gives the place a nice, +<i>artificial</i>, eighteenth century sentiment. There was +a good deal of summer lightning blinking overhead, and the black +avenues and white statues leapt out every minute into short-lived +distinctness.</p> +<p>I get up to add one thing more. There is in the hotel a +boy in whom I take the deepest interest. I cannot tell you +his age, but the very first time I saw him (when I was at dinner +yesterday) I was very much struck with his appearance. +There is something very leonine in his face, with a dash of the +negro especially, if I remember aright, in the mouth. He +has a great quantity of dark <a name="page32"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 32</span>hair, curling in great rolls, not in +little corkscrews, and a pair of large, dark, and very steady, +bold, bright eyes. His manners are those of a prince. +I felt like an overgrown ploughboy beside him. He speaks +English perfectly, but with, I think, sufficient foreign accent +to stamp him as a Russian, especially when his manners are taken +into account. I don’t think I ever saw any one who +looked like a hero before. After breakfast this morning I +was talking to him in the court, when he mentioned casually that +he had caught a snake in the Riesengebirge. ‘I have +it here,’ he said; ‘would you like to see +it?’ I said yes; and putting his hand into his +breast-pocket, he drew forth not a dried serpent skin, but the +head and neck of the reptile writhing and shooting out its +horrible tongue in my face. You may conceive what a fright +I got. I send off this single sheet just now in order to +let you know I am safe across; but you must not expect letters +often.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—The snake was about a yard long, but +harmless, and now, he says, quite tame.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Landsberg</i>, +<i>Frankfurt</i>, <i>Monday</i>, 29<i>th</i> <i>July</i> +1872.</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Last</span> night I met with rather +an amusing adventurette. Seeing a church door open, I went +in, and was led by most importunate finger-bills up a long stair +to the top of the tower. The father smoking at the door, +the mother and the three daughters received me as if I was a +friend of the family and had come in for an evening visit. +The youngest daughter (about thirteen, I suppose, and a pretty +little girl) had been learning English at the school, and was +anxious to play it off upon a real, veritable Englander; so we +had a long talk, and I was shown photographs, etc., Marie and I +talking, and the others looking on with evident delight at having +such a linguist in the family. <a name="page33"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 33</span>As all my remarks were duly +translated and communicated to the rest, it was quite a good +German lesson. There was only one contretemps during the +whole interview—the arrival of another visitor, in the +shape (surely) the last of God’s creatures, a wood-worm of +the most unnatural and hideous appearance, with one great striped +horn sticking out of his nose like a boltsprit. If there +are many wood-worms in Germany, I shall come home. The most +courageous men in the world must be entomologists. I had +rather be a lion-tamer.</p> +<p>To-day I got rather a curiosity—<i>Lieder und Balladen +von Robert Burns</i>, translated by one Silbergleit, and not so +ill done either. Armed with which, I had a swim in the +Main, and then bread and cheese and Bavarian beer in a sort of +café, or at least the German substitute for a café; +but what a falling off after the heavenly forenoons in +Brussels!</p> +<p>I have bought a meerschaum out of local sentiment, and am now +very low and nervous about the bargain, having paid dearer than I +should in England, and got a worse article, if I can form a +judgment.</p> +<p>Do write some more, somebody. To-morrow I expect I shall +go into lodgings, as this hotel work makes the money disappear +like butter in a furnace.—Meanwhile believe me, ever your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Landsberg</i>, +<i>Thursday</i>, 1<i>st</i> <i>August</i> 1872.</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Yesterday</span> I walked to +Eckenheim, a village a little way out of Frankfurt, and turned +into the alehouse. In the room, which was just such as it +would have been in Scotland, were the landlady, two neighbours, +and an old peasant eating raw sausage at the far end. I +soon got into conversation; and was astonished when the landlady, +having asked whether I were an Englishman, <a +name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>and received +an answer in the affirmative, proceeded to inquire further +whether I were not also a Scotchman. It turned out that a +Scotch doctor—a professor—a poet—who wrote +books—<i>gross wie das</i>—had come nearly every day +out of Frankfurt to the <i>Eckenheimer Wirthschaft</i>, and had +left behind him a most savoury memory in the hearts of all its +customers. One man ran out to find his name for me, and +returned with the news that it was <i>Cobie</i> (Scobie, I +suspect); and during his absence the rest were pouring into my +ears the fame and acquirements of my countryman. He was, in +some undecipherable manner, connected with the Queen of England +and one of the Princesses. He had been in Turkey, and had +there married a wife of immense wealth. They could find +apparently no measure adequate to express the size of his +books. In one way or another, he had amassed a princely +fortune, and had apparently only one sorrow, his daughter to wit, +who had absconded into a <i>kloster</i>, with a considerable +slice of the mother’s <i>geld</i>. I told them we had +no klosters in Scotland, with a certain feeling of +superiority. No more had they, I was +told—‘<i>Hier ist unser Kloster</i>!’ and the +speaker motioned with both arms round the taproom. Although +the first torrent was exhausted, yet the Doctor came up again in +all sorts of ways, and with or without occasion, throughout the +whole interview; as, for example, when one man, taking his pipe +out of his mouth and shaking his head, remarked +<i>àpropos</i> of nothing and with almost defiant +conviction, ‘<i>Er war ein feiner Mann</i>, <i>der Herr +Doctor</i>,’ and was answered by another with +‘<i>Yaw</i>, <i>yaw</i>, <i>und trank immer rothen +Wein</i>.’</p> +<p>Setting aside the Doctor, who had evidently turned the brains +of the entire village, they were intelligent people. One +thing in particular struck me, their honesty in admitting that +here they spoke bad German, and advising me to go to Coburg or +Leipsic for German.—‘<i>Sie sprechen da +rein</i>’ (clean), said one; and they all nodded their <a +name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>heads +together like as many mandarins, and repeated <i>rein</i>, <i>so +rein</i> in chorus.</p> +<p>Of course we got upon Scotland. The hostess said, +‘<i>Die Schottländer trinken gern Schnapps</i>,’ +which may be freely translated, ‘Scotchmen are horrid fond +of whisky.’ It was impossible, of course, to combat +such a truism; and so I proceeded to explain the construction of +toddy, interrupted by a cry of horror when I mentioned the +<i>hot</i> water; and thence, as I find is always the case, to +the most ghastly romancing about Scottish scenery and manners, +the Highland dress, and everything national or local that I could +lay my hands upon. Now that I have got my German Burns, I +lean a good deal upon him for opening a conversation, and read a +few translations to every yawning audience that I can +gather. I am grown most insufferably national, you +see. I fancy it is a punishment for my want of it at +ordinary times. Now, what do you think, there was a waiter +in this very hotel, but, alas! he is now gone, who sang (from +morning to night, as my informant said with a shrug at the +recollection) what but <i>‘s ist lange her</i>, the German +version of Auld Lang Syne; so you see, madame, the finest lyric +ever written will make its way out of whatsoever corner of patois +it found its birth in.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Meitz Herz ist im Hochland</i>, +<i>mean Herz ist nicht hier</i>,<br /> +<i>Mein Herz ist im Hochland im grünen Revier</i>.<br /> +<i>Im grünen Reviere zu jagen das Reh</i>;<br /> +<i>Mein Herz ist im Hochland</i>, <i>wo immer ich +geh</i>.’</p> +<p>I don’t think I need translate that for you.</p> +<p>There is one thing that burthens me a good deal in my +patriotic garrulage, and that is the black ignorance in which I +grope about everything, as, for example, when I gave yesterday a +full and, I fancy, a startlingly incorrect account of Scotch +education to a very stolid German on a garden bench: he sat and +perspired under it, however with much composure. I am +generally glad enough to <a name="page36"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 36</span>fall back again, after these +political interludes, upon Burns, toddy, and the Highlands.</p> +<p>I go every night to the theatre, except when there is no +opera. I cannot stand a play yet; but I am already very +much improved, and can understand a good deal of what goes +on.</p> +<p><i>Friday</i>, <i>August</i> 2, 1872.—In the evening, at +the theatre, I had a great laugh. Lord Allcash in <i>Fra +Diavolo</i>, with his white hat, red guide-books, and bad German, +was the <i>pièce-de-résistance</i> from a humorous +point of view; and I had the satisfaction of knowing that in my +own small way I could minister the same amusement whenever I +chose to open my mouth.</p> +<p>I am just going off to do some German with Simpson.—Your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Frankfurt</i>, <i>Rosengasse</i> +13, <i>August</i> 4, 1872.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—You will +perceive by the head of this page that we have at last got into +lodgings, and powerfully mean ones too. If I were to call +the street anything but <i>shady</i>, I should be boasting. +The people sit at their doors in shirt-sleeves, smoking as they +do in Seven Dials of a Sunday.</p> +<p>Last night we went to bed about ten, for the first time +<i>householders</i> in Germany—real Teutons, with no +deception, spring, or false bottom. About half-past one +there began such a trumpeting, shouting, pealing of bells, and +scurrying hither and thither of feet as woke every person in +Frankfurt out of their first sleep with a vague sort of +apprehension that the last day was at hand. The whole +street was alive, and we could hear people talking in their +rooms, or crying to passers-by from their windows, all around +us. At last I made out what a man was <a +name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>saying in the +next room. It was a fire in Sachsenhausen, he said +(Sachsenhausen is the suburb on the other side of the Main), and +he wound up with one of the most tremendous falsehoods on record, +‘<i>Hier alles ruht</i>—here all is +still.’ If it can be said to be still in an engine +factory, or in the stomach of a volcano when it is meditating an +eruption, he might have been justified in what he said, but not +otherwise. The tumult continued unabated for near an hour; +but as one grew used to it, it gradually resolved itself into +three bells, answering each other at short intervals across the +town, a man shouting, at ever shorter intervals and with +superhuman energy, ‘<i>Feuer</i>,—<i>im +Sachsenhausen</i>, and the almost continuous winding of all +manner of bugles and trumpets, sometimes in stirring flourishes, +and sometimes in mere tuneless wails. Occasionally there +was another rush of feet past the window, and once there was a +mighty drumming, down between us and the river, as though the +soldiery were turning out to keep the peace. This was all +we had of the fire, except a great cloud, all flushed red with +the glare, above the roofs on the other side of the Gasse; but it +was quite enough to put me entirely off my sleep and make me +keenly alive to three or four gentlemen who were strolling +leisurely about my person, and every here and there leaving me +somewhat as a keepsake. . . . However, everything has its +compensation, and when day came at last, and the sparrows awoke +with trills and <i>carol-ets</i>, the dawn seemed to fall on me +like a sleeping draught. I went to the window and saw the +sparrows about the eaves, and a great troop of doves go strolling +up the paven Gasse, seeking what they may devour. And so to +sleep, despite fleas and fire-alarms and clocks chiming the hours +out of neighbouring houses at all sorts of odd times and with the +most charming want of unanimity.</p> +<p>We have got settled down in Frankfurt, and like the place very +much. Simpson and I seem to get on very well +together. We suit each other capitally; and it is an <a +name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>awful joke to +be living (two would-be advocates, and one a baronet) in this +supremely mean abode.</p> +<p>The abode is, however, a great improvement on the hotel, and I +think we shall grow quite fond of it.—Ever your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">13 <i>Rosengasse</i>, +<i>Frankfurt</i>, <i>Tuesday Morning</i>, <i>August</i> 1872.</p> +<p>. . . Last night I was at the theatre and heard <i>Die +Judin</i> (<i>La Juive</i>), and was thereby terribly +excited. At last, in the middle of the fifth act, which was +perfectly beastly, I had to slope. I could stand even +seeing the cauldron with the sham fire beneath, and the two +hateful executioners in red; but when at last the girl’s +courage breaks down, and, grasping her father’s arm, she +cries out—O so shudderfully!—I thought it high time +to be out of that <i>galère</i>, and so I do not know yet +whether it ends well or ill; but if I ever afterwards find that +they do carry things to the extremity, I shall think more meanly +of my species. It was raining and cold outside, so I went +into a <i>Bierhalle</i>, and sat and brooded over a +<i>Schnitt</i> (half-glass) for nearly an hour. An opera is +far more <i>real</i> than real life to me. It seems as if +stage illusion, and particularly this hardest to swallow and most +conventional illusion of them all—an opera—would +never stale upon me. I wish that life was an opera. I +should like to <i>live</i> in one; but I don’t know in what +quarter of the globe I shall find a society so constituted. +Besides, it would soon pall: imagine asking for three-kreuzer +cigars in recitative, or giving the washerwoman the inventory of +your dirty clothes in a sustained and <i>flourishous</i> +aria.</p> +<p>I am in a right good mood this morning to sit here and write +to you; but not to give you news. There is a great stir of +life, in a quiet, almost country fashion, all about us +here. Some one is hammering a beef-steak in <a +name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>the +<i>rez-de-chaussée</i>: there is a great clink of pitchers +and noise of the pump-handle at the public well in the little +square-kin round the corner. The children, all seemingly +within a month, and certainly none above five, that always go +halting and stumbling up and down the roadway, are ordinarily +very quiet, and sit sedately puddling in the gutter, trying, I +suppose, poor little devils! to understand their +<i>Muttersprache</i>; but they, too, make themselves heard from +time to time in little incomprehensible antiphonies, about the +drift that comes down to them by their rivers from the strange +lands higher up the Gasse. Above all, there is here such a +twittering of canaries (I can see twelve out of our window), and +such continual visitation of grey doves and big-nosed sparrows, +as make our little bye-street into a perfect aviary.</p> +<p>I look across the Gasse at our opposite neighbour, as he +dandles his baby about, and occasionally takes a spoonful or two +of some pale slimy nastiness that looks like <i>dead +porridge</i>, if you can take the conception. These two are +his only occupations. All day long you can hear him singing +over the brat when he is not eating; or see him eating when he is +not keeping baby. Besides which, there comes into his house +a continual round of visitors that puts me in mind of the +luncheon hour at home. As he has thus no ostensible +avocation, we have named him ‘the W.S.’ to give a +flavour of respectability to the street.</p> +<p>Enough of the Gasse. The weather is here much +colder. It rained a good deal yesterday; and though it is +fair and sunshiny again to-day, and we can still sit, of course, +with our windows open, yet there is no more excuse for the +siesta; and the bathe in the river, except for cleanliness, is no +longer a necessity of life. The Main is very swift. +In one part of the baths it is next door to impossible to swim +against it, and I suspect that, out in the open, it would be +quite impossible.—Adieu, my dear mother, and believe me, +ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span><br /> +(<i>Rentier</i>).</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span><span +class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>February</i> 2, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—The +thunderbolt has fallen with a vengeance now. On Friday +night after leaving you, in the course of conversation, my father +put me one or two questions as to beliefs, which I candidly +answered. I really hate all lying so much now—a new +found honesty that has somehow come out of my late +illness—that I could not so much as hesitate at the time; +but if I had foreseen the real hell of everything since, I think +I should have lied, as I have done so often before. I so +far thought of my father, but I had forgotten my mother. +And now! they are both ill, both silent, both as down in the +mouth as if—I can find no simile. You may fancy how +happy it is for me. If it were not too late, I think I +could almost find it in my heart to retract, but it is too late; +and again, am I to live my whole life as one falsehood? Of +course, it is rougher than hell upon my father, but can I help +it? They don’t see either that my game is not the +light-hearted scoffer; that I am not (as they call me) a careless +infidel. I believe as much as they do, only generally in +the inverse ratio: I am, I think, as honest as they can be in +what I hold. I have not come hastily to my views. I +reserve (as I told them) many points until I acquire fuller +information, and do not think I am thus justly to be called +‘horrible atheist.’</p> +<p>Now, what is to take place? What a curse I am to my +parents! O Lord, what a pleasant thing it is to have just +<i>damned</i> the happiness of (probably) the only two people who +care a damn about you in the world.</p> +<p>What is my life to be at this rate? What, you +rascal? <a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>Answer—I have a pistol at your throat. If +all that I hold true and most desire to spread is to be such +death, and a worse than death, in the eyes of my father and +mother, what the <i>devil</i> am I to do?</p> +<p>Here is a good heavy cross with a vengeance, and all rough +with rusty nails that tear your fingers, only it is not I that +have to carry it alone; I hold the light end, but the heavy +burden falls on these two.</p> +<p>Don’t—I don’t know what I was going to +say. I am an abject idiot, which, all things considered, is +not remarkable.—Ever your affectionate and horrible +atheist,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>II<br +/> +STUDENT DAYS—<i>Continued</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ORDERED SOUTH</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SEPTEMBER 1873-JULY 1875</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Cockfield Rectory</i>, +<i>Sudbury</i>, <i>Suffolk</i>,<br /> +<i>Tuesday</i>, <i>July</i> 28, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I am too +happy to be much of a correspondent. Yesterday we were away +to Melford and Lavenham, both exceptionally placid, beautiful old +English towns. Melford scattered all round a big green, +with an Elizabethan Hall and Park, great screens of trees that +seem twice as high as trees should seem, and everything else like +what ought to be in a novel, and what one never expects to see in +reality, made me cry out how good we were to live in Scotland, +for the many hundredth <a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>time. I cannot get over my +astonishment—indeed, it increases every day—at the +hopeless gulf that there is between England and Scotland, and +English and Scotch. Nothing is the same; and I feel as +strange and outlandish here as I do in France or Germany. +Everything by the wayside, in the houses, or about the people, +strikes me with an unexpected unfamiliarity: I walk among +surprises, for just where you think you have them, something +wrong turns up.</p> +<p>I got a little Law read yesterday, and some German this +morning, but on the whole there are too many amusements going for +much work; as for correspondence, I have neither heart nor time +for it to-day.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>,<br /> +<i>Saturday</i>, <i>September</i> 6, 1873.</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> been to-day a very long walk +with my father through some of the most beautiful ways +hereabouts; the day was cold with an iron, windy sky, and only +glorified now and then with autumn sunlight. For it is +fully autumn with us, with a blight already over the greens, and +a keen wind in the morning that makes one rather timid of +one’s tub when it finds its way indoors.</p> +<p>I was out this evening to call on a friend, and, coming back +through the wet, crowded, lamp-lit streets, was singing after my +own fashion, <i>Du hast Diamanten und</i> <i>Perlen</i>, when I +heard a poor cripple man in the gutter wailing over a pitiful +Scotch air, his club-foot supported on the other knee, and his +whole woebegone body propped sideways against a crutch. The +nearest lamp threw a strong light on his worn, sordid face and +the three boxes of lucifer matches that he held for sale. +My own false notes stuck in my chest. How well off I am! is +the burthen of my songs all day long—<i>Drum ist so wohl +mir in der Welt</i>! and the ugly reality of the cripple man was +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>an +intrusion on the beautiful world in which I was walking. He +could no more sing than I could; and his voice was cracked and +rusty, and altogether perished. To think that that wreck +may have walked the streets some night years ago, as glad at +heart as I was, and promising himself a future as golden and +honourable!</p> +<p><i>Sunday</i>, 11.20 <i>a.m.</i>—I wonder what you are +doing now?—in church likely, at the <i>Te Deum</i>. +Everything here is utterly silent. I can hear men’s +footfalls streets away; the whole life of Edinburgh has been +sucked into sundry pious edifices; the gardens below my windows +are steeped in a diffused sunlight, and every tree seems standing +on tiptoes, strained and silent, as though to get its head above +its neighbour’s and <i>listen</i>. You know what I +mean, don’t you? How trees do seem silently to assert +themselves on an occasion! I have been trying to write +<i>Roads</i> until I feel as if I were standing on my head; but I +mean <i>Roads</i>, and shall do something to them.</p> +<p>I wish I could make you feel the hush that is over everything, +only made the more perfect by rare interruptions; and the rich, +placid light, and the still, autumnal foliage. Houses, you +know, stand all about our gardens: solid, steady blocks of +houses; all look empty and asleep.</p> +<p><i>Monday night</i>.—The drums and fifes up in the +Castle are sounding the guard-call through the dark, and there is +a great rattle of carriages without. I have had (I must +tell you) my bed taken out of this room, so that I am alone in it +with my books and two tables, and two chairs, and a coal-skuttle +(or <i>scuttle</i>) (?) and a <i>débris</i> of broken +pipes in a corner, and my old school play-box, so full of papers +and books that the lid will not shut down, standing reproachfully +in the midst. There is something in it that is still a +little gaunt and vacant; it needs a little populous disorder over +it to give it the feel of homeliness, and perhaps a bit more +furniture, just to take the edge off the sense of <a +name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>illimitable +space, eternity, and a future state, and the like, that is +brought home to one, even in this small attic, by the wide, empty +floor.</p> +<p>You would require to know, what only I can ever know, many +grim and many maudlin passages out of my past life to feel how +great a change has been made for me by this past summer. +Let me be ever so poor and thread-paper a soul, I am going to try +for the best.</p> +<p>These good booksellers of mine have at last got a +<i>Werther</i> without illustrations. I want you to like +Charlotte. Werther himself has every feebleness and vice +that could tend to make his suicide a most virtuous and +commendable action; and yet I like Werther too—I +don’t know why, except that he has written the most +delightful letters in the world. Note, by the way, the +passage under date June 21st not far from the beginning; it finds +a voice for a great deal of dumb, uneasy, pleasurable longing +that we have all had, times without number. I looked that +up the other day for <i>Roads</i>, so I know the reference; but +you will find it a garden of flowers from beginning to end. +All through the passion keeps steadily rising, from the +thunderstorm at the country-house—there was thunder in that +story too—up to the last wild delirious interview; either +Lotte was no good at all, or else Werther should have remained +alive after that; either he knew his woman too well, or else he +was precipitate. But an idiot like that is hopeless; and +yet, he wasn’t an idiot—I make reparation, and will +offer eighteen pounds of best wax at his tomb. Poor devil! +he was only the weakest—or, at least, a very weak strong +man.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>,<br /> +<i>Friday</i>, <i>September</i> 12, 1873.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">was</span> over last night, +contrary to my own wish, in Leven, Fife; and this morning I had a +conversation of <a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>which, I think, some account might interest you. I +was up with a cousin who was fishing in a mill-lade, and a shower +of rain drove me for shelter into a tumbledown steading attached +to the mill. There I found a labourer cleaning a byre, with +whom I fell into talk. The man was to all appearance as +heavy, as <i>hébété</i>, as any English +clodhopper; but I knew I was in Scotland, and launched out +forthright into Education and Politics and the aims of +one’s life. I told him how I had found the peasantry +in Suffolk, and added that their state had made me feel quite +pained and down-hearted. ‘It but to do that,’ +he said, ‘to onybody that thinks at a’!’ +Then, again, he said that he could not conceive how anything +could daunt or cast down a man who had an aim in life. +‘They that have had a guid schoolin’ and do nae mair, +whatever they do, they have done; but him that has aye something +ayont need never be weary.’ I have had to mutilate +the dialect much, so that it might be comprehensible to you; but +I think the sentiment will keep, even through a change of words, +something of the heartsome ring of encouragement that it had for +me: and that from a man cleaning a byre! You see what John +Knox and his schools have done.</p> +<p><i>Saturday</i>.—This has been a charming day for me +from morning to now (5 <span class="GutSmall">P.M.</span>). +First, I found your letter, and went down and read it on a seat +in those Public Gardens of which you have heard already. +After lunch, my father and I went down to the coast and walked a +little way along the shore between Granton and Cramond. +This has always been with me a very favourite walk. The +Firth closes gradually together before you, the coast runs in a +series of the most beautifully moulded bays, hill after hill, +wooded and softly outlined, trends away in front till the two +shores join together. When the tide is out there are great, +gleaming flats of wet sand, over which the gulls go flying and +crying; and every cape runs down into <a name="page53"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 53</span>them with its little spit of wall and +trees. We lay together a long time on the beach; the sea +just babbled among the stones; and at one time we heard the +hollow, sturdy beat of the paddles of an unseen steamer somewhere +round the cape. I am glad to say that the peace of the day +and scenery was not marred by any unpleasantness between us +two.</p> +<p>I am, unhappily, off my style, and can do nothing well; +indeed, I fear I have marred <i>Roads</i> finally by patching at +it when I was out of the humour. Only, I am beginning to +see something great about John Knox and Queen Mary: I like them +both so much, that I feel as if I could write the history +fairly.</p> +<p>I have finished <i>Roads</i> to-day, and send it off to you to +see. The Lord knows whether it is worth +anything!—some of it pleases me a good deal, but I fear it +is quite unfit for any possible magazine. However, I wish +you to see it, as you know the humour in which it was conceived, +walking alone and very happily about the Suffolk highways and +byeways on several splendid sunny afternoons.—Believe me, +ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>Monday</i>.—I have looked over <i>Roads</i> again, +and I am aghast at its feebleness. It is the trial of a +very ‘’prentice hand’ indeed. Shall I +ever learn to do anything well? However, it shall go to +you, for the reasons given above.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +<i>September</i> 16, 1873.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">must</span> be very strong to have +all this vexation and still to be well. I was weighed the +other day, and the gross weight of my large person was eight +stone six! <a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>Does it not seem surprising that I can keep the lamp +alight, through all this gusty weather, in so frail a +lantern? And yet it burns cheerily.</p> +<p>My mother is leaving for the country this morning, and my +father and I will be alone for the best part of the week in this +house. Then on Friday I go south to Dumfries till +Monday. I must write small, or I shall have a tremendous +budget by then.</p> +<p>7.20 <i>p.m.</i>—I must tell you a thing I saw +to-day. I was going down to Portobello in the train, when +there came into the next compartment (third class) an artisan, +strongly marked with smallpox, and with sunken, heavy +eyes—a face hard and unkind, and without anything +lovely. There was a woman on the platform seeing him +off. At first sight, with her one eye blind and the whole +cast of her features strongly plebeian, and even vicious, she +seemed as unpleasant as the man; but there was something +beautifully soft, a sort of light of tenderness, as on some Dutch +Madonna, that came over her face when she looked at the +man. They talked for a while together through the window; +the man seemed to have been asking money. ‘Ye ken the +last time,’ she said, ‘I gave ye two shillin’s +for your ludgin’, and ye said—’ it died off +into whisper. Plainly Falstaff and Dame Quickly over +again. The man laughed unpleasantly, even cruelly, and said +something; and the woman turned her back on the carriage and +stood a long while so, and, do what I might, I could catch no +glimpse of her expression, although I thought I saw the heave of +a sob in her shoulders. At last, after the train was +already in motion, she turned round and put two shillings into +his hand. I saw her stand and look after us with a perfect +heaven of love on her face—this poor one-eyed +Madonna—until the train was out of sight; but the man, +sordidly happy with his gains, did not put himself to the +inconvenience of one glance to thank her for her ill-deserved +kindness.</p> +<p><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>I have +been up at the Spec. and looked out a reference I wanted. +The whole town is drowned in white, wet vapour off the sea. +Everything drips and soaks. The very statues seem wet to +the skin. I cannot pretend to be very cheerful; I did not +see one contented face in the streets; and the poor did look so +helplessly chill and dripping, without a stitch to change, or so +much as a fire to dry themselves at, or perhaps money to buy a +meal, or perhaps even a bed. My heart shivers for them.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Dumfries</i>, <i>Friday</i>.—All my thirst for a +little warmth, a little sun, a little corner of blue sky avails +nothing. Without, the rain falls with a long drawn +<i>swish</i>, and the night is as dark as a vault. There is +no wind indeed, and that is a blessed change after the unruly, +bedlamite gusts that have been charging against one round street +corners and utterly abolishing and destroying all that is +peaceful in life. Nothing sours my temper like these coarse +termagant winds. I hate practical joking; and your +vulgarest practical joker is your flaw of wind.</p> +<p>I have tried to write some verses; but I find I have nothing +to say that has not been already perfectly said and perfectly +sung in <i>Adelaïde</i>. I have so perfect an idea out +of that song! The great Alps, a wonder in the +starlight—the river, strong from the hills, and turbulent, +and loudly audible at night—the country, a scented +<i>Frühlingsgarten</i> of orchards and deep wood where the +nightingales harbour—a sort of German flavour over +all—and this love-drunken man, wandering on by sleeping +village and silent town, pours out of his full heart, +<i>Einst</i>, <i>O Wunder</i>, <i>einst</i>, etc. I wonder +if I am wrong about this being the most beautiful and perfect +thing in the world—the only marriage of really accordant +words and music—both drunk with the same poignant, +unutterable sentiment.</p> +<p>To-day in Glasgow my father went off on some business, and my +mother and I wandered about for two hours. We <a +name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>had lunch +together, and were very merry over what the people at the +restaurant would think of us—mother and son they could not +suppose us to be.</p> +<p><i>Saturday</i>.—And to-day it came—warmth, +sunlight, and a strong, hearty living wind among the trees. +I found myself a new being. My father and I went off a long +walk, through a country most beautifully wooded and various, +under a range of hills. You should have seen one place +where the wood suddenly fell away in front of us down a long, +steep hill between a double row of trees, with one small +fair-haired child framed in shadow in the foreground; and when we +got to the foot there was the little kirk and kirkyard of +Irongray, among broken fields and woods by the side of the +bright, rapid river. In the kirkyard there was a wonderful +congregation of tombstones, upright and recumbent on four legs +(after our Scotch fashion), and of flat-armed fir-trees. +One gravestone was erected by Scott (at a cost, I learn, of +£70) to the poor woman who served him as heroine in the +<i>Heart of Midlothian</i>, and the inscription in its stiff, +Jedediah Cleishbotham fashion is not without something touching. +<a name="citation56"></a><a href="#footnote56" +class="citation">[56]</a> We went up the stream a little +further to where two Covenanters lie buried in an oakwood; the +tombstone (as the custom is) containing the details of their grim +little tragedy in funnily bad rhyme, one verse of which sticks in +my memory:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘We died, their furious rage to stay,<br +/> +Near to the kirk of Iron-gray.’</p> +<p>We then fetched a long compass round about through Holywood +Kirk and Lincluden ruins to Dumfries. But the walk came +sadly to grief as a pleasure excursion before our return . . +.</p> +<p><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span><i>Sunday</i>.—Another beautiful day. My +father and I walked into Dumfries to church. When the +service was done I noted the two halberts laid against the pillar +of the churchyard gate; and as I had not seen the little weekly +pomp of civic dignitaries in our Scotch country towns for some +years, I made my father wait. You should have seen the +provost and three bailies going stately away down the sunlit +street, and the two town servants strutting in front of them, in +red coats and cocked hats, and with the halberts most +conspicuously shouldered. We saw Burns’s +house—a place that made me deeply sad—and spent the +afternoon down the banks of the Nith. I had not spent a day +by a river since we lunched in the meadows near Sudbury. +The air was as pure and clear and sparkling as spring water; +beautiful, graceful outlines of hill and wood shut us in on every +side; and the swift, brown river fled smoothly away from before +our eyes, rippled over with oily eddies and dimples. White +gulls had come up from the sea to fish, and hovered and flew +hither and thither among the loops of the stream. By good +fortune, too, it was a dead calm between my father and me.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Saturday</i>, +<i>October</i> 4, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is a little sharp to-day; but +bright and sunny with a sparkle in the air, which is delightful +after four days of unintermitting rain. In the streets I +saw two men meet after a long separation, it was plain. +They came forward <a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>with a little run and <i>leaped</i> at each +other’s hands. You never saw such bright eyes as they +both had. It put one in a good humour to see it.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>8 <i>p.m.</i>—I made a little more out of my work than I +have made for a long while back; though even now I cannot make +things fall into sentences—they only sprawl over the paper +in bald orphan clauses. Then I was about in the afternoon +with Baxter; and we had a good deal of fun, first rhyming on the +names of all the shops we passed, and afterwards buying needles +and quack drugs from open-air vendors, and taking much pleasure +in their inexhaustible eloquence. Every now and then as we +went, Arthur’s Seat showed its head at the end of a +street. Now, to-day the blue sky and the sunshine were both +entirely wintry; and there was about the hill, in these glimpses, +a sort of thin, unreal, crystalline distinctness that I have not +often seen excelled. As the sun began to go down over the +valley between the new town and the old, the evening grew +resplendent; all the gardens and low-lying buildings sank back +and became almost invisible in a mist of wonderful sun, and the +Castle stood up against the sky, as thin and sharp in outline as +a castle cut out of paper. Baxter made a good remark about +Princes Street, that it was the most elastic street for length +that he knew; sometimes it looks, as it looked to-night, +interminable, a way leading right into the heart of the red +sundown; sometimes, again, it shrinks together, as if for warmth, +on one of the withering, clear east-windy days, until it seems to +lie underneath your feet.</p> +<p>I want to let you see these verses from an <i>Ode to the +Cuckoo</i>, written by one of the ministers of Leith in the +middle of last century—the palmy days of +Edinburgh—who was a friend of Hume and Adam Smith and the +whole constellation. The authorship of these beautiful +verses has been most truculently fought about; but whoever <a +name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>wrote them +(and it seems as if this Logan had) they are lovely—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What time the pea puts on the bloom,<br +/> + Thou fliest the vocal vale,<br /> +An annual guest, in other lands<br /> + Another spring to hail.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,<br /> + Thy sky is ever clear;<br /> +Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,<br /> + No winter in thy year.</p> +<p class="poetry">O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!<br /> + We’d make on joyful wing<br /> +Our annual visit o’er the globe,<br /> + Companions of the spring.’</p> +<p><i>Sunday</i>.—I have been at church with my mother, +where we heard ‘Arise, shine,’ sung excellently well, +and my mother was so much upset with it that she nearly had to +leave church. This was the antidote, however, to fifty +minutes of solid sermon, varra heavy. I have been sticking +in to Walt Whitman; nor do I think I have ever laboured so hard +to attain so small a success. Still, the thing is taking +shape, I think; I know a little better what I want to say all +through; and in process of time, possibly I shall manage to say +it. I must say I am a very bad workman, <i>mais j’ai +du courage</i>; I am indefatigable at rewriting and bettering, +and surely that humble quality should get me on a little.</p> +<p><i>Monday</i>, <i>October</i> 6.—It is a magnificent +glimmering moonlight night, with a wild, great west wind abroad, +flapping above one like an immense banner, and every now and +again swooping furiously against my windows. The wind is +too strong perhaps, and the trees are certainly too leafless for +much of that wide rustle that we both <a name="page60"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 60</span>remember; there is only a sharp, +angry, sibilant hiss, like breath drawn with the strength of the +elements through shut teeth, that one hears between the gusts +only. I am in excellent humour with myself, for I have +worked hard and not altogether fruitlessly; and I wished before I +turned in just to tell you that things were so. My dear +friend, I feel so happy when I think that you remember me +kindly. I have been up to-night lecturing to a friend on +life and duties and what a man could do; a coal off the altar had +been laid on my lips, and I talked quite above my average, and +hope I spread, what you would wish to see spread, into one +person’s heart; and with a new light upon it.</p> +<p>I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to +Portobello, in the heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing <i>par +rafales</i> off the sea (or ‘<i>en rafales</i>’ +should it be? or what?). As I got down near the beach a +poor woman, oldish, and seemingly, lately at least, respectable, +followed me and made signs. She was drenched to the skin, +and looked wretched below wretchedness. You know, I did not +like to look back at her; it seemed as if she might misunderstand +and be terribly hurt and slighted; so I stood at the end of the +street—there was no one else within sight in the +wet—and lifted up my hand very high with some money in +it. I heard her steps draw heavily near behind me, and, +when she was near enough to see, I let the money fall in the mud +and went off at my best walk without ever turning round. +There is nothing in the story; and yet you will understand how +much there is, if one chose to set it forth. You see, she +was so ugly; and you know there is something terribly, miserably +pathetic in a certain smile, a certain sodden aspect of +invitation on such faces. It is so terrible, that it is in +a way sacred; it means the outside of degradation and (what is +worst of all in life) false position. I hope you understand +me rightly.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>Tuesday</i>, +<i>October</i> 14, 1873.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> father has returned in better +health, and I am more delighted than I can well tell you. +The one trouble that I can see no way through is that his health, +or my mother’s, should give way. To-night, as I was +walking along Princes Street, I heard the bugles sound the +recall. I do not think I had ever remarked it before; there +is something of unspeakable appeal in the cadence. I felt +as if something yearningly cried to me out of the darkness +overhead to come thither and find rest; one felt as if there must +be warm hearts and bright fires waiting for one up there, where +the buglers stood on the damp pavement and sounded their friendly +invitation forth into the night.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>.—I may as well tell you exactly about +my health. I am not at all ill; have quite recovered; only +I am what <i>MM. les médecins</i> call below par; which, +in plain English, is that I am weak. With tonics, decent +weather, and a little cheerfulness, that will go away in its +turn, and I shall be all right again.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear what you say about the Exam.; until quite +lately I have treated that pretty cavalierly, for I say honestly +that I do not mind being plucked; I shall just have to go up +again. We travelled with the Lord Advocate the other day, +and he strongly advised me in my father’s hearing to go to +the English Bar; and the Lord Advocate’s advice goes a long +way in Scotland. It is a sort of special legal +revelation. Don’t misunderstand me. I +don’t, of course, want to be plucked; but so far as my +style of knowledge suits them, I cannot make much betterment on +it in a month. If they wish scholarship more exact, I must +take a new lease altogether.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—My head and eyes both gave in this +morning, <a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>and I had to take a day of complete idleness. I +was in the open air all day, and did no thought that I could +avoid, and I think I have got my head between my shoulders again; +however, I am not going to do much. I don’t want you +to run away with any fancy about my being ill. Given a +person weak and in some trouble, and working longer hours than he +is used to, and you have the matter in a nutshell. You +should have seen the sunshine on the hill to-day; it has lost now +that crystalline clearness, as if the medium were spring-water +(you see, I am stupid!); but it retains that wonderful thinness +of outline that makes the delicate shape and hue savour better in +one’s mouth, like fine wine out of a finely-blown +glass. The birds are all silent now but the crows. I +sat a long time on the stairs that lead down to Duddingston +Loch—a place as busy as a great town during frost, but now +solitary and silent; and when I shut my eyes I heard nothing but +the wind in the trees; and you know all that went through me, I +dare say, without my saying it.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">II</span>.—I am now all +right. I do not expect any tic to-night, and shall be at +work again to-morrow. I have had a day of open air, only a +little modified by <i>Le Capitaine Fracasse</i> before the +dining-room fire. I must write no more, for I am sleepy +after two nights, and to quote my book, ‘<i>sinon +blanches</i>, <i>du moins grises</i>’; and so I must go to +bed and faithfully, hoggishly slumber.—Your faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page63"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 63</span><i>Mentone</i>, <i>November</i> 13, +1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—The +<i>Place</i> is not where I thought; it is about where the old +Post Office was. The Hotel de Londres is no more an +hotel. I have found a charming room in the Hotel du +Pavillon, just across the road from the Prince’s Villa; it +has one window to the south and one to the east, with a superb +view of Mentone and the hills, to which I move this +afternoon. In the old great <i>Place</i> there is a kiosque +for the sale of newspapers; a string of omnibuses (perhaps +thirty) go up and down under the plane-trees of the Turin Road on +the occasion of each train; the Promenade has crossed both +streams, and bids fair to reach the Cap St. Martin. The old +chapel near Freeman’s house at the entrance to the Gorbio +valley is now entirely submerged under a shining new villa, with +Pavilion annexed; over which, in all the pride of oak and +chestnut and divers coloured marbles, I was shown this morning by +the obliging proprietor. The Prince’s Palace itself +is rehabilitated, and shines afar with white window-curtains from +the midst of a garden, all trim borders and greenhouses and +carefully kept walks. On the other side, the villas are +more thronged together, and they have arranged themselves, shelf +after shelf, behind each other. I see the glimmer of new +buildings, too, as far eastward as Grimaldi; and a viaduct +carries (I suppose) the railway past the mouth of the bone +caves. F. Bacon (Lord Chancellor) made the remark that +‘Time was the greatest innovator’; it is perhaps as +meaningless a remark as was ever made; but as Bacon made it, I +suppose it is better than any that I could make. Does it +not seem as if things were fluid? They are displaced and +altered in ten years so that one has difficulty, even <a +name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>with a memory +so very vivid and retentive for that sort of thing as mine, in +identifying places where one lived a long while in the past, and +which one has kept piously in mind during all the interval. +Nevertheless, the hills, I am glad to say, are unaltered; though +I dare say the torrents have given them many a shrewd scar, and +the rains and thaws dislodged many a boulder from their heights, +if one were only keen enough to perceive it. The sea makes +the same noise in the shingle; and the lemon and orange gardens +still discharge in the still air their fresh perfume; and the +people have still brown comely faces; and the Pharmacie Gros +still dispenses English medicines; and the invalids (eheu!) still +sit on the promenade and trifle with their fingers in the fringes +of shawls and wrappers; and the shop of Pascal Amarante still, in +its present bright consummate flower of aggrandisement and new +paint, offers everything that it has entered into people’s +hearts to wish for in the idleness of a sanatorium; and the +‘Château des Morts’ is still at the top of the +town; and the fort and the jetty are still at the foot, only +there are now two jetties; and—I am out of breath. +(To be continued in our next.)</p> +<p>For myself, I have come famously through the journey; and as I +have written this letter (for the first time for ever so long) +with ease and even pleasure, I think my head must be +better. I am still no good at coming down hills or stairs; +and my feet are more consistently cold than is quite +comfortable. But, these apart, I feel well; and in good +spirits all round.</p> +<p>I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them +to-night. Continue to address Poste Restante. Take +care of yourselves.</p> +<p>This is my birthday, by the way—O, I said that +before. Adieu.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Mentone</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, +<i>November</i> 1873.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I sat a +long while up among the olive yards to-day at a favourite corner, +where one has a fair view down the valley and on to the blue +floor of the sea. I had a Horace with me, and read a +little; but Horace, when you try to read him fairly under the +open heaven, sounds urban, and you find something of the escaped +townsman in his descriptions of the country, just as somebody +said that Morris’s sea-pieces were all taken from the +coast. I tried for long to hit upon some language that +might catch ever so faintly the indefinable shifting colour of +olive leaves; and, above all, the changes and little silverings +that pass over them, like blushes over a face, when the wind +tosses great branches to and fro; but the Muse was not +favourable. A few birds scattered here and there at wide +intervals on either side of the valley sang the little broken +songs of late autumn and there was a great stir of insect life in +the grass at my feet. The path up to this coign of vantage, +where I think I shall make it a habit to ensconce myself a while +of a morning, is for a little while common to the peasant and a +little clear brooklet. It is pleasant, in the tempered grey +daylight of the olive shadows, to see the people picking their +way among the stones and the water and the brambles; the women +especially, with the weights poised on their heads and walking +all from the hips with a certain graceful deliberation.</p> +<p><i>Tuesday</i>.—I have been to Nice to-day to see Dr. +Bennet; he agrees with Clark that there is no disease; but I +finished up my day with a lamentable exhibition of +weakness. I could not remember French, or at least I was +afraid to go into any place lest I should not be able to remember +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>it, and so +could not tell when the train went. At last I crawled up to +the station and sat down on the steps, and just steeped myself +there in the sunshine until the evening began to fall and the air +to grow chilly. This long rest put me all right; and I came +home here triumphantly and ate dinner well. There is the +full, true, and particular account of the worst day I have had +since I left London. I shall not go to Nice again for some +time to come.</p> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—I am to-day quite recovered, and got +into Mentone to-day for a book, which is quite a creditable +walk. As an intellectual being I have not yet begun to +re-exist; my immortal soul is still very nearly extinct; but we +must hope the best. Now, do take warning by me. I am +set up by a beneficent providence at the corner of the road, to +warn you to flee from the hebetude that is to follow. Being +sent to the South is not much good unless you take your soul with +you, you see; and my soul is rarely with me here. I +don’t see much beauty. I have lost the key; I can +only be placid and inert, and see the bright days go past +uselessly one after another; therefore don’t talk foolishly +with your mouth any more about getting liberty by being ill and +going south <i>viâ</i> the sickbed. It is not the old +free-born bird that gets thus to freedom; but I know not what +manacled and hide-bound spirit, incapable of pleasure, the clay +of a man. Go south! Why, I saw more beauty with my +eyes healthfully alert to see in two wet windy February +afternoons in Scotland than I can see in my beautiful olive +gardens and grey hills in a whole week in my low and lost estate, +as the Shorter Catechism puts it somewhere. It is a +pitiable blindness, this blindness of the soul; I hope it may not +be long with me. So remember to keep well; and remember +rather anything than not to keep well; and again I say, +<i>anything</i> rather than not to keep well.</p> +<p>Not that I am unhappy, mind you. I have found the words +already—placid and inert, that is what I am. I sit <a +name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>in the sun +and enjoy the tingle all over me, and I am cheerfully ready to +concur with any one who says that this is a beautiful place, and +I have a sneaking partiality for the newspapers, which would be +all very well, if one had not fallen from heaven and were not +troubled with some reminiscence of the <i>ineffable +aurore</i>.</p> +<p>To sit by the sea and to be conscious of nothing but the sound +of the waves, and the sunshine over all your body, is not +unpleasant; but I was an Archangel once.</p> +<p><i>Friday</i>.—If you knew how old I felt! I am +sure this is what age brings with it—this carelessness, +this disenchantment, this continual bodily weariness. I am +a man of seventy: O Medea, kill me, or make me young again! <a +name="citation67"></a><a href="#footnote67" +class="citation">[67]</a></p> +<p>To-day has been cloudy and mild; and I have lain a great while +on a bench outside the garden wall (my usual place now) and +looked at the dove-coloured sea and the broken roof of cloud, but +there was no seeing in my eye. Let us hope to-morrow will +be more profitable.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page68"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 68</span><i>Hotel Mirabeau</i>, +<i>Mentone</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>January</i> 4, 1874.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—We have +here fallen on the very pink of hotels. I do not say that +it is more pleasantly conducted than the Pavillon, for that were +impossible; but the rooms are so cheery and bright and new, and +then the food! I never, I think, so fully appreciated the +phrase ‘the fat of the land’ as I have done since I +have been here installed. There was a dish of eggs at +<i>déjeûner</i> the other day, over the memory of +which I lick my lips in the silent watches.</p> +<p>Now that the cold has gone again, I continue to keep well in +body, and already I begin to walk a little more. My head is +still a very feeble implement, and easily set a-spinning; and I +can do nothing in the way of work beyond reading books that may, +I hope, be of some use to me afterwards.</p> +<p>I was very glad to see that M‘Laren was sat upon, and +principally for the reason why. Deploring as I do much of +the action of the Trades Unions, these conspiracy clauses and the +whole partiality of the Master and Servant Act are a disgrace to +our equal laws. Equal laws become a byeword when what is +legal for one class becomes a criminal offence for another. +It did my heart good to hear that man tell M‘Laren how, as +he had talked much of getting the franchise for working men, he +must now be content to see them use it now they had got it. +This is a smooth stone well planted in the foreheads of certain +dilettanti radicals, after M‘Laren’s fashion, who are +willing to give the working men words and wind, and votes and the +like, and yet think to keep all the advantages, just or unjust, +of the wealthier classes without abatement. I do hope wise +men will not attempt to fight the working men on the head of this +notorious injustice. Any such step will only precipitate +the action of the newly enfranchised <a name="page69"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 69</span>classes, and irritate them into +acting hastily; when what we ought to desire should be that they +should act warily and little for many years to come, until +education and habit may make them the more fit.</p> +<p>All this (intended for my father) is much after the fashion of +his own correspondence. I confess it has left my own head +exhausted; I hope it may not produce the same effect on +yours. But I want him to look really into this question +(both sides of it, and not the representations of rabid +middle-class newspapers, sworn to support all the little +tyrannies of wealth), and I know he will be convinced that this +is a case of unjust law; and that, however desirable the end may +seem to him, he will not be Jesuit enough to think that any end +will justify an unjust law.</p> +<p>Here ends the political sermon of your affectionate (and +somewhat dogmatical) son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Mentone</i>, <i>January</i> 7, +1874.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I received +yesterday two most charming letters—the nicest I have had +since I left—December 26th and January 1st: this morning I +got January 3rd.</p> +<p>Into the bargain with Marie, the American girl, who is grace +itself, and comes leaping and dancing simply like a +wave—like nothing else, and who yesterday was Queen out of +the Epiphany cake and chose Robinet (the French Painter) as her +<i>favori</i> with the most pretty confusion possible—into +the bargain with Marie, we have two little Russian girls, with +the youngest of whom, a little polyglot button of a three-year +old, I had the most laughable little scene at lunch to-day. +I was watching her being fed with great amusement, her face being +as broad as it is long, and her mouth capable of unlimited +extension; when <a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>suddenly, her eye catching mine, the fashion of her +countenance was changed, and regarding me with a really admirable +appearance of offended dignity, she said something in Italian +which made everybody laugh much. It was explained to me +that she had said I was very <i>polisson</i> to stare at +her. After this she was somewhat taken up with me, and +after some examination she announced emphatically to the whole +table, in German, that I was a <i>Mädchen</i>; which word +she repeated with shrill emphasis, as though fearing that her +proposition would be called in +question—<i>Mädchen</i>, <i>Mädchen</i>, +<i>Mädchen</i>, <i>Mädchen</i>. This hasty +conclusion as to my sex she was led afterwards to revise, I am +informed; but her new opinion (which seems to have been something +nearer the truth) was announced in a third language quite unknown +to me, and probably Russian. To complete the scroll of her +accomplishments, she was brought round the table after the meal +was over, and said good-bye to me in very commendable +English.</p> +<p>The weather I shall say nothing about, as I am incapable of +explaining my sentiments upon that subject before a lady. +But my health is really greatly improved: I begin to recognise +myself occasionally now and again, not without satisfaction.</p> +<p>Please remember me very kindly to Professor Swan; I wish I had +a story to send him; but story, Lord bless you, I have none to +tell, sir, unless it is the foregoing adventure with the little +polyglot. The best of that depends on the significance of +<i>polisson</i>, which is beautifully out of place.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Saturday</i>, 10<i>th</i> <i>January</i>.—The little +Russian kid is only two and a half: she speaks six +languages. She and her sister (æt. 8) and May +Johnstone (æt. 8) are the delight of my life. Last +night I saw them all dancing—O it was jolly; kids are what +is the matter with me. After the dancing, we all—that +is the two Russian ladies, Robinet the French painter, Mr. and +Mrs. Johnstone, two governesses, <a name="page71"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 71</span>and fitful kids joining us at +intervals—played a game of the stool of repentance in the +Gallic idiom.</p> +<p>O—I have not told you that Colvin is gone; however, he +is coming back again; he has left clothes in pawn to +me.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Mentone</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +13<i>th</i> <i>January</i> 1874.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">lost</span> a Philipine to little +Mary Johnstone last night; so to-day I sent her a rubbishing +doll’s toilet, and a little note with it, with some verses +telling how happy children made every one near them happy also, +and advising her to keep the lines, and some day, when she was +‘grown a stately demoiselle,’ it would make her +‘glad to know she gave pleasure long ago,’ all in a +very lame fashion, with just a note of prose at the end, telling +her to mind her doll and the dog, and not trouble her little head +just now to understand the bad verses; for some time when she was +ill, as I am now, they would be plain to her and make her +happy. She has just been here to thank me, and has left me +very happy. Children are certainly too good to be true.</p> +<p>Yesterday I walked too far, and spent all the afternoon on the +outside of my bed; went finally to rest at nine, and slept nearly +twelve hours on the stretch. Bennet (the doctor), when told +of it this morning, augured well for my recovery; he said youth +must be putting in strong; of course I ought not to have slept at +all. As it was, I dreamed <i>horridly</i>; but not my usual +dreams of social miseries and misunderstandings and all sorts of +crucifixions of the spirit; but of good, cheery, physical +things—of long successions of vaulted, dimly lit cellars +full of black water, in which I went swimming among toads and +unutterable, cold, blind fishes. Now and then these cellars +opened up into sort of domed music-hall places, where one <a +name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>could land +for a little on the slope of the orchestra, but a sort of horror +prevented one from staying long, and made one plunge back again +into the dead waters. Then my dream changed, and I was a +sort of Siamese pirate, on a very high deck with several +others. The ship was almost captured, and we were fighting +desperately. The hideous engines we used and the perfectly +incredible carnage that we effected by means of them kept me +cheery, as you may imagine; especially as I felt all the time my +sympathy with the boarders, and knew that I was only a prisoner +with these horrid Malays. Then I saw a signal being given, +and knew they were going to blow up the ship. I leaped +right off, and heard my captors splash in the water after me as +thick as pebbles when a bit of river bank has given way beneath +the foot. I never heard the ship blow up; but I spent the +rest of the night swimming about some piles with the whole sea +full of Malays, searching for me with knives in their +mouths. They could swim any distance under water, and every +now and again, just as I was beginning to reckon myself safe, a +cold hand would be laid on my ankle—ugh!</p> +<p>However, my long sleep, troubled as it was, put me all right +again, and I was able to work acceptably this morning and be very +jolly all day. This evening I have had a great deal of talk +with both the Russian ladies; they talked very nicely, and are +bright, likable women both. They come from Georgia.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>, 10.30.—We have all been to tea +to-night at the Russians’ villa. Tea was made out of +a samovar, which is something like a small steam engine, and +whose principal advantage is that it burns the fingers of all who +lay their profane touch upon it. After tea Madame Z. played +Russian airs, very plaintive and pretty; so the evening was +Muscovite from beginning to end. Madame G.’s daughter +danced a tarantella, which was very pretty.</p> +<p>Whenever Nelitchka cries—and she never cries except <a +name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>from +pain—all that one has to do is to start ‘Malbrook +s’en va-t-en guerre.’ She cannot resist the +attraction; she is drawn through her sobs into the air; and in a +moment there is Nelly singing, with the glad look that comes into +her face always when she sings, and all the tears and pain +forgotten.</p> +<p>It is wonderful, before I shut this up, how that child remains +ever interesting to me. Nothing can stale her infinite +variety; and yet it is not very various. You see her +thinking what she is to do or to say next, with a funny grave air +of reserve, and then the face breaks up into a smile, and it is +probably ‘Berecchino!’ said with that sudden little +jump of the voice that one knows in children, as the escape of a +jack-in-the-box, and, somehow, I am quite happy after that!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Mentone</i>, <i>January</i> +1874.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">last</span> night I had a quarrel +with the American on politics. It is odd how it irritates +you to hear certain political statements made. He was +excited, and he began suddenly to abuse our conduct to +America. I, of course, admitted right and left that we had +behaved disgracefully (as we had); until somehow I got tired of +turning alternate cheeks and getting duly buffeted; and when he +said that the Alabama money had not wiped out the injury, I +suggested, in language (I remember) of admirable directness and +force, that it was a pity they had taken the money in that +case. He lost his temper at once, and cried out that his +dearest wish was a war with England; whereupon I also lost my +temper, and, thundering at the pitch of my voice, I left him and +went away by myself to another part of the garden. A very +tender reconciliation took place, and I think there will come no +more harm out of it. We are both of us nervous people, and +he had had a very long walk and a good deal of beer at dinner: +that <a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>explains the scene a little. But I regret having +employed so much of the voice with which I have been endowed, as +I fear every person in the hotel was taken into confidence as to +my sentiments, just at the very juncture when neither the +sentiments nor (perhaps) the language had been sufficiently +considered.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Friday</i>.—You have not yet heard of my +book?—<i>Four Great Scotsmen</i>—John Knox, David +Hume, Robert Burns, Walter Scott. These, their lives, their +work, the social media in which they lived and worked, with, if I +can so make it, the strong current of the race making itself felt +underneath and throughout—this is my idea. You must +tell me what you think of it. The Knox will really be new +matter, as his life hitherto has been disgracefully written, and +the events are romantic and rapid; the character very strong, +salient, and worthy; much interest as to the future of Scotland, +and as to that part of him which was truly modern under his +Hebrew disguise. Hume, of course, the urbane, cheerful, +gentlemanly, letter-writing eighteenth century, full of +attraction, and much that I don’t yet know as to his +work. Burns, the sentimental side that there is in most +Scotsmen, his poor troubled existence, how far his poems were his +personally, and how far national, the question of the framework +of society in Scotland, and its fatal effect upon the finest +natures. Scott again, the ever delightful man, sane, +courageous, admirable; the birth of Romance, in a dawn that was a +sunset; snobbery, conservatism, the wrong thread in History, and +notably in that of his own land. <i>Voilà</i>, +<i>madame</i>, <i>le menu</i>. <i>Comment le +trouvez-vous</i>? <i>Il y a</i> <i>de la bonne viando</i>, +<i>si on parvient à la cuire convenablement</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page75"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 75</span>[<i>Mentone</i>, <i>March</i> 28, +1874.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Beautiful +weather, perfect weather; sun, pleasant cooling winds; health +very good; only incapacity to write.</p> +<p>The only new cloud on my horizon (I mean this in no menacing +sense) is the Prince. I have philosophical and artistic +discussions with the Prince. He is capable of talking for +two hours upon end, developing his theory of everything under +Heaven from his first position, which is that there is no +straight line. Doesn’t that sound like a game of my +father’s—I beg your pardon, you haven’t read +it—I don’t mean <i>my</i> father, I mean Tristram +Shandy’s. He is very clever, and it is an immense +joke to hear him unrolling all the problems of +life—philosophy, science, what you will—in this +charmingly cut-and-dry, here-we-are-again kind of manner. +He is better to listen to than to argue withal. When you +differ from him, he lifts up his voice and thunders; and you know +that the thunder of an excited foreigner often miscarries. +One stands aghast, marvelling how such a colossus of a man, in +such a great commotion of spirit, can open his mouth so much and +emit such a still small voice at the hinder end of it all. +All this while he walks about the room, smokes cigarettes, +occupies divers chairs for divers brief spaces, and casts his +huge arms to the four winds like the sails of a mill. He is +a most sportive Prince.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston</i>], <i>May</i> 1874, +<i>Monday</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> are now at Swanston Cottage, +Lothianburn, Edinburgh. The garden is but little clothed +yet, for, you <a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>know, here we are six hundred feet above the sea. +It is very cold, and has sleeted this morning. Everything +wintry. I am very jolly, however, having finished Victor +Hugo, and just looking round to see what I should next take +up. I have been reading Roman Law and Calvin this +morning.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Evening</i>.—I went up the hill a little this +afternoon. The air was invigorating, but it was so cold +that my scalp was sore. With this high wintry wind, and the +grey sky, and faint northern daylight, it was quite wonderful to +hear such a clamour of blackbirds coming up to me out of the +woods, and the bleating of sheep being shorn in a field near the +garden, and to see golden patches of blossom already on the +furze, and delicate green shoots upright and beginning to frond +out, among last year’s russet bracken. Flights of +crows were passing continually between the wintry leaden sky and +the wintry cold-looking hills. It was the oddest conflict +of seasons. A wee rabbit—this year’s making, +beyond question—ran out from under my feet, and was in a +pretty perturbation, until he hit upon a lucky juniper and +blotted himself there promptly. Evidently this gentleman +had not had much experience of life.</p> +<p>I have made an arrangement with my people: I am to have +£84 a year—I only asked for £80 on mature +reflection—and as I should soon make a good bit by my pen, +I shall be very comfortable. We are all as jolly as can be +together, so that is a great thing gained.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>.—Yesterday I received a letter that +gave me much pleasure from a poor fellow-student of mine, who has +been all winter very ill, and seems to be but little better even +now. He seems very much pleased with <i>Ordered +South</i>. ‘A month ago,’ he says, ‘I +could scarcely have ventured to read it; to-day I felt on reading +it as I did on the first day that I was able to sun myself a +little <a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>in +the open air.’ And much more to the like +effect. It is very gratifying.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Swanston</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, +<i>May</i> 1874.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Struggling</span> away at <i>Fables in +Song</i>. I am much afraid I am going to make a real +failure; the time is so short, and I am so out of the +humour. Otherwise very calm and jolly: cold still +<i>impossible</i>.</p> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—I feel happier about the <i>Fables</i>, +and it is warmer a bit; but my body is most decrepit, and I can +just manage to be cheery and tread down hypochondria under foot +by work. I lead such a funny life, utterly without interest +or pleasure outside of my work: nothing, indeed, but work all day +long, except a short walk alone on the cold hills, and meals, and +a couple of pipes with my father in the evening. It is +surprising how it suits me, and how happy I keep.</p> +<p><i>Saturday</i>.—I have received such a nice long letter +(four sides) from Leslie Stephen to-day about my Victor +Hugo. It is accepted. This ought to have made me gay, +but it hasn’t. I am not likely to be much of a tonic +to-night. I have been very cynical over myself to-day, +partly, perhaps, because I have just finished some of the deedest +rubbish about Lord Lytton’s fables that an intelligent +editor ever shot into his wastepaper basket. If Morley +prints it I shall be glad, but my respect for him will be +shaken.</p> +<p><i>Tuesday</i>.—Another cold day; yet I have been along +the hillside, wondering much at idiotic sheep, and raising +partridges at every second step. One little plover is the +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>object of +my firm adherence. I pass his nest every day, and if you +saw how he files by me, and almost into my face, crying and +flapping his wings, to direct my attention from his little +treasure, you would have as kind a heart to him as I. +To-day I saw him not, although I took my usual way; and I am +afraid that some person has abused his simple wiliness and +harried (as we say in Scotland) the nest. I feel much +righteous indignation against such imaginary aggressor. +However, one must not be too chary of the lower forms. +To-day I sat down on a tree-stump at the skirt of a little strip +of planting, and thoughtlessly began to dig out the touchwood +with an end of twig. I found I had carried ruin, death, and +universal consternation into a little community of ants; and this +set me a-thinking of how close we are environed with frail lives, +so that we can do nothing without spreading havoc over all manner +of perishable homes and interests and affections; and so on to my +favourite mood of an holy terror for all action and all inaction +equally—a sort of shuddering revulsion from the necessary +responsibilities of life. We must not be too scrupulous of +others, or we shall die. Conscientiousness is a sort of +moral opium; an excitant in small doses, perhaps, but at bottom a +strong narcotic.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Saturday</i>.—I have been two days in Edinburgh, and +so had not the occasion to write to you. Morley has +accepted the <i>Fables</i>, and I have seen it in proof, and +think less of it than ever. However, of course, I shall +send you a copy of the <i>Magazine</i> without fail, and you can +be as disappointed as you like, or the reverse if you can. +I would willingly recall it if I could.</p> +<p>Try, by way of change, Byron’s <i>Mazeppa</i>; you will +be astonished. It is grand and no mistake, and one sees +through it a fire, and a passion, and a rapid intuition of +genius, that makes one rather sorry for one’s own +generation of better writers, and—I don’t know what +to say; I <a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>was going to say ‘smaller men’; but +that’s not right; read it, and you will feel what I cannot +express. Don’t be put out by the beginning; +persevere, and you will find yourself thrilled before you are at +an end with it.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Train between Edinburgh and +Chester</i>, <i>August</i> 8, 1874.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> father and mother reading. +I think I shall talk to you for a moment or two. This +morning at Swanston, the birds, poor creatures, had the most +troubled hour or two; evidently there was a hawk in the +neighbourhood; not one sang; and the whole garden thrilled with +little notes of warning and terror. I did not know before +that the voice of birds could be so tragically expressive. +I had always heard them before express their trivial satisfaction +with the blue sky and the return of daylight. Really, they +almost frightened me; I could hear mothers and wives in terror +for those who were dear to them; it was easy to translate, I wish +it were as easy to write; but it is very hard in this flying +train, or I would write you more.</p> +<p><i>Chester</i>.—I like this place much; but somehow I +feel glad when I get among the quiet eighteenth century +buildings, in cosy places with some elbow room about them, after +the older architecture. This other is bedevilled and +furtive; it seems to stoop; I am afraid of trap-doors, and could +not go pleasantly into such houses. I don’t know how +much of this is legitimately the effect of the architecture; +little enough possibly; possibly far the most part of it comes +from bad historical novels and the disquieting statuary that +garnishes some façades.</p> +<p>On the way, to-day, I passed through my dear Cumberland +country. Nowhere to as great a degree can one find <a +name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>the +combination of lowland and highland beauties; the outline of the +blue hills is broken by the outline of many tumultuous +tree-clumps; and the broad spaces of moorland are balanced by a +network of deep hedgerows that might rival Suffolk, in the +foreground.—How a railway journey shakes and discomposes +one, mind and body! I grow blacker and blacker in humour as +the day goes on; and when at last I am let out, and have the +fresh air about me, it is as though I were born again, and the +sick fancies flee away from my mind like swans in spring.</p> +<p>I want to come back on what I have said about eighteenth +century and middle-age houses: I do not know if I have yet +explained to you the sort of loyalty, of urbanity, that there is +about the one to my mind; the spirit of a country orderly and +prosperous, a flavour of the presence of magistrates and +well-to-do merchants in bag-wigs, the clink of glasses at night +in fire-lit parlours, something certain and civic and domestic, +is all about these quiet, staid, shapely houses, with no +character but their exceeding shapeliness, and the comely +external utterance that they make of their internal +comfort. Now the others are, as I have said, both furtive +and bedevilled; they are sly and grotesque; they combine their +sort of feverish grandeur with their sort of secretive baseness, +after the manner of a Charles the Ninth. They are peopled +for me with persons of the same fashion. Dwarfs and +sinister people in cloaks are about them; and I seem to divine +crypts, and, as I said, trap-doors. O God be praised that +we live in this good daylight and this good peace.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Barmouth</i>, <i>August</i> 9<i>th</i>.—To-day we saw +the cathedral at Chester; and, far more delightful, saw and heard +a certain inimitable verger who took us round. He was full +of a certain recondite, far-away humour that did not quite make +you laugh at the time, but was somehow laughable to +recollect. Moreover, he had so far a just imagination, <a +name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>and could put +one in the right humour for seeing an old place, very much as, +according to my favourite text, Scott’s novels and poems do +for one. His account of the monks in the Scriptorium, with +their cowls over their heads, in a certain sheltered angle of the +cloister where the big Cathedral building kept the sun off the +parchments, was all that could be wished; and so too was what he +added of the others pacing solemnly behind them and dropping, +ever and again, on their knees before a little shrine there is in +the wall, ‘to keep ’em in the frame of +mind.’ You will begin to think me unduly biassed in +this verger’s favour if I go on to tell you his opinion of +me. We got into a little side chapel, whence we could hear +the choir children at practice, and I stopped a moment listening +to them, with, I dare say, a very bright face, for the sound was +delightful to me. ‘Ah,’ says he, +‘you’re <i>very</i> fond of music.’ I +said I was. ‘Yes, I could tell that by your +head,’ he answered. ‘There’s a deal in +that head.’ And he shook his own solemnly. I +said it might be so, but I found it hard, at least, to get it +out. Then my father cut in brutally, said anyway I had no +ear, and left the verger so distressed and shaken in the +foundations of his creed that, I hear, he got my father aside +afterwards and said he was sure there was something in my face, +and wanted to know what it was, if not music. He was +relieved when he heard that I occupied myself with litterature +(which word, note here, I do not spell correctly). +Good-night, and here’s the verger’s health!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Swanston</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, +[<i>Autumn</i>] 1874.</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> been hard at work all +yesterday, and besides had to write a long letter to Bob, so I +found no time until <a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>quite late, and then was sleepy. Last night it +blew a fearful gale; I was kept awake about a couple of hours, +and could not get to sleep for the horror of the wind’s +noise; the whole house shook; and, mind you, our house <i>is</i> +a house, a great castle of jointed stone that would weigh up a +street of English houses; so that when it quakes, as it did last +night, it means something. But the quaking was not what put +me about; it was the horrible howl of the wind round the corner; +the audible haunting of an incarnate anger about the house; the +evil spirit that was abroad; and, above all, the shuddering +silent pauses when the storm’s heart stands dreadfully +still for a moment. O how I hate a storm at night! +They have been a great influence in my life, I am sure; for I can +remember them so far back—long before I was six at least, +for we left the house in which I remember listening to them times +without number when I was six. And in those days the storm +had for me a perfect impersonation, as durable and unvarying as +any heathen deity. I always heard it, as a horseman riding +past with his cloak about his head, and somehow always carried +away, and riding past again, and being baffled yet once more, +<i>ad infinitum</i>, all night long. I think I wanted him +to get past, but I am not sure; I know only that I had some +interest either for or against in the matter; and I used to lie +and hold my breath, not quite frightened, but in a state of +miserable exaltation.</p> +<p>My first John Knox is in proof, and my second is on the +anvil. It is very good of me so to do; for I want so much +to get to my real tour and my sham tour, the real tour first: it +is always working in my head, and if I can only turn on the right +sort of style at the right moment, I am not much afraid of +it. One thing bothers me; what with hammering at this J. +K., and writing necessary letters, and taking necessary exercise +(that even not enough, the weather is so repulsive to me, cold +and windy), I find I have no time for reading except times of +fatigue, when I wish merely to relax myself. O—and I +read over again <a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>for this purpose Flaubert’s <i>Tentation de St. +Antoine</i>; it struck me a good deal at first, but this second +time it has fetched me immensely. I am but just done with +it, so you will know the large proportion of salt to take with my +present statement, that it’s the finest thing I ever +read! Of course, it isn’t that, it’s full of +<i>longueurs</i>, and is not quite ‘redd up,’ as we +say in Scotland, not quite articulated; but there are splendid +things in it.</p> +<p>I say, <i>do</i> take your maccaroni with oil: <i>do</i>, +<i>please</i>. It’s <i>beastly</i> with +butter.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>], <i>December</i> +23, 1874.</p> +<p><i>Monday</i>.—I have come from a concert, and the +concert was rather a disappointment. Not so my afternoon +skating—Duddingston, our big loch, is bearing; and I wish +you could have seen it this afternoon, covered with people, in +thin driving snow flurries, the big hill grim and white and +alpine overhead in the thick air, and the road up the gorge, as +it were into the heart of it, dotted black with traffic. +Moreover, I <i>can</i> skate a little bit; and what one can do is +always pleasant to do.</p> +<p><i>Tuesday</i>.—I got your letter to-day, and was so +glad thereof. It was of good omen to me also. I +worked from ten to one (my classes are suspended now for Xmas +holidays), and wrote four or five Portfolio pages of my +Buckinghamshire affair. Then I went to Duddingston and +skated all afternoon. If you had seen the moon rising, a +perfect sphere of smoky gold, in the dark air above the trees, +and the white loch thick with skaters, and the great hill, +snow-sprinkled, overhead! It was a sight for a king.</p> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>.—I stayed on Duddingston to-day till +after nightfall. The little booths that hucksters set up +round the edge were marked each one by its little lamp. +There were some fires too; and the light, and the shadows of <a +name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>the people +who stood round them to warm themselves, made a strange pattern +all round on the snow-covered ice. A few people with +torches began to travel up and down the ice, a lit circle +travelling along with them over the snow. A gigantic moon +rose, meanwhile, over the trees and the kirk on the promontory, +among perturbed and vacillating clouds.</p> +<p>The walk home was very solemn and strange. Once, through +a broken gorge, we had a glimpse of a little space of mackerel +sky, moon-litten, on the other side of the hill; the broken +ridges standing grey and spectral between; and the hilltop over +all, snow-white, and strangely magnified in size.</p> +<p>This must go to you to-morrow, so that you may read it on +Christmas Day for company. I hope it may be good company to +you.</p> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—Outside, it snows thick and +steadily. The gardens before our house are now a wonderful +fairy forest. And O, this whiteness of things, how I love +it, how it sends the blood about my body! Maurice de +Guérin hated snow; what a fool he must have been! +Somebody tried to put me out of conceit with it by saying that +people were lost in it. As if people don’t get lost +in love, too, and die of devotion to art; as if everything worth +were not an occasion to some people’s end.</p> +<p>What a wintry letter this is! Only I think it is winter +seen from the inside of a warm greatcoat. And there is, at +least, a warm heart about it somewhere. Do you know, what +they say in Xmas stories is true? I think one loves their +friends more dearly at this season.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Road</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>January</i> 1875].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +worked too hard; I have given myself one day of rest, and that +was not enough; <a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>so I am giving myself another. I shall go to bed +again likewise so soon as this is done, and slumber most +potently.</p> +<p>9 <span class="GutSmall">P.M.</span>, slept all afternoon like +a lamb.</p> +<p>About my coming south, I think the still small unanswerable +voice of coins will make it impossible until the session is over +(end of March); but for all that, I think I shall hold out +jolly. I do not want you to come and bother yourself; +indeed, it is still not quite certain whether my father will be +quite fit for you, although I have now no fear of that +really. Now don’t take up this wrongly; I wish you +could come; and I do not know anything that would make me +happier, but I see that it is wrong to expect it, and so I resign +myself: some time after. I offered Appleton a series of +papers on the modern French school—the Parnassiens, I think +they call them—de Banville, Coppée, Soulary, and +Sully Prudhomme. But he has not deigned to answer my +letter.</p> +<p>I shall have another Portfolio paper so soon as I am done with +this story, that has played me out; the story is to be called +<i>When the Devil was well</i>: scene, Italy, Renaissance; +colour, purely imaginary of course, my own unregenerate idea of +what Italy then was. O, when shall I find the story of my +dreams, that shall never halt nor wander nor step aside, but go +ever before its face, and ever swifter and louder, until the pit +receives it, roaring? The Portfolio paper will be about +Scotland and England.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Tuesday</i> +[<i>February</i> 1875].</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">got</span> your nice long gossiping +letter to-day—I mean by that that there was more news in it +than usual—and <a name="page86"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 86</span>so, of course, I am pretty +jolly. I am in the house, however, with such a beastly cold +in the head. Our east winds begin already to be very +cold.</p> +<p>O, I have such a longing for children of my own; and yet I do +not think I could bear it if I had one. I fancy I must feel +more like a woman than like a man about that. I sometimes +hate the children I see on the street—you know what I mean +by hate—wish they were somewhere else, and not there to +mock me; and sometimes, again, I don’t know how to go by +them for the love of them, especially the very wee ones.</p> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—I have been still in the house since I +wrote, and I <i>have</i> worked. I finished the Italian +story; not well, but as well as I can just now; I must go all +over it again, some time soon, when I feel in the humour to +better and perfect it. And now I have taken up an old +story, begun years ago; and I have now re-written all I had +written of it then, and mean to finish it. What I have lost +and gained is odd. As far as regards simple writing, of +course, I am in another world now; but in some things, though +more clumsy, I seem to have been freer and more plucky: this is a +lesson I have taken to heart. I have got a jolly new name +for my old story. I am going to call it <i>A Country +Dance</i>; the two heroes keep changing places, you know; and the +chapter where the most of this changing goes on is to be called +‘Up the middle, down the middle.’ It will be in +six, or (perhaps) seven chapters. I have never worked +harder in my life than these last four days. If I can only +keep it up.</p> +<p><i>Saturday</i>.—Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down +here to lecture, called on me and took me up to see a poor +fellow, a poet who writes for him, and who has been eighteen +months in our infirmary, and may be, for all I know, eighteen +months more. It was very sad to see him there, in a little +room with two beds, and a couple of sick children in the other +bed; a girl came in to visit the children, <a +name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>and played +dominoes on the counterpane with them; the gas flared and +crackled, the fire burned in a dull economical way; Stephen and I +sat on a couple of chairs, and the poor fellow sat up in his bed +with his hair and beard all tangled, and talked as cheerfully as +if he had been in a King’s palace, or the great +King’s palace of the blue air. He has taught himself +two languages since he has been lying there. I shall try to +be of use to him.</p> +<p>We have had two beautiful spring days, mild as milk, windy +withal, and the sun hot. I dreamed last night I was walking +by moonlight round the place where the scene of my story is laid; +it was all so quiet and sweet, and the blackbirds were singing as +if it was day; it made my heart very cool and happy.—Ever +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>February</i> 8, 1875.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Forgive my +bothering you. Here is the proof of my second +<i>Knox</i>. Glance it over, like a good fellow, and if +there’s anything very flagrant send it to me marked. +I have no confidence in myself; I feel such an ass. What +have I been doing? As near as I can calculate, +nothing. And yet I have worked all this month from three to +five hours a day, that is to say, from one to three hours more +than my doctor allows me; positively no result.</p> +<p>No, I can write no article just now; I am <i>pioching</i>, +like a madman, at my stories, and can make nothing of them; my +simplicity is tame and dull—my passion tinsel, boyish, +hysterical. Never mind—ten years hence, if I live, I +shall have learned, so help me God. I know one must work, +in the meantime (so says Balzac) <i>comme le mineur enfoui sous +un éboulement</i>.</p> +<p><i>J’y parviendrai</i>, <i>nom de nom de nom</i>! +But it’s a long look forward.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Barbizon</i>, <i>April</i> +1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—This is +just a line to say I am well and happy. I am here in my +dear forest all day in the open air. It is very +be—no, not beautiful exactly, just now, but very bright and +living. There are one or two song birds and a cuckoo; all +the fruit-trees are in flower, and the beeches make sunshine in a +shady place, I begin to go all right; you need not be vexed about +my health; I really was ill at first, as bad as I have been for +nearly a year; but the forest begins to work, and the air, and +the sun, and the smell of the pines. If I could stay a +month here, I should be as right as possible. Thanks for +your letter.—Your faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Sunday</i> [<i>April</i> 1875].</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> is my long story: yesterday +night, after having supped, I grew so restless that I was obliged +to go out in search of some excitement. There was a +half-moon lying over on its back, and incredibly bright in the +midst of a faint grey sky set with faint stars: a very inartistic +moon, that would have damned a picture.</p> +<p>At the most populous place of the city I found a little boy, +three years old perhaps, half frantic with terror, and crying to +every one for his ‘Mammy.’ This was about +eleven, mark you. People stopped and spoke to him, and then +went on, leaving him more frightened than before. <a +name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>But I and a +good-humoured mechanic came up together; and I instantly +developed a latent faculty for setting the hearts of children at +rest. Master Tommy Murphy (such was his name) soon stopped +crying, and allowed me to take him up and carry him; and the +mechanic and I trudged away along Princes Street to find his +parents. I was soon so tired that I had to ask the mechanic +to carry the bairn; and you should have seen the puzzled contempt +with which he looked at me, for knocking in so soon. He was +a good fellow, however, although very impracticable and +sentimental; and he soon bethought him that Master Murphy might +catch cold after his excitement, so we wrapped him up in my +greatcoat. ‘Tobauga (Tobago) Street’ was the +address he gave us; and we deposited him in a little +grocer’s shop and went through all the houses in the street +without being able to find any one of the name of Murphy. +Then I set off to the head police office, leaving my greatcoat in +pawn about Master Murphy’s person. As I went down one +of the lowest streets in the town, I saw a little bit of life +that struck me. It was now half-past twelve, a little shop +stood still half-open, and a boy of four or five years old was +walking up and down before it imitating cockcrow. He was +the only living creature within sight.</p> +<p>At the police offices no word of Master Murphy’s +parents; so I went back empty-handed. The good groceress, +who had kept her shop open all this time, could keep the child no +longer; her father, bad with bronchitis, said he must +forth. So I got a large scone with currants in it, wrapped +my coat about Tommy, got him up on my arm, and away to the police +office with him: not very easy in my mind, for the poor child, +young as he was—he could scarce speak—was full of +terror for the ‘office,’ as he called it. He +was now very grave and quiet and communicative with me; told me +how his father thrashed him, and divers household matters. +Whenever he saw a woman on our way he looked after <a +name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>her over my +shoulder and then gave his judgment: ‘That’s no +<i>her</i>,’ adding sometimes, ‘She has a wean +wi’ her.’ Meantime I was telling him how I was +going to take him to a gentleman who would find out his mother +for him quicker than ever I could, and how he must not be afraid +of him, but be brave, as he had been with me. We had just +arrived at our destination—we were just under the +lamp—when he looked me in the face and said appealingly, +‘He’ll no put—me in the office?’ +And I had to assure him that he would not, even as I pushed open +the door and took him in.</p> +<p>The serjeant was very nice, and I got Tommy comfortably seated +on a bench, and spirited him up with good words and the scone +with the currants in it; and then, telling him I was just going +out to look for Mammy, I got my greatcoat and slipped away.</p> +<p>Poor little boy! he was not called for, I learn, until ten +this morning. This is very ill written, and I’ve +missed half that was picturesque in it; but to say truth, I am +very tired and sleepy: it was two before I got to bed. +However, you see, I had my excitement.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Monday</i>.—I have written nothing all morning; I +cannot settle to it. Yes—I <i>will</i> though.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>10.45.—And I did. I want to say something more to +you about the three women. I wonder so much why they should +have been <i>women</i>, and halt between two opinions in the +matter. Sometimes I think it is because they were made by a +man for men; sometimes, again, I think there is an abstract +reason for it, and there is something more substantive about a +woman than ever there can be about a man. I can conceive a +great mythical woman, living alone among inaccessible +mountain-tops or in some lost island in the pagan seas, and ask +no more. Whereas if I hear of a Hercules, I ask after Iole +or Dejanira. I cannot think him a man without women. +But I can think of these three deep-breasted <a +name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>women, living +out all their days on remote hilltops, seeing the white dawn and +the purple even, and the world outspread before them for ever, +and no more to them for ever than a sight of the eyes, a hearing +of the ears, a far-away interest of the inflexible heart, not +pausing, not pitying, but austere with a holy austerity, rigid +with a calm and passionless rigidity; and I find them none the +less women to the end.</p> +<p>And think, if one could love a woman like that once, see her +once grow pale with passion, and once wring your lips out upon +hers, would it not be a small thing to die? Not that there +is not a passion of a quite other sort, much less epic, far more +dramatic and intimate, that comes out of the very frailty of +perishable women; out of the lines of suffering that we see +written about their eyes, and that we may wipe out if it were but +for a moment; out of the thin hands, wrought and tempered in +agony to a fineness of perception, that the indifferent or the +merely happy cannot know; out of the tragedy that lies about such +a love, and the pathetic incompleteness. This is another +thing, and perhaps it is a higher. I look over my shoulder +at the three great headless Madonnas, and they look back at me +and do not move; see me, and through and over me, the foul life +of the city dying to its embers already as the night draws on; +and over miles and miles of silent country, set here and there +with lit towns, thundered through here and there with night +expresses scattering fire and smoke; and away to the ends of the +earth, and the furthest star, and the blank regions of nothing; +and they are not moved. My quiet, great-kneed, +deep-breasted, well-draped ladies of Necessity, I give my heart +to you!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston</i>, <i>Tuesday</i>, +<i>April</i> 1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I have +been so busy, away to Bridge Of Allan with my father first, and +then with Simpson and <a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span>Baxter out here from Saturday till +Monday. I had no time to write, and, as it is, am strangely +incapable. Thanks for your letter. I have been +reading such lots of law, and it seems to take away the power of +writing from me. From morning to night, so often as I have +a spare moment, I am in the embrace of a law book—barren +embraces. I am in good spirits; and my heart smites me as +usual, when I am in good spirits, about my parents. If I +get a bit dull, I am away to London without a scruple; but so +long as my heart keeps up, I am all for my parents.</p> +<p>What do you think of Henley’s hospital verses? +They were to have been dedicated to me, but Stephen +wouldn’t allow it—said it would be pretentious.</p> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>.—I meant to have made this quite a +decent letter this morning, but listen. I had pain all last +night, and did not sleep well, and now am cold and sickish, and +strung up ever and again with another flash of pain. Will +you remember me to everybody? My principal characteristics +are cold, poverty, and Scots Law—three very bad +things. Oo, how the rain falls! The mist is quite low +on the hill. The birds are twittering to each other about +the indifferent season. O, here’s a gem for +you. An old godly woman predicted the end of the world, +because the seasons were becoming indistinguishable; my cousin +Dora objected that last winter had been pretty well marked. +‘Yes, my dear,’ replied the soothsayeress; ‘but +I think you’ll find the summer will be rather +coamplicated.’—Ever your faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Saturday</i>, +<i>April</i> 1875.]</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> getting on with my rehearsals, +but I find the part very hard. I rehearsed yesterday from a +quarter to seven, <a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>and to-day from four (with interval for dinner) to +eleven. You see the sad strait I am in for +ink.—<i>À demain</i>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Sunday</i>.—This is the third ink-bottle I have +tried, and still it’s nothing to boast of. My journey +went off all right, and I have kept ever in good spirits. +Last night, indeed, I did think my little bit of gaiety was going +away down the wind like a whiff of tobacco smoke, but to-day it +has come back to me a little. The influence of this place +is assuredly all that can be worst against one; <i>mail il faut +lutter</i>. I was haunted last night when I was in bed by +the most cold, desolate recollections of my past life here; I was +glad to try and think of the forest, and warm my hands at the +thought of it. O the quiet, grey thickets, and the yellow +butterflies, and the woodpeckers, and the outlook over the plain +as it were over a sea! O for the good, fleshly stupidity of +the woods, the body conscious of itself all over and the mind +forgotten, the clean air nestling next your skin as though your +clothes were gossamer, the eye filled and content, the whole +<span class="GutSmall">MAN HAPPY</span>! Whereas here it +takes a pull to hold yourself together; it needs both hands, and +a book of stoical maxims, and a sort of bitterness at the heart +by way of armour.—Ever your faithful</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>.—I am so played out with a cold in my +eye that I cannot see to write or read without difficulty. +It is swollen <i>horrible</i>; so how I shall look as Orsino, God +knows! I have my fine clothes tho’. +Henley’s sonnets have been taken for the +<i>Cornhill</i>. He is out of hospital now, and dressed, +but still not too much to brag of in health, poor fellow, I am +afraid.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Sunday</i>.—So. I have still rather bad eyes, +and a nasty sore throat. I play Orsino every day, in all +the pomp of Solomon, splendid Francis the First clothes, heavy +with gold and stage jewellery. I play it ill enough, I +believe; but me and the clothes, and the wedding wherewith the +clothes and me are reconciled, produce every night a thrill <a +name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>of +admiration. Our cook told my mother (there is a +servants’ night, you know) that she and the housemaid were +‘just prood to be able to say it was oor young +gentleman.’ To sup afterwards with these clothes on, +and a wonderful lot of gaiety and Shakespearean jokes about the +table, is something to live for. It is so nice to feel you +have been dead three hundred years, and the sound of your +laughter is faint and far off in the centuries.—Ever your +faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>Wednesday</i>.—A moment at last. These last few +days have been as jolly as days could be, and by good fortune I +leave to-morrow for Swanston, so that I shall not feel the whole +fall back to habitual self. The pride of life could scarce +go further. To live in splendid clothes, velvet and gold +and fur, upon principally champagne and lobster salad, with a +company of people nearly all of whom are exceptionally good +talkers; when your days began about eleven and ended about +four—I have lost that sentence; I give it up; it is very +admirable sport, any way. Then both my afternoons have been +so pleasantly occupied—taking Henley drives. I had a +business to carry him down the long stair, and more of a business +to get him up again, but while he was in the carriage it was +splendid. It is now just the top of spring with us. +The whole country is mad with green. To see the +cherry-blossom bitten out upon the black firs, and the black firs +bitten out of the blue sky, was a sight to set before a +king. You may imagine what it was to a man who has been +eighteen months in an hospital ward. The look of his face +was a wine to me.</p> +<p>I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new +address—Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. +Salute the faithful in my name. Salute Priscilla, salute +Barnabas, salute Ebenezer—O no, he’s too much, I +withdraw Ebenezer; enough of early Christians.—Ever your +faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>June</i> +1875.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Simply</span> a scratch. All right, +jolly, well, and through with the difficulty. My father +pleased about the Burns. Never travel in the same carriage +with three able-bodied seamen and a fruiterer from Kent; the +A.-B.’s speak all night as though they were hailing vessels +at sea; and the fruiterer as if he were crying fruit in a noisy +market-place—such, at least, is my <i>funeste</i> +experience. I wonder if a fruiterer from some place +else—say Worcestershire—would offer the same +phenomena? insoluble doubt.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>Later</i>.—Forgive me, couldn’t get it +off. Awfully nice man here to-night. Public +servant—New Zealand. Telling us all about the South +Sea Islands till I was sick with desire to go there: beautiful +places, green for ever; perfect climate; perfect shapes of men +and women, with red flowers in their hair; and nothing to do but +to study oratory and etiquette, sit in the sun, and pick up the +fruits as they fall. Navigator’s Island is the place; +absolute balm for the weary.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page96"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 96</span><i>Swanston</i>. <i>End of +June</i>, 1875.</p> +<p><i>Thursday</i>.—This day fortnight I shall fall or +conquer. Outside the rain still soaks; but now and again +the hilltop looks through the mist vaguely. I am very +comfortable, very sleepy, and very much satisfied with the +arrangements of Providence.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Saturday</i>—<i>no</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, +12.45.—Just been—not grinding, alas!—I +couldn’t—but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. I +don’t think I’ll be plucked. I am not sure +though—I am so busy, what with this d-d law, and this +Fontainebleau always at my elbow, and three plays (three, think +of that!) and a story, all crying out to me, ‘Finish, +finish, make an entire end, make us strong, shapely, viable +creatures!’ It’s enough to put a man +crazy. Moreover, I have my thesis given out now, which is a +fifth (is it fifth? I can’t count) incumbrance.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Sunday</i>.—I’ve been to church, and am not +depressed—a great step. I was at that beautiful +church my <i>petit poëme en prose</i> was about. It is +a little cruciform place, with heavy cornices and string course +to match, and a steep slate roof. The small kirkyard is +full of old grave-stones. One of a Frenchman from +Dunkerque—I suppose he died prisoner in the military prison +hard by—and one, the most pathetic memorial I ever saw, a +poor school-slate, in a wooden frame, with the inscription cut +into it evidently by the father’s own hand. In +church, old Mr. Torrence preached—over eighty, and a relic +of times forgotten, with his black thread gloves and mild old +foolish face. One of the nicest parts of it was to see John +Inglis, the greatest man in Scotland, our Justice-General, and +the only born lawyer I ever heard, listening to the piping old +body, as though it had all been a revelation, grave and +respectful.—Ever your faithful</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>III<br +/> +ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR<br /> +<span +class="GutSmall">EDINBURGH—PARIS—FONTAINEBLEAU</span><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall">JULY 1875-JULY 1879</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chez Siron</i>, <i>Barbizon</i>, +<i>Seine et Marne</i>, <i>August</i> 1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I have +been three days at a place called Grez, a pretty and very +melancholy village on the plain. A low bridge of many +arches choked with sedge; great fields of white and yellow +water-lilies; poplars and willows innumerable; and about it all +such an atmosphere of sadness and slackness, one could do nothing +but get into the boat and out of it again, and yawn for +bedtime.</p> +<p>Yesterday Bob and I walked home; it came on a very creditable +thunderstorm; we were soon wet through; sometimes the rain was so +heavy that one could only see by holding the hand over the eyes; +and to crown all, we lost our way and wandered all over the +place, and into the artillery range, among broken trees, with big +shot lying about among the rocks. It was near dinner-time +when we got to Barbizon; and it is supposed that we walked from +twenty-three to twenty-five miles, which is not bad for the +Advocate, who is not tired this morning. I was very glad to +be back again in this dear place, and smell the wet forest in the +morning.</p> +<p>Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about +as wet as we did.</p> +<p>Why don’t you write? I have no more to +say.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page105"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 105</span><i>Château Renard</i>, +<i>Loiret</i>, <i>August</i> 1875.</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">have</span> been walking these +last days from place to place; and it does make it hot for +walking with a sack in this weather. I am burned in horrid +patches of red; my nose, I fear, is going to take the lead in +colour; Simpson is all flushed, as if he were seen by a +sunset. I send you here two rondeaux; I don’t suppose +they will amuse anybody but me; but this measure, short and yet +intricate, is just what I desire; and I have had some good times +walking along the glaring roads, or down the poplar alley of the +great canal, pitting my own humour to this old verse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far have you come, my lady, from the town,<br +/> +And far from all your sorrows, if you please,<br /> +To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas,<br /> +And in green meadows lay your body down.</p> +<p class="poetry">To find your pale face grow from pale to +brown,<br /> +Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees;<br /> +Far have you come, my lady, from the town,<br /> +And far from all your sorrows, if you please.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here in this seaboard land of old renown,<br /> +In meadow grass go wading to the knees;<br /> +Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease;<br /> +There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;<br /> +Far have you come, my lady, from the town.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Nous n’irons plus au +bois</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll walk the woods no more,<br /> +But stay beside the fire,<br /> +To weep for old desire<br /> +And things that are no more.<br /> + <a name="page106"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 106</span>The woods are spoiled and hoar,<br +/> +The ways are full of mire;<br /> +We’ll walk the woods no more,<br /> +But stay beside the fire.<br /> + We loved, in days of yore,<br /> +Love, laughter, and the lyre.<br /> +Ah God, but death is dire,<br /> +And death is at the door—<br /> +We’ll walk the woods no more.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, [<i>Autumn</i>] +1875.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks for +your letter and news. No—my <i>Burns</i> is not done +yet, it has led me so far afield that I cannot finish it; every +time I think I see my way to an end, some new game (or perhaps +wild goose) starts up, and away I go. And then, again, to +be plain, I shirk the work of the critical part, shirk it as a +man shirks a long jump. It is awful to have to express and +differentiate <i>Burns</i> in a column or two. O golly, I +say, you know, it <i>can’t</i> be done at the money. +All the more as I’m going <a name="page107"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 107</span>to write a book about it. +<i>Ramsay</i>, <i>Fergusson</i>, <i>and Burns</i>: <i>an +Essay</i> (or <i>a critical essay</i>? but then I’m going +to give lives of the three gentlemen, only the gist of the book +is the criticism) <i>by Robert Louis Stevenson</i>, +<i>Advocate</i>. How’s that for cut and dry? +And I <i>could</i> write this book. Unless I deceive +myself, I could even write it pretty adequately. I feel as +if I was really in it, and knew the game thoroughly. You +see what comes of trying to write an essay on <i>Burns</i> in ten +columns.</p> +<p>Meantime, when I have done Burns, I shall finish Charles of +Orleans (who is in a good way, about the fifth month, I should +think, and promises to be a fine healthy child, better than any +of his elder brothers for a while); and then perhaps a Villon, +for Villon is a very essential part of my +<i>Ramsay-Fergusson-Burns</i>; I mean, is a note in it, and will +recur again and again for comparison and illustration; then, +perhaps, I may try Fontainebleau, by the way. But so soon +as Charles of Orleans is polished off, and immortalised for ever, +he and his pipings, in a solid imperishable shrine of R. L. S., +my true aim and end will be this little book. Suppose I +could jerk you out 100 Cornhill pages; that would easy make 200 +pages of decent form; and then thickish paper—eh? would +that do? I dare say it could be made bigger; but I know +what 100 pages of copy, bright consummate copy, imply behind the +scenes of weary manuscribing; I think if I put another nothing to +it, I should not be outside the mark; and 100 Cornhill pages of +500 words means, I fancy (but I never was good at figures), means +500,00 words. There’s a prospect for an idle young +gentleman who lives at home at ease! The future is thick +with inky fingers. And then perhaps nobody would +publish. <i>Ah nom de dieu</i>! What do you think of +all this? will it paddle, think you?</p> +<p>I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried.</p> +<p>About coming up, no, that’s impossible; for I am worse +than a bankrupt. I have at the present six shillings and <a +name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>a penny; I +have a sounding lot of bills for Christmas; new dress suit, for +instance, the old one having gone for Parliament House; and new +white shirts to live up to my new profession; I’m as gay +and swell and gummy as can be; only all my boots leak; one pair +water, and the other two simple black mud; so that my rig is more +for the eye, than a very solid comfort to myself. That is +my budget. Dismal enough, and no prospect of any coin +coming in; at least for months. So that here I am, I almost +fear, for the winter; certainly till after Christmas, and then it +depends on how my bills ‘turn out’ whether it shall +not be till spring. So, meantime, I must whistle in my +cage. My cage is better by one thing; I am an Advocate +now. If you ask me why that makes it better, I would remind +you that in the most distressing circumstances a little +consequence goes a long way, and even bereaved relatives stand on +precedence round the coffin. I idle finely. I read +Boswell’s <i>Life of Johnson</i>, Martin’s <i>History +of France</i>, <i>Allan Ramsay</i>, <i>Olivier Bosselin</i>, all +sorts of rubbish, <i>àpropos</i> of <i>Burns</i>, +<i>Commines</i>, <i>Juvénal des Ursins</i>, etc. I +walk about the Parliament House five forenoons a week, in wig and +gown; I have either a five or six mile walk, or an hour or two +hard skating on the rink, every afternoon, without fail.</p> +<p>I have not written much; but, like the seaman’s parrot +in the tale, I have thought a deal. You have never, by the +way, returned me either <i>Spring</i> or <i>Béranger</i>, +which is certainly a d-d shame. I always comforted myself +with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter to +you. ‘Thus conscience’—O no, that’s +not appropriate in this connection.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>I say, is there any chance of your coming north this +year? Mind you that promise is now more respectable for age +than is becoming.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>October</i> +1875.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Noo</span> lyart leaves +blaw ower the green,<br /> +Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean,<br /> +An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’,<br /> + To pass the winter.<br /> +Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in,<br /> + An’ snaws ahint her.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve seen’s hae days to fricht us +a’,<br /> +The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw,<br /> +The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw,<br /> + An’ +half-congealin’,<br /> +The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw<br /> + Frae blae Brunteelan’.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve seen’s been unco sweir to +sally,<br /> +And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally,<br /> +Seen’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally<br /> + For near a minute—<br /> +Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley,<br /> + The deil was in it!—</p> +<p class="poetry">Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate,<br +/> +In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t!<br /> +The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate,<br /> + Wi’ cauld an’ weet,<br +/> +An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late,<br /> + Bicker oor feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">And at the Court, tae, aft I saw<br /> +Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa<br /> +Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’<br /> + In weeg an’ goon,<br /> +To crack o’ what ye wull but Law<br /> + The hale forenoon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>That muckle ha,’ maist like a kirk,<br /> +I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk<br /> +Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk<br /> + Like ghaists frae Hell,<br /> +But whether Christian ghaist or Turk<br /> + Deil ane could tell.</p> +<p class="poetry">The three fires lunted in the gloom,<br /> +The wind blew like the blast o’ doom,<br /> +The rain upo’ the roof abune<br /> + Played Peter Dick—<br /> +Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room<br /> + Your teeth to pick!</p> +<p class="poetry">But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you,<br /> +The ling-lang lanely winter through,<br /> +Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true<br /> + To lore Horatian,<br /> +We aye the ither bottle drew<br /> + To inclination.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae let us in the comin’ days<br /> +Stand sicker on our auncient ways—<br /> +The strauchtest road in a’ the maze<br /> + Since Eve ate apples;<br /> +An’ let the winter weet our cla’es—<br /> + We’ll weet oor +thrapples.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>Autumn</i> +1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—<i>Fous ne +me gombrennez pas</i>. Angry with you? No. Is +the thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one +masterpiece fewer in the world. The world can ill spare it, +but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow <a +name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>bosom so +that it resounds) I am full of this sort of bauble; I am made of +it; it comes to me, sir, as the desire to sneeze comes upon poor +ordinary devils on cold days, when they should be getting out of +bed and into their horrid cold tubs by the light of a seven +o’clock candle, with the dismal seven o’clock +frost-flowers all over the window.</p> +<p>Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to +give me money, you would oblige, sincerely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I have a scroll of <i>Springtime</i> somewhere, but I know +that it is not in very good order, and do not feel myself up to +very much grind over it. I am damped about +<i>Springtime</i>, that’s the truth of it. It might +have been four or five quid!</p> +<p>Sir, I shall shave my head, if this goes on. All men +take a pleasure to gird at me. The laws of nature are in +open war with me. The wheel of a dog-cart took the toes off +my new boots. Gout has set in with extreme rigour, and cut +me out of the cheap refreshment of beer. I leant my back +against an oak, I thought it was a trusty tree, but first it +bent, and syne—it lost the Spirit of Springtime, and so did +Professor Sidney Colvin, Trinity College, to me.—Ever +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Along with this, I send you some P.P.P’s; if you lose +them, you need not seek to look upon my face again. Do, for +God’s sake, answer me about them also; it is a horrid thing +for a fond architect to find his monuments received in +silence.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>November</i> +12, 1875.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—Since I +got your letter I have been able to do a little more work, and I +have been much <a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>better contented with myself; but I can’t get +away, that is absolutely prevented by the state of my purse and +my debts, which, I may say, are red like crimson. I +don’t know how I am to clear my hands of them, nor when, +not before Christmas anyway. Yesterday I was twenty-five; +so please wish me many happy returns—directly. This +one was not <i>un</i>happy anyway. I have got back a good +deal into my old random, little-thought way of life, and do not +care whether I read, write, speak, or walk, so long as I do +something. I have a great delight in this wheel-skating; I +have made great advance in it of late, can do a good many amusing +things (I mean amusing in <i>my</i> sense—amusing to +do). You know, I lose all my forenoons at Court! So +it is, but the time passes; it is a great pleasure to sit and +hear cases argued or advised. This is quite +autobiographical, but I feel as if it was some time since we met, +and I can tell you, I am glad to meet you again. In every +way, you see, but that of work the world goes well with me. +My health is better than ever it was before; I get on without any +jar, nay, as if there never had been a jar, with my +parents. If it weren’t about that work, I’d be +happy. But the fact is, I don’t think—the fact +is, I’m going to trust in Providence about work. If I +could get one or two pieces I hate out of my way all would be +well, I think; but these obstacles disgust me, and as I know I +ought to do them first, I don’t do anything. I must +finish this off, or I’ll just lose another day. +I’ll try to write again soon.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. de Mattos</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>January</i> +1876.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR KATHARINE</span>,—The +prisoner reserved his defence. He has been seedy, however; +principally sick <a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>of the family evil, despondency; the sun is gone out +utterly; and the breath of the people of this city lies about as +a sort of damp, unwholesome fog, in which we go walking with +bowed hearts. If I understand what is a contrite spirit, I +have one; it is to feel that you are a small jar, or rather, as I +feel myself, a very large jar, of pottery work rather <i>mal +réussi</i>, and to make every allowance for the potter (I +beg pardon; Potter with a capital P.) on his ill-success, and +rather wish he would reduce you as soon as possible to +potsherds. However, there are many things to do yet before +we go</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Grossir la pâte universelle</i><br /> +<i>Faite des formes que Dieu fond</i>.</p> +<p>For instance, I have never been in a revolution yet. I +pray God I may be in one at the end, if I am to make a +mucker. The best way to make a mucker is to have your back +set against a wall and a few lead pellets whiffed into you in a +moment, while yet you are all in a heat and a fury of combat, +with drums sounding on all sides, and people crying, and a +general smash like the infernal orchestration at the end of the +<i>Huguenots</i>. . . .</p> +<p>Please pardon me for having been so long of writing, and show +your pardon by writing soon to me; it will be a kindness, for I +am sometimes very dull. Edinburgh is much changed for the +worse by the absence of Bob; and this damned weather weighs on me +like a curse. Yesterday, or the day before, there came so +black a rain squall that I was frightened—what a child +would call frightened, you know, for want of a better +word—although in reality it has nothing to do with +fright. I lit the gas and sat cowering in my chair until it +went away again.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>O I am trying my hand at a novel just now; it may interest you +to know, I am bound to say I do not think it will be a +success. However, it’s an amusement for the <a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>moment, and +work, work is your only ally against the ‘bearded +people’ that squat upon their hams in the dark places of +life and embrace people horribly as they go by. God save us +from the bearded people! to think that the sun is still shining +in some happy places!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>January</i> +1876.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Our</span> weather continues as it +was, bitterly cold, and raining often. There is not much +pleasure in life certainly as it stands at present. <i>Nous +n’irons plus au boss</i>, <i>hélas</i>!</p> +<p>I meant to write some more last night, but my father was ill +and it put it out of my way. He is better this morning.</p> +<p>If I had written last night, I should have written a +lot. But this morning I am so dreadfully tired and stupid +that I can say nothing. I was down at Leith in the +afternoon. God bless me, what horrid women I saw; I never +knew what a plain-looking race it was before. I was sick at +heart with the looks of them. And the children, filthy and +ragged! And the smells! And the fat black mud!</p> +<p>My soul was full of disgust ere I got back. And yet the +ships were beautiful to see, as they are always; and on the pier +there was a clean cold wind that smelt a little of the sea, +though it came down the Firth, and the sunset had a certain +<i>éclat</i> and warmth. Perhaps if I could get more +work done, I should be in a better trim to enjoy filthy streets +and people and cold grim weather; but I don’t much feel as +if it was what I would have chosen. I am tempted every day +of my life to go off on another walking tour. I like that +better than anything else that I know.—Ever your faithful +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>February</i> +1876.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +COLVIN</span>,—1<i>st</i>. I have sent +‘Fontainebleau’ long ago, long ago. And Leslie +Stephen is worse than tepid about it—liked ‘some +parts’ of it ‘very well,’ the son of +Belial. Moreover, he proposes to shorten it; and I, who +want <i>money</i>, and money soon, and not glory and the +illustration of the English language, I feel as if my poverty +were going to consent.</p> +<p>2<i>nd</i>. I’m as fit as a fiddle after my +walk. I am four inches bigger about the waist than last +July! There, that’s your prophecy did that. I +am on ‘Charles of Orleans’ now, but I don’t +know where to send him. Stephen obviously spews me out of +his mouth, and I spew him out of mine, so help me! A man +who doesn’t like my ‘Fontainebleau’! His +head must be turned.</p> +<p>3<i>rd</i>. If ever you do come across my +‘Spring’ (I beg your pardon for referring to it +again, but I don’t want you to forget) send it off at +once.</p> +<p>4<i>th</i>. I went to Ayr, Maybole, Girvan, Ballantrae, +Stranraer, Glenluce, and Wigton. I shall make an article of +it some day soon, ‘A Winter’s Walk in Carrick and +Galloway.’ I had a good time.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston Cottage</i>, +<i>Lothianburn</i>, <i>July</i> 1876.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> I am, here, and very well +too. I am glad you liked ‘Walking Tours’; I +like it, too; I think it’s prose; <a +name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>and I own +with contrition that I have not always written prose. +However, I am ‘endeavouring after new obedience’ +(Scot. Shorter Catechism). You don’t say aught of +‘Forest Notes,’ which is kind. There is one, if +you will, that was too sweet to be wholesome.</p> +<p>I am at ‘Charles d’Orléans.’ +About fifteen <i>Cornhill</i> pages have already +coulé’d from under my facile plume—no, I mean +eleven, fifteen of <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>.—and we +are not much more than half-way through, ‘Charles’ +and I; but he’s a pleasant companion. My health is +very well; I am in a fine exercisy state. Baynes is gone to +London; if you see him, inquire about my +‘Burns.’ They have sent me £5, 5s, for +it, which has mollified me horrid. £5, 5s. is a good +deal to pay for a read of it in <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>.; I can’t +complain.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Swanston Cottage</i>, +<i>Lothianburn</i>, <i>July</i> 1876.]</p> +<p>. . . I <span class="smcap">have</span> the strangest +repugnance for writing; indeed, I have nearly got myself +persuaded into the notion that letters don’t arrive, in +order to salve my conscience for never sending them off. +I’m reading a great deal of fifteenth century: <i>Trial of +Joan of Arc</i>, <i>Paston Letters</i>, <i>Basin</i>, etc., also +<i>Boswell</i> daily by way of a Bible; I mean to read +<i>Boswell</i> now until the day I die. And now and again a +bit of <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. Is that all? +Yes, I think that’s all. I have a thing in proof for +the <i>Cornhill</i> called <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>. +‘Charles of Orleans’ is again laid aside, but in a +good state of furtherance this time. A paper called +‘A Defence of Idlers’ (which is really a defence of +R. L. S.) is in a good way. So, you see, I am busy in a +tumultuous, knotless sort of fashion; and as I say, I take lots +of exercise, and I’m as brown a berry.</p> +<p><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>This +is the first letter I’ve written for—O I don’t +know how long.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>July</i> 30<i>th</i>.—This is, I suppose, three weeks +after I began. Do, please, forgive me.</p> +<p>To the Highlands, first, to the Jenkins’, then to +Antwerp; thence, by canoe with Simpson, to Paris and Grez (on the +Loing, and an old acquaintance of mine on the skirts of +Fontainebleau) to complete our cruise next spring (if we’re +all alive and jolly) by Loing and Loire, Saone and Rhone to the +Mediterranean. It should make a jolly book of gossip, I +imagine.</p> +<p>God bless you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> is in August +<i>Cornhill</i>. ‘Charles of Orleans’ is +finished, and sent to Stephen; ‘Idlers’ ditto, and +sent to Grove; but I’ve no word of either. So +I’ve not been idle.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chauny</i>, <i>Aisne</i> +[<i>September</i> 1876].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Here I am, +you see; and if you will take to a map, you will observe I am +already more than two doors from Antwerp, whence I started. +I have fought it through under the worst weather I ever saw in +France; I have been wet through nearly every day of travel since +the second (inclusive); besides this, I have had to fight against +pretty mouldy health; so that, on the whole, the essayist and +reviewer has shown, I think, some pluck. Four days ago I +was not a hundred miles from being miserably drowned, to the +immense regret of a large circle of friends and the permanent +impoverishment of British Essayism and Reviewery. My boat +culbutted me under a fallen <a name="page118"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 118</span>tree in a very rapid current; and I +was a good while before I got on to the outside of that fallen +tree; rather a better while than I cared about. When I got +up, I lay some time on my belly, panting, and exuded fluid. +All my symptoms <i>jusqu’ ici</i> are trifling. But +I’ve a damned sore throat.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>May</i> 1877.</p> +<p>. . . A <span class="smcap">perfect</span> chorus of +repudiation is sounding in my ears; and although you say nothing, +I know you must be repudiating me, all the same. Write I +cannot—there’s no good mincing matters, a letter +frightens me worse than the devil; and I am just as unfit for +correspondence as if I had never learned the three +R.’s.</p> +<p>Let me give my news quickly before I relapse into my usual +idleness. I have a terror lest I should relapse before I +get this finished. Courage, R. L. S.! On Leslie +Stephen’s advice, I gave up the idea of a book of +essays. He said he didn’t imagine I was rich enough +for such an amusement; and moreover, whatever was worth +publication was worth republication. So the best of those I +had ready: ‘An Apology for Idlers’ is in proof for +the <i>Cornhill</i>. I have ‘Villon’ to do for +the same magazine, but God knows when I’ll get it done, for +drums, trumpets—I’m engaged upon—trumpets, +drums—a novel! ‘<span class="smcap">The Hair +Trunk</span>; <span class="smcap">or</span>, <span +class="smcap">the Ideal Commonwealth</span>.’ It is a +most absurd story of a lot of young Cambridge fellows who are +going to found a new society, with no ideas on the subject, and +nothing but Bohemian tastes in the place of ideas; and who +are—well, I can’t explain about the trunk—it +would take too long—but the trunk is the fun of +it—everybody <a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>steals it; burglary, marine fight, life on desert +island on west coast of Scotland, sloops, etc. The first +scene where they make their grand schemes and get drunk is +supposed to be very funny, by Henley. I really saw him +laugh over it until he cried.</p> +<p>Please write to me, although I deserve it so little, and show +a Christian spirit.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>August</i> +1877.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I’m +to be whipped away to-morrow to Penzance, where at the +post-office a letter will find me glad and grateful. I am +well, but somewhat tired out with overwork. I have only +been home a fortnight this morning, and I have already written to +the tune of forty-five <i>Cornhill</i> pages and upwards. +The most of it was only very laborious re-casting and +re-modelling, it is true; but it took it out of me famously, all +the same.</p> +<p><i>Temple Bar</i> appears to like my ‘Villon,’ so +I may count on another market there in the future, I hope. +At least, I am going to put it to the proof at once, and send +another story, ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s +Mousetrap’: a true novel, in the old sense; all unities +preserved moreover, if that’s anything, and I believe with +some little merits; not so <i>clever</i> perhaps as the last, but +sounder and more natural.</p> +<p>My ‘Villon’ is out this month; I should so much +like to know what you think of it. Stephen has written to +me apropos of ‘Idlers,’ that something more in that +vein would be agreeable to his views. From Stephen I count +that a devil of a lot.</p> +<p>I am honestly so tired this morning that I hope you will take +this for what it’s worth and give me an answer in +peace.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Penzance</i>, <i>August</i> +1877.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">You</span> will do well to stick to +your burn, that is a delightful life you sketch, and a very +fountain of health. I wish I could live like that but, +alas! it is just as well I got my ‘Idlers’ written +and done with, for I have quite lost all power of resting. +I have a goad in my flesh continually, pushing me to work, work, +work. I have an essay pretty well through for Stephen; a +story, ‘The Sire de Malétroit’s +Mousetrap,’ with which I shall try <i>Temple Bar</i>; +another story, in the clouds, ‘The Stepfather’s +Story,’ most pathetic work of a high morality or +immorality, according to point of view; and lastly, also in the +clouds, or perhaps a little farther away, an essay on the +‘Two St. Michael’s Mounts,’ historical and +picturesque; perhaps if it didn’t come too long, I might +throw in the ‘Bass Rock,’ and call it ‘Three +Sea Fortalices,’ or something of that kind. You see +how work keeps bubbling in my mind. Then I shall do another +fifteenth century paper this autumn—La Sale and <i>Petit +Jehan de Saintré</i>, which is a kind of fifteenth century +<i>Sandford and Merton</i>, ending in horrid immoral cynicism, as +if the author had got tired of being didactic, and just had a +good wallow in the mire to wind up with and indemnify himself for +so much restraint.</p> +<p>Cornwall is not much to my taste, being as bleak as the +bleakest parts of Scotland, and nothing like so pointed and +characteristic. It has a flavour of its own, though, which +I may try and catch, if I find the space, in the proposed +article. ‘Will o’ the Mill’ I sent, red +hot, to Stephen in a fit of haste, and have not yet had an +answer. I am quite prepared for a refusal. But I +begin to have more hope in the story line, and that should +improve my income anyway. I am glad you liked +‘Villon’; some of it was not as good as it ought to +be, but on the whole it seems pretty vivid, and the features <a +name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>strongly +marked. Vividness and not style is now my line; style is +all very well, but vividness is the real line of country; if a +thing is meant to be read, it seems just as well to try and make +it readable. I am such a dull person I cannot keep off my +own immortal works. Indeed, they are scarcely ever out of +my head. And yet I value them less and less every +day. But occupation is the great thing; so that a man +should have his life in his own pocket, and never be thrown out +of work by anything. I am glad to hear you are +better. I must stop—going to Land’s +End.—Always your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Patchett Martin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[1877.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—It would not be +very easy for me to give you any idea of the pleasure I found in +your present. People who write for the magazines (probably +from a guilty conscience) are apt to suppose their works +practically unpublished. It seems unlikely that any one +would take the trouble to read a little paper buried among so +many others; and reading it, read it with any attention or +pleasure. And so, I can assure you, your little book, +coming from so far, gave me all the pleasure and encouragement in +the world.</p> +<p>I suppose you know and remember Charles Lamb’s essay on +distant correspondents? Well, I was somewhat of his way of +thinking about my mild productions. I did not indeed +imagine they were read, and (I suppose I may say) enjoyed right +round upon the other side of the <a name="page122"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 122</span>big Football we have the honour to +inhabit. And as your present was the first sign to the +contrary, I feel I have been very ungrateful in not writing +earlier to acknowledge the receipt. I dare say, however, +you hate writing letters as much as I can do myself (for if you +like my article, I may presume other points of sympathy between +us); and on this hypothesis you will be ready to forgive me the +delay.</p> +<p>I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called +‘Such is Life,’ that I am not the only one on this +side of the Football aforesaid to think it a good and bright +piece of work, and recognised a link of sympathy with the poets +who ‘play in hostelries at euchre.’—Believe me, +dear sir, yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Patchett Martin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>December</i> 1877].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—I am afraid +you must already have condemned me for a very idle fellow +truly. Here it is more than two months since I received +your letter; I had no fewer than three journals to acknowledge; +and never a sign upon my part. If you have seen a +<i>Cornhill</i> paper of mine upon idling, you will be inclined +to set it all down to that. But you will not be doing me +justice. Indeed, I have had a summer so troubled that I +have had little leisure and still less inclination to write +letters. I was keeping the devil at bay with all my +disposable activities; and more than once I thought he had me by +the throat. The odd conditions of our acquaintance enable +me to say more to you than I would to a person who lived at my +elbow. And besides, I am too much pleased and flattered at +our correspondence not to go as far as I can to set myself right +in your eyes.</p> +<p>In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost all my +possessions, or near about, and quite lost all my wits. I +wish I could lay my hands on the numbers of the <a +name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span><i>Review</i>, for I know I wished to say something on +that head more particularly than I can from memory; but where +they have escaped to, only time or chance can show. +However, I can tell you so far, that I was very much pleased with +the article on Bret Harte; it seemed to me just, clear, and to +the point. I agreed pretty well with all you said about +George Eliot: a high, but, may we not add?—a rather dry +lady. Did you—I forget—did you have a kick at +the stern works of that melancholy puppy and humbug Daniel +Deronda himself?—the Prince of prigs; the literary +abomination of desolation in the way of manhood; a type which is +enough to make a man forswear the love of women, if that is how +it must be gained. . . . Hats off all the same, you understand: a +woman of genius.</p> +<p>Of your poems I have myself a kindness for ‘Noll and +Nell,’ although I don’t think you have made it as +good as you ought: verse five is surely not <i>quite +melodious</i>. I confess I like the Sonnet in the last +number of the <i>Review</i>—the Sonnet to England.</p> +<p>Please, if you have not, and I don’t suppose you have, +already read it, institute a search in all Melbourne for one of +the rarest and certainly one of the best of +books—<i>Clarissa Harlowe</i>. For any man who takes +an interest in the problems of the two sexes, that book is a +perfect mine of documents. And it is written, sir, with the +pen of an angel. Miss Howe and Lovelace, words cannot tell +how good they are! And the scene where Clarissa beards her +family, with her fan going all the while; and some of the quarrel +scenes between her and Lovelace; and the scene where Colonel +Marden goes to Mr. Hall, with Lord M. trying to compose matters, +and the Colonel with his eternal ‘finest woman in the +world,’ and the inimitable affirmation of +Mowbray—nothing, nothing could be better! You will +bless me when you read it for this recommendation; but, indeed, I +can do nothing but recommend Clarissa. I am like that +Frenchman of the <a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>eighteenth century who discovered Habakkuk, and would +give no one peace about that respectable Hebrew. For my +part, I never was able to get over his eminently respectable +name; Isaiah is the boy, if you must have a prophet, no +less. About Clarissa, I meditate a choice work: <i>A +Dialogue on Man</i>, <i>Woman</i>, <i>and</i> ‘<i>Clarissa +Harlowe</i>.’ It is to be so clever that no array of +terms can give you any idea; and very likely that particular +array in which I shall finally embody it, less than any +other.</p> +<p>Do you know, my dear sir, what I like best in your +letter? The egotism for which you thought necessary to +apologise. I am a rogue at egotism myself; and to be plain, +I have rarely or never liked any man who was not. The first +step to discovering the beauties of God’s universe is +usually a (perhaps partial) apprehension of such of them as adorn +our own characters. When I see a man who does not think +pretty well of himself, I always suspect him of being in the +right. And besides, if he does not like himself, whom he +has seen, how is he ever to like one whom he never can see but in +dim and artificial presentments?</p> +<p>I cordially reciprocate your offer of a welcome; it shall be +at least a warm one. Are you not my first, my only, +admirer—a dear tie? Besides, you are a man of sense, +and you treat me as one by writing to me as you do, and that +gives me pleasure also. Please continue to let me see your +work. I have one or two things coming out in the +<i>Cornhill</i>: a story called ‘The Sire de +Malétroit’s Door’ in <i>Temple Bar</i>; and a +series of articles on Edinburgh in the <i>Portfolio</i>; but I +don’t know if these last fly all the way to +Melbourne.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page125"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 125</span><i>Hôtel des Etrangers</i>, +<i>Dieppe</i>, <i>January</i> 1, 1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am at +the <i>Inland Voyage</i> again: have finished another section, +and have only two more to execute. But one at least of +these will be very long—the longest in the book—being +a great digression on French artistic tramps. I only hope +Paul may take the thing; I want coin so badly, and besides it +would be something done—something put outside of me and off +my conscience; and I should not feel such a muff as I do, if once +I saw the thing in boards with a ticket on its back. I +think I shall frequent circulating libraries a good deal. +The Preface shall stand over, as you suggest, until the last, and +then, sir, we shall see. This to be read with a big +voice.</p> +<p>This is New Year’s Day: let me, my dear Colvin, wish you +a very good year, free of all misunderstanding and bereavement, +and full of good weather and good work. You know best what +you have done for me, and so you will know best how heartily I +mean this.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Paris</i>, <i>January or +February</i> 1878.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Many +thanks for your letter. I was much interested by all the +Edinburgh gossip. Most likely I shall arrive in London next +week. I think you know all about the Crane sketch; but it +should be a river, not a canal, you know, and the look should be +‘cruel, lewd, and kindly,’ all at once. There +is more sense in that Greek myth of Pan than in any other that I +recollect except the luminous Hebrew one of the Fall: one of the +biggest things done. If people would remember that all +religions are no more than representations of life, they would +find them, as they are, the best representations, licking +Shakespeare.</p> +<p><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>What +an inconceivable cheese is Alfred de Musset! His comedies +are, to my view, the best work of France this century: a large +order. Did you ever read them? They are real, clear, +living work.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Paris</i>, 44 <i>Bd. +Haussmann</i>, <i>Friday</i>, <i>February</i> 21, 1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—Do you +know who is my favourite author just now? How are the +mighty fallen! Anthony Trollope. I batten on him; he +is so nearly wearying you, and yet he never does; or rather, he +never does, until he gets near the end, when he begins to wean +you from him, so that you’re as pleased to be done with him +as you thought you would be sorry. I wonder if it’s +old age? It is a little, I am sure. A young person +would get sickened by the dead level of meanness and +cowardliness; you require to be a little spoiled and cynical +before you can enjoy it. I have just finished the <i>Way of +the World</i>; there is only one person in it—no, there are +three—who are nice: the wild American woman, and two of the +dissipated young men, Dolly and Lord Nidderdale. All the +heroes and heroines are just ghastly. But what a triumph is +Lady Carbury! That is real, sound, strong, genuine work: +the man who could do that, if he had had courage, might have +written a fine book; he has preferred to write many readable +ones. I meant to write such a long, nice letter, but I +cannot hold the pen.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel du Val de Grâce</i>, +<i>Rue St. Jacques</i>,<br /> +<i>Paris</i>, <i>Sunday</i> [<i>June</i> 1878].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—About +criticisms, I was more surprised at the tone of the critics than +I suppose any one else. And the effect it has produced in +me is one of <a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>shame. If they liked that so much, I ought to +have given them something better, that’s all. And I +shall try to do so. Still, it strikes me as odd; and I +don’t understand the vogue. It should sell the +thing.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monastier</i>, <i>September</i> +1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—You must +not expect to hear much from me for the next two weeks; for I am +near starting. Donkey purchased—a love—price, +65 francs and a glass of brandy. My route is all pretty +well laid out; I shall go near no town till I get to Alais. +Remember, Poste Restante, Alais, Gard. Greyfriars will be +in October. You did not say whether you liked September; +you might tell me that at Alais. The other No.’s of +Edinburgh are: Parliament Close, Villa Quarters (which perhaps +may not appear), Calton Hill, Winter and New Year, and to the +Pentland Hills. ’Tis a kind of book nobody would ever +care to read; but none of the young men could have done it better +than I have, which is always a consolation. I read +<i>Inland Voyage</i> the other day: what rubbish these reviewers +did talk! It is not badly written, thin, mildly cheery, and +strained. <i>Selon moi</i>. I mean to visit Hamerton +on my return journey; otherwise, I should come by sea from +Marseilles. I am very well known here now; indeed, quite a +feature of the place.—Your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>The Engineer is the Conductor of Roads and Bridges; then I +have the Receiver of Registrations, the First Clerk of Excise, +and the Perceiver of the Impost. That is our dinner +party. I am a sort of hovering government official, as you +see. But away—away from these great companions!</p> +<h3><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monastier</i>, <i>September</i> +1878.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope to +leave Monastier this day (Saturday) week; thenceforward Poste +Restante, Alais, Gard, is my address. ‘Travels with a +Donkey in the French Highlands.’ I am no good +to-day. I cannot work, nor even write letters. A +colossal breakfast yesterday at Puy has, I think, done for me for +ever; I certainly ate more than ever I ate before in my +life—a big slice of melon, some ham and jelly, <i>a +filet</i>, a helping of gudgeons, the breast and leg of a +partridge, some green peas, eight crayfish, some Mont d’Or +cheese, a peach, and a handful of biscuits, macaroons, and +things. It sounds Gargantuan; it cost three francs a +head. So that it was inexpensive to the pocket, although I +fear it may prove extravagant to the fleshly tabernacle. I +can’t think how I did it or why. It is a new form of +excess for me; but I think it pays less than any of them.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monastier</i>, <i>at +Morel’s</i> [<i>September</i> 1878].<br /> +Lud knows about date, <i>vide</i> postmark.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Yours +(with enclosures) of the 16th to hand. All work done. +I go to Le Puy to-morrow to dispatch baggage, get cash, stand +lunch to engineer, who has been very jolly and useful to me, and +hope by five o’clock on Saturday morning to be driving +Modestine towards the Gévaudan. Modestine is my +ânesse; a darling, mouse-colour, about the size of a +Newfoundland dog (bigger, between you and me), the colour of a +mouse, costing 65 francs and a glass of brandy. Glad you +sent on all the coin; was half afraid I might come to a stick in +the mountains, donkey and all, which would have been the +devil. Have finished <i>Arabian Nights</i> and Edinburgh +book, and am a free man. Next address, Poste Restante, <a +name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>Alais, +Gard. Give my servilities to the family. Health bad; +spirits, I think, looking up.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>October</i> 1878.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I have +seen Hamerton; he was very kind, all his family seemed pleased to +see an <i>Inland Voyage</i>, and the book seemed to be quite a +household word with them. P. G. himself promised to help me +in my bargains with publishers, which, said he, and I doubt not +very truthfully, he could manage to much greater advantage than +I. He is also to read an <i>Inland Voyage</i> over again, +and send me his cuts and cuffs in private, after having liberally +administered his kisses <i>coram publico</i>. I liked him +very much. Of all the pleasant parts of my profession, I +think the spirit of other men of letters makes the +pleasantest.</p> +<p>Do you know, your sunset was very good? The +‘attack’ (to speak learnedly) was so plucky and +odd. I have thought of it repeatedly since. I have +just made a delightful dinner by myself in the Café +Félix, where I am an old established beggar, and am just +smoking a cigar over my coffee. I came last night from +Autun, and I am muddled about my plans. The world is such a +dance!—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page130"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 130</span>[<i>Trinity College</i>, +<i>Cambridge</i>, <i>Autumn</i> 1878.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Here I am +living like a fighting-cock, and have not spoken to a real person +for about sixty hours. Those who wait on me are not +real. The man I know to be a myth, because I have seen him +acting so often in the Palais Royal. He plays the Duke in +<i>Tricoche et Cacolet</i>; I knew his nose at once. The +part he plays here is very dull for him, but conscientious. +As for the bedmaker, she’s a dream, a kind of cheerful, +innocent nightmare; I never saw so poor an imitation of +humanity. I cannot work—<i>cannot</i>. Even the +<i>Guitar</i> is still undone; I can only write +ditch-water. ’Tis ghastly; but I am quite cheerful, +and that is more important. Do you think you could prepare +the printers for a possible breakdown this week? I shall +try all I know on Monday; but if I can get nothing better than I +got this morning, I prefer to drop a week. Telegraph to me +if you think it necessary. I shall not leave till Wednesday +at soonest. Shall write again.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>April</i> 16, 1879].<br /> +<i>Pool of Siloam</i>, <i>by El Dorado</i>,<br /> +<i>Delectable Mountains</i>, <i>Arcadia</i></p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Herewith of +the dibbs—a homely fiver. How, and why, do you +continue to exist? I do so ill, but for a variety of +reasons. First, I wait an angel to come down and trouble +the waters; second, more angels; third—well, more +angels. The waters are sluggish; the angels—well, the +angels won’t come, that’s <a name="page131"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 131</span>about all. But I sit waiting +and waiting, and people bring me meals, which help to pass time +(I’m sure it’s very kind of them), and sometimes I +whistle to myself; and as there’s a very pretty echo at my +pool of Siloam, the thing’s agreeable to hear. The +sun continues to rise every day, to my growing wonder. +‘The moon by night thee shall not smite.’ And +the stars are all doing as well as can be expected. The air +of Arcady is very brisk and pure, and we command many enchanting +prospects in space and time. I do not yet know much about +my situation; for, to tell the truth, I only came here by the run +since I began to write this letter; I had to go back to date it; +and I am grateful to you for having been the occasion of this +little outing. What good travellers we are, if we had only +faith; no man need stay in Edinburgh but by unbelief; my +religious organ has been ailing for a while past, and I have lain +a great deal in Edinburgh, a sheer hulk in consequence. But +I got out my wings, and have taken a change of air.</p> +<p>I read your book with great interest, and ought long ago to +have told you so. An ordinary man would say that he had +been waiting till he could pay his debts. . . . The book is good +reading. Your personal notes of those you saw struck me as +perhaps most sharp and ‘best held.’ See as many +people as you can, and make a book of them before you die. +That will be a living book, upon my word. You have the +touch required. I ask you to put hands to it in private +already. Think of what Carlyle’s caricature of old +Coleridge is to us who never saw S. T. C. With that and +Kubla Khan, we have the man in the fact. Carlyle’s +picture, of course, is not of the author of <i>Kubla</i>, but of +the author of that surprising <i>Friend</i> which has knocked the +breath out of two generations of hopeful youth. Your +portraits would be milder, sweeter, more true perhaps, and +perhaps not so truth-<i>telling</i>—if you will take my +meaning.</p> +<p>I have to thank you for an introduction to that +beautiful—<a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>no, that’s not the word—that jolly, with an +Arcadian jollity—thing of Vogelweide’s. Also +for your preface. Some day I want to read a whole book in +the same picked dialect as that preface. I think it must be +one E. W. Gosse who must write it. He has got himself into +a fix with me by writing the preface; I look for a great deal, +and will not be easily pleased.</p> +<p>I never thought of it, but my new book, which should soon be +out, contains a visit to a murder scene, but not done as we +should like to see them, for, of course, I was running another +hare.</p> +<p>If you do not answer this in four pages, I shall stop the +enclosed fiver at the bank, a step which will lead to your +incarceration for life. As my visits to Arcady are somewhat +uncertain, you had better address 17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, as +usual. I shall walk over for the note if I am not yet +home.—Believe me, very really yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>I charge extra for a flourish when it is successful; this +isn’t, so you have it gratis. Is there any news in +Babylon the Great? My fellow-creatures are electing school +boards here in the midst of the ages. It is very composed +of them. I can’t think why they do it. Nor why +I have written a real letter. If you write a real letter +back, damme, I’ll try to <i>correspond</i> with you. +A thing unknown in this age. It is a consequence of the +decay of faith; we cannot believe that the fellow will be at the +pains to read us.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>April</i> 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Heavens! +have I done the like? ‘Clarify and strain,’ +indeed? ‘Make it like Marvell,’ no <a +name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>less. +I’ll tell you what—you may go to the devil; +that’s what I think. ‘Be eloquent’ is +another of your pregnant suggestions. I cannot sufficiently +thank you for that one. Portrait of a person about to be +eloquent at the request of a literary friend. You seem to +forget sir, that rhyme is rhyme, sir, and—go to the +devil.</p> +<p>I’ll try to improve it, but I shan’t be able +to—O go to the devil.</p> +<p>Seriously, you’re a cool hand. And then you have +the brass to ask me <i>why</i> ‘my steps went one by +one’? Why? Powers of man! to rhyme with +sun, to be sure. Why else could it be? And you +yourself have been a poet! G-r-r-r-r-r! I’ll +never be a poet any more. Men are so d–d ungrateful +and captious, I declare I could weep.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Henley, in my hours of ease<br /> +You may say anything you please,<br /> +But when I join the Muse’s revel,<br /> +Begad, I wish you at the devil!<br /> +In vain my verse I plane and bevel,<br /> +Like Banville’s rhyming devotees;<br /> +In vain by many an artful swivel<br /> +Lug in my meaning by degrees;<br /> +I’m sure to hear my Henley cavil;<br /> +And grovelling prostrate on my knees,<br /> +Devote his body to the seas,<br /> +His correspondence to the devil!</p> +<p>Impromptu poem.</p> +<p>I’m going to Shandon Hydropathic <i>cum +parentibus</i>. Write here. I heard from Lang. +Ferrier prayeth to be remembered; he means to write, likes his +Tourgenieff greatly. Also likes my ‘What was on the +Slate,’ which, under a new title, yet unfound, and with a +new and, on the whole, kindly <i>dénouement</i>, is going +to shoot up and become a star. . . .</p> +<p>I see I must write some more to you about my <a +name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>Monastery. I am a weak brother in verse. +You ask me to re-write things that I have already managed just to +write with the skin of my teeth. If I don’t re-write +them, it’s because I don’t see how to write them +better, not because I don’t think they should be. +But, curiously enough, you condemn two of my favourite passages, +one of which is J. W. Ferrier’s favourite of the +whole. Here I shall think it’s you who are +wrong. You see, I did not try to make good verse, but to +say what I wanted as well as verse would let me. I +don’t like the rhyme ‘ear’ and +‘hear.’ But the couplet, ‘My undissuaded +heart I hear Whisper courage in my ear,’ is exactly what I +want for the thought, and to me seems very energetic as speech, +if not as verse. Would ‘daring’ be better than +‘courage’? <i>Je me le demande</i>. No, +it would be ambiguous, as though I had used it licentiously for +‘daringly,’ and that would cloak the sense.</p> +<p>In short, your suggestions have broken the heart of the +scald. He doesn’t agree with them all; and those he +does agree with, the spirit indeed is willing, but the d-d flesh +cannot, cannot, cannot, see its way to profit by. I think +I’ll lay it by for nine years, like Horace. I think +the well of Castaly’s run out. No more the Muses +round my pillow haunt. I am fallen once more to the mere +proser. God bless you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Swanston</i>, <i>Lothianburn</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>July</i> 24, 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have +greatly enjoyed your articles which seems to me handsome in tone, +and written like a fine old English gentleman. But is there +not a hitch in the sentence at foot of page 153? I get lost +in it.</p> +<p><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>Chapters <span class="GutSmall">VIII</span>. and <span +class="GutSmall">IX</span>. of Meredith’s story are very +good, I think. But who wrote the review of my book? whoever +he was, he cannot write; he is humane, but a duffer; I could weep +when I think of him; for surely to be virtuous and incompetent is +a hard lot. I should prefer to be a bold pirate, the gay +sailor-boy of immorality, and a publisher at once. My mind +is extinct; my appetite is expiring; I have fallen altogether +into a hollow-eyed, yawning way of life, like the parties in +Burne Jones’s pictures. . . . Talking of Burns. (Is +this not sad, Weg? I use the term of reproach not because I +am angry with you this time, but because I am angry with myself +and desire to give pain.) Talking, I say, of Robert Burns, +the inspired poet is a very gay subject for study. I made a +kind of chronological table of his various loves and lusts, and +have been comparatively speechless ever since. I am sorry +to say it, but there was something in him of the vulgar, +bagmanlike, professional seducer.—Oblige me by taking down +and reading, for the hundredth time I hope, his ‘Twa +Dogs’ and his ‘Address to the Unco Guid.’ +I am only a Scotchman, after all, you see; and when I have beaten +Burns, I am driven at once, by my parental feelings, to console +him with a sugar-plum. But hang me if I know anything I +like so well as the ‘Twa Dogs.’ Even a common +Englishman may have a glimpse, as it were from Pisgah, of its +extraordinary merits.</p> +<p>‘<i>English</i>, <i>The</i>:—a dull people, +incapable of comprehending the Scottish tongue. Their +history is so intimately connected with that of Scotland, that we +must refer our readers to that heading. Their literature is +principally the work of venal +Scots.’—Stevenson’s <i>Handy +Cyclopædia</i>. Glescow: Blaikie & Bannock.</p> +<p>Remember me in suitable fashion to Mrs. Gosse, the offspring, +and the cat.—And believe me ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>July</i> 28, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am just +in the middle of your Rembrandt. The taste for Bummkopf and +his works is agreeably dissembled so far as I have gone; and the +reins have never for an instant been thrown upon the neck of that +wooden Pegasus; he only perks up a learned snout from a footnote +in the cellarage of a paragraph; just, in short, where he ought +to be, to inspire confidence in a wicked and adulterous +generation. But, mind you, Bummkopf is not human; he is +Dagon the fish god, and down he will come, sprawling on his belly +or his behind, with his hands broken from his helpless carcase, +and his head rolling off into a corner. Up will rise on the +other side, sane, pleasurable, human knowledge: a thing of beauty +and a joy, etc.</p> +<p>I’m three parts through Burns; long, dry, unsympathetic, +but sound and, I think, in its dry way, interesting. Next I +shall finish the story, and then perhaps Thoreau. Meredith +has been staying with Morley, who is about, it is believed, to +write to me on a literary scheme. Is it Keats, hope +you? My heart leaps at the thought.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>17 <i>Heriot Row</i>, +<i>Edinburgh</i> [<i>July</i> 29, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Yours was +delicious; you are a young person of wit; one of the last of +them; wit being quite out of date, and humour confined to the +Scotch Church and the <i>Spectator</i> in unconscious +survival. You will probably be glad to hear that I am up +again in the world; I have breathed again, and had a frolic on +the strength of it. The frolic was yesterday, Sawbath; the +scene, the Royal Hotel, Bathgate; I went there with a humorous +friend to lunch. The maid soon showed herself a lass of +character. She was looking out of window. On being +asked what she was after, ‘I’m lookin’ for my +lad,’ says she. ‘Is that him?’ +‘Weel, I’ve been lookin’ for him a’ my +life, and I’ve never seen him yet,’ was the +response. I wrote her some verses in the vernacular; she +read them. ‘They’re no bad for a +beginner,’ said she. The landlord’s daughter, +Miss Stewart, was present in oil colour; so I wrote her a +declaration in verse, and sent it by the handmaid. She +(Miss S.) was present on the stair to witness our departure, in a +warm, suffused condition. Damn it, Gosse, you needn’t +suppose that you’re the only poet in the world.</p> +<p>Your statement about your initials, it will be seen, I pass +over in contempt and silence. When once I have made up my +mind, let me tell you, sir, there lives no pock-pudding who can +change it. Your anger I defy. Your unmanly reference +to a well-known statesman I puff from me, sir, like so much +vapour. Weg is your name; Weg. W E G.</p> +<p>My enthusiasm has kind of dropped from me. I envy you +your wife, your home, your child—I was going to say your +cat. There would be cats in my home too if I could but get +it. I may seem to you ‘the impersonation of +life,’ <a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>but my life is the impersonation of waiting, and +that’s a poor creature. God help us all, and the deil +be kind to the hindmost! Upon my word, we are a brave, +cheery crew, we human beings, and my admiration increases +daily—primarily for myself, but by a roundabout process for +the whole crowd; for I dare say they have all their poor little +secrets and anxieties. And here am I, for instance, writing +to you as if you were in the seventh heaven, and yet I know you +are in a sad anxiety yourself. I hope earnestly it will +soon be over, and a fine pink Gosse sprawling in a tub, and a +mother in the best of health and spirits, glad and tired, and +with another interest in life. Man, you are out of the +trouble when this is through. A first child is a rival, but +a second is only a rival to the first; and the husband stands his +ground and may keep married all his life—a consummation +heartily to be desired. Good-bye, Gosse. Write me a +witty letter with good news of the mistress.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>IV<br /> +THE AMATEUR EMIGRANT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MONTEREY AND SAN FRANCISCO</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JULY 1879-JULY 1880</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>On board ss.</i> +‘<i>Devonia</i>,’ <i>an hour or two out of New +York</i><br /> +[<i>August</i> 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +finished my story. <a name="citation144"></a><a +href="#footnote144" class="citation">[144]</a> The +handwriting is not good because of the ship’s misconduct: +thirty-one pages in ten days at sea is not bad.</p> +<p>I shall write a general procuration about this story on +another bit of paper. I am not very well; bad food, bad +air, and hard work have brought me down. But the spirits +keep good. The voyage has been most interesting, and will +make, if not a series of <i>Pall Mall</i> articles, at least the +first part of a new book. The last weight on me has been +trying to keep notes for this purpose. Indeed, I have +worked like a horse, and am now as tired as a donkey. If I +should have to push on far by rail, I shall bring nothing but my +fine bones to port.</p> +<p>Good-bye to you all. I suppose it is now late afternoon +with you and all across the seas. What shall I find over +there? I dare not wonder.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I go on my way to-night, if I can; if not, +to-morrow: emigrant train ten to fourteen days’ journey; +warranted extreme discomfort. The only American institution +which has yet won my respect is the rain. One sees it is a +new country, they are so free with their water. I have been +steadily drenched for twenty-four hours; water-proof wet through; +immortal spirit fitfully blinking up in spite. Bought a +copy of my own work, and the man said ‘by +Stevenson.’—‘Indeed,’ says +I.—‘Yes, sir,’ says he.—Scene closes.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>In the Emigrant Train from New +York to San Francisco</i>,<br /> +<i>August</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am in the +cars between Pittsburgh and Chicago, just now bowling through +Ohio. I am <a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>taking charge of a kid, whose mother is asleep, with +one eye, while I write you this with the other. I reached +N.Y. Sunday night; and by five o’clock Monday was under way +for the West. It is now about ten on Wednesday morning, so +I have already been about forty hours in the cars. It is +impossible to lie down in them, which must end by being very +wearying.</p> +<p>I had no idea how easy it was to commit suicide. There +seems nothing left of me; I died a while ago; I do not know who +it is that is travelling.</p> +<p class="poetry">Of where or how, I nothing know;<br /> + And why, I do not care;<br /> + Enough if, even so,<br /> +My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go<br /> +By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair,<br /> +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> +<p class="poetry">I think, I hope, I dream no more<br /> + The dreams of otherwhere,<br /> +The cherished thoughts of yore;<br /> +I have been changed from what I was before;<br /> +And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air<br /> +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unweary God me yet shall bring<br /> + To lands of brighter air,<br /> + Where I, now half a king,<br /> +Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing,<br /> +And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear<br /> +Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware.</p> +<p><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>Exit +Muse, hurried by child’s games. . . .</p> +<p>Have at you again, being now well through Indiana. In +America you eat better than anywhere else: fact. The food +is heavenly.</p> +<p>No man is any use until he has dared everything; I feel just +now as if I had, and so might become a man. ‘If ye +have faith like a grain of mustard seed.’ That is so +true! just now I have faith as big as a cigar-case; I will not +say die, and do not fear man nor fortune.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Crossing Nebraska</i> +[<i>Saturday</i>, <i>August</i> 23, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I am +sitting on the top of the cars with a mill party from Missouri +going west for his health. Desolate flat prairie upon all +hands. Here and there a herd of cattle, a yellow butterfly +or two; a patch of wild sunflowers; a wooden house or two; then a +wooden church alone in miles of waste; then a windmill to pump +water. When we stop, which we do often, for emigrants and +freight travel together, the kine first, the men after, the whole +plain is heard singing with cicadae. This is a pause, as +you may see from the writing. What happened to the old +pedestrian emigrants, what was the tedium suffered by the Indians +and trappers of our youth, the imagination trembles to +conceive. This is now Saturday, 23rd, and I have been +steadily travelling since I parted from you at St. Pancras. +It is a strange vicissitude from the Savile Club to this; I sleep +with a man from Pennsylvania who has been in the States Navy, and +mess with him and the Missouri bird already alluded to. We +have a tin wash-bowl among four. I wear nothing but a shirt +and a pair of trousers, and never button my shirt. When I +land for a meal, I pass my coat and feel dressed. This life +is to last till Friday, Saturday, or Sunday next. It is a +strange affair <a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>to be an emigrant, as I hope you shall see in a future +work. I wonder if this will be legible; my present station +on the waggon roof, though airy compared to the cars, is both +dirty and insecure. I can see the track straight before and +straight behind me to either horizon. Peace of mind I enjoy +with extreme serenity; I am doing right; I know no one will think +so; and don’t care. My body, however, is all to +whistles; I don’t eat; but, man, I can sleep. The car +in front of mine is chock full of Chinese.</p> +<p><i>Monday</i>.—What it is to be ill in an emigrant train +let those declare who know. I slept none till late in the +morning, overcome with laudanum, of which I had luckily a little +bottle. All to-day I have eaten nothing, and only drunk two +cups of tea, for each of which, on the pretext that the one was +breakfast, and the other dinner, I was charged fifty cents. +Our journey is through ghostly deserts, sage brush and alkali, +and rocks, without form or colour, a sad corner of the +world. I confess I am not jolly, but mighty calm, in my +distresses. My illness is a subject of great mirth to some +of my fellow-travellers, and I smile rather sickly at their +jests.</p> +<p>We are going along Bitter Creek just now, a place infamous in +the history of emigration, a place I shall remember myself among +the blackest. I hope I may get this posted at Ogden, +Utah.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Coast Line Mountains</i>, +<i>California</i>, <i>September</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> is another curious start in my +life. I am living at an Angora goat-ranche, in the Coast +Line Mountains, eighteen miles from Monterey. I was camping +out, but got so sick that the two rancheros took me in and tended +me. One is an old bear-hunter, seventy-two years old, <a +name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>and a +captain from the Mexican war; the other a pilgrim, and one who +was out with the bear flag and under Fremont when California was +taken by the States. They are both true frontiersmen, and +most kind and pleasant. Captain Smith, the bear-hunter, is +my physician, and I obey him like an oracle.</p> +<p>The business of my life stands pretty nigh still. I work +at my notes of the voyage. It will not be very like a book +of mine; but perhaps none the less successful for that. I +will not deny that I feel lonely to-day; but I do not fear to go +on, for I am doing right. I have not yet had a word from +England, partly, I suppose, because I have not yet written for my +letters to New York; do not blame me for this neglect; if you +knew all I have been through, you would wonder I had done so much +as I have. I teach the ranche children reading in the +morning, for the mother is from home sick.—Ever your +affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>Ditto Co.</i>, +<i>California</i>, 21<i>st</i> <i>October</i> [1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Although +you have absolutely disregarded my plaintive appeals for +correspondence, and written only once as against God knows how +many notes and notikins of mine—here goes again. I am +now all alone in Monterey, a real inhabitant, with a box of my +own at the P.O. I have splendid rooms at the +doctor’s, where I get coffee in the morning (the doctor is +French), and I mess with another jolly old Frenchman, the +stranded fifty-eight-year-old wreck of a good-hearted, +dissipated, and once wealthy Nantais tradesman. My health +goes on better; as for work, the draft of my book was laid aside +at p. 68 or so; and I have now, by way of change, more than +seventy pages of a novel, a one-volume novel, alas! to be called +either <i>A Chapter in Experience </i><a name="page149"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 149</span><i>of Arizona Breckonridge</i> or +<i>A Vendetta in the West</i>, or a combination of the two. +The scene from Chapter <span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. to the +end lies in Monterey and the adjacent country; of course, with my +usual luck, the plot of the story is somewhat scandalous, +containing an illegitimate father for piece of resistance. . . +. Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +<i>September</i> 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received +your letter with delight; it was the first word that reached me +from the old country. I am in good health now; I have been +pretty seedy, for I was exhausted by the journey and anxiety +below even my point of keeping up; I am still a little weak, but +that is all; I begin to ingrease, <a name="citation149"></a><a +href="#footnote149" class="citation">[149]</a> it seems +already. My book is about half drafted: the <i>Amateur +Emigrant</i>, that is. Can you find a better name? I +believe it will be more popular than any of my others; the canvas +is so much more popular and larger too. Fancy, it is my +fourth. That voluminous writer. I was vexed to hear +about the last chapter of ‘The Lie,’ and pleased to +hear about the rest; it would have been odd if it had no +birthmark, born where and how it was. It should by rights +have been called the <i>Devonia</i>, for that is the habit with +all children born in a steerage.</p> +<p>I write to you, hoping for more. Give me news of all who +concern me, near or far, or big or little. Here, sir, in +California you have a willing hearer.</p> +<p>Monterey is a place where there is no summer or winter, and +pines and sand and distant hills and a bay all filled with real +water from the Pacific. You will perceive that no expense +has been spared. I now live with a little French doctor; I +take one of my meals in a little French restaurant; for the other +two, I sponge. The population <a name="page150"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 150</span>of Monterey is about that of a +dissenting chapel on a wet Sunday in a strong church +neighbourhood. They are mostly Mexican and +Indian-mixed.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>Monterey +Co.</i>, <i>California</i>, 8<i>th</i> <i>October</i> 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I know I am a +rogue and the son of a dog. Yet let me tell you, when I +came here I had a week’s misery and a fortnight’s +illness, and since then I have been more or less busy in being +content. This is a kind of excuse for my laziness. I +hope you will not excuse yourself. My plans are still very +uncertain, and it is not likely that anything will happen before +Christmas. In the meanwhile, I believe I shall live on here +‘between the sandhills and the sea,’ as I think Mr. +Swinburne hath it. I was pretty nearly slain; my spirit lay +down and kicked for three days; I was up at an Angora goat-ranche +in the Santa Lucia Mountains, nursed by an old frontiers-man, a +mighty hunter of bears, and I scarcely slept, or ate, or thought +for four days. Two nights I lay out under a tree in a sort +of stupor, doing nothing but fetch water for myself and horse, +light a fire and make coffee, and all night awake hearing the +goat-bells ringing and the tree-frogs singing when each new noise +was enough to set me mad. Then the bear-hunter came round, +pronounced me ‘real sick,’ and ordered me up to the +ranche.</p> +<p>It was an odd, miserable piece of my life; and according to +all rule, it should have been my death; but after a while my +spirit got up again in a divine frenzy, and has since kicked and +spurred my vile body forward with great emphasis and success.</p> +<p>My new book, <i>The Amateur Emigrant</i>, is about half +drafted. I don’t know if it will be good, but I think +it ought to sell in spite of the deil and the publishers; for it +tells an odd enough experience, and one, I think, never yet told +before. Look for my ‘Burns’ in the +<i>Cornhill</i>, and <a name="page151"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 151</span>for my ‘Story of a Lie’ +in Paul’s withered babe, the <i>New Quarterly</i>. +You may have seen the latter ere this reaches you: tell me if it +has any interest, like a good boy, and remember that it was +written at sea in great anxiety of mind. What is your +news? Send me your works, like an angel, <i>au fur et +à mesure</i> of their apparition, for I am naturally short +of literature, and I do not wish to rust.</p> +<p>I fear this can hardly be called a letter. To say truth, +I feel already a difficulty of approach; I do not know if I am +the same man I was in Europe, perhaps I can hardly claim +acquaintance with you. My head went round and looks another +way now; for when I found myself over here in a new land, and all +the past uprooted in the one tug, and I neither feeling glad nor +sorry, I got my last lesson about mankind; I mean my latest +lesson, for of course I do not know what surprises there are yet +in store for me. But that I could have so felt astonished +me beyond description. There is a wonderful callousness in +human nature which enables us to live. I had no feeling one +way or another, from New York to California, until, at Dutch +Flat, a mining camp in the Sierra, I heard a cock crowing with a +home voice; and then I fell to hope and regret both in the same +moment.</p> +<p>Is there a boy or a girl? and how is your wife? I +thought of you more than once, to put it mildly.</p> +<p>I live here comfortably enough; but I shall soon be left all +alone, perhaps till Christmas. Then you may hope for +correspondence—and may not I?—Your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +<i>October</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Herewith +the <i>Pavilion on the Links</i>, grand carpentry story in nine +chapters, and I should hesitate to say how many tableaux. +Where is it to go? God knows. It is the dibbs that +are wanted. It is not <a name="page152"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 152</span>bad, though I say it; carpentry, of +course, but not bad at that; and who else can carpenter in +England, now that Wilkie Collins is played out? It might be +broken for magazine purposes at the end of Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>. I send it to you, as I dare say +Payn may help, if all else fails. Dibbs and speed are my +mottoes.</p> +<p>Do acknowledge the <i>Pavilion</i> by return. I shall be +so nervous till I hear, as of course I have no copy except of one +or two places where the vein would not run. God prosper it, +poor <i>Pavilion</i>! May it bring me money for myself and +my sick one, who may read it, I do not know how soon.</p> +<p>Love to your wife, Anthony and all. I shall write to +Colvin to-day or to-morrow.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +<i>October</i> 1879.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Many +thanks for your good letter, which is the best way to forgive you +for your previous silence. I hope Colvin or somebody has +sent me the <i>Cornhill</i> and the <i>New Quarterly</i>, though +I am trying to get them in San Francisco. I think you might +have sent me (1) some of your articles in the P. M. G.; (2) a +paper with the announcement of second edition; and (3) the +announcement of the essays in <i>Athenæum</i>. This +to prick you in the future. Again, choose, in your head, +the best volume of Labiche there is, and post it to Jules +Simoneau, Monterey, Monterey Co., California: do this at once, as +he is my restaurant man, a most pleasant old boy with whom I +discuss the universe and play chess daily. He has been out +of France for thirty-five years, and never heard of +Labiche. I have eighty-three pages written of a story +called a <i>Vendetta in the West</i>, and about sixty pages of +the first draft of the <i>Amateur Emigrant</i>. They should +each cover from 130 to 150 pages when done. That is all my +literary news. Do keep me posted, won’t you? <a +name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>Your letter +and Bob’s made the fifth and sixth I have had from Europe +in three months.</p> +<p>At times I get terribly frightened about my work, which seems +to advance too slowly. I hope soon to have a greater +burthen to support, and must make money a great deal quicker than +I used. I may get nothing for the <i>Vendetta</i>; I may +only get some forty quid for the <i>Emigrant</i>; I cannot hope +to have them both done much before the end of November.</p> +<p>O, and look here, why did you not send me the <i>Spectator</i> +which slanged me? Rogues and rascals, is that all you are +worth?</p> +<p>Yesterday I set fire to the forest, for which, had I been +caught, I should have been hung out of hand to the nearest tree, +Judge Lynch being an active person hereaway. You should +have seen my retreat (which was entirely for strategical +purposes). I ran like hell. It was a fine +sight. At night I went out again to see it; it was a good +fire, though I say it that should not. I had a near escape +for my life with a revolver: I fired six charges, and the six +bullets all remained in the barrel, which was choked from end to +end, from muzzle to breach, with solid lead; it took a man three +hours to drill them out. Another shot, and I’d have +gone to kingdom come.</p> +<p>This is a lovely place, which I am growing to love. The +Pacific licks all other oceans out of hand; there is no place but +the Pacific Coast to hear eternal roaring surf. When I get +to the top of the woods behind Monterey, I can hear the seas +breaking all round over ten or twelve miles of coast from near +Carmel on my left, out to Point Pinas in front, and away to the +right along the sands of Monterey to Castroville and the mouth of +the Salinas. I was wishing yesterday that the world could +get—no, what I mean was that you should be kept in suspense +like Mahomet’s coffin until the world had made half a +revolution, then dropped here at the station as though you had +stepped from the cars; you would then comfortably enter <a +name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>Walter’s waggon (the sun has just gone down, the +moon beginning to throw shadows, you hear the surf rolling, and +smell the sea and the pines). That shall deposit you at +Sanchez’s saloon, where we take a drink; you are introduced +to Bronson, the local editor (‘I have no brain +music,’ he says; ‘I’m a mechanic, you +see,’ but he’s a nice fellow); to Adolpho Sanchez, +who is delightful. Meantime I go to the P. O. for my mail; +thence we walk up Alvarado Street together, you now floundering +in the sand, now merrily stumping on the wooden side-walks; I +call at Hadsell’s for my paper; at length behold us +installed in Simoneau’s little white-washed back-room, +round a dirty tablecloth, with François the baker, perhaps +an Italian fisherman, perhaps Augustin Dutra, and Simoneau +himself. Simoneau, François, and I are the three +sure cards; the others mere waifs. Then home to my great +airy rooms with five windows opening on a balcony; I sleep on the +floor in my camp blankets; you instal yourself abed; in the +morning coffee with the little doctor and his little wife; we +hire a waggon and make a day of it; and by night, I should let +you up again into the air, to be returned to Mrs. Henley in the +forenoon following. By God, you would enjoy yourself. +So should I. I have tales enough to keep you going till +five in the morning, and then they would not be at an end. +I forget if you asked me any questions, and I sent your letter up +to the city to one who will like to read it. I expect other +letters now steadily. If I have to wait another two months, +I shall begin to be happy. Will you remember me most +affectionately to your wife? Shake hands with Anthony from +me; and God bless your mother.</p> +<p>God bless Stephen! Does he not know that I am a man, and +cannot live by bread alone, but must have guineas into the +bargain. Burns, I believe, in my own mind, is one of my +high-water marks; Meiklejohn flames me a letter about it, which +is so complimentary that I <a name="page155"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 155</span>must keep it or get it published in +the <i>Monterey Californian</i>. Some of these days I shall +send an exemplaire of that paper; it is huge.—Ever your +affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i> +[<i>November</i> 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON</span>,—Your +letter to my father was forwarded to me by mistake, and by +mistake I opened it. The letter to myself has not yet +reached me. This must explain my own and my father’s +silence. I shall write by this or next post to the only +friends I have who, I think, would have an influence, as they are +both professors. I regret exceedingly that I am not in +Edinburgh, as I could perhaps have done more, and I need not tell +you that what I might do for you in the matter of the election is +neither from friendship nor gratitude, but because you are the +only man (I beg your pardon) worth a damn. I shall write to +a third friend, now I think of it, whose father will have great +influence.</p> +<p>I find here (of all places in the world) your <i>Essays on +Art</i>, which I have read with signal interest. I believe +I shall dig an essay of my own out of one of them, for it set me +thinking; if mine could only produce yet another in reply, we +could have the marrow out between us.</p> +<p>I hope, my dear sir, you will not think badly of me for my +long silence. My head has scarce been on my +shoulders. I had scarce recovered from a long fit of +useless ill-health than I was whirled over here double-quick time +and by cheapest conveyance.</p> +<p>I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still +somewhat of a mossy ruin. If you would view my countenance +aright, come—view it by the pale moonlight. But <a +name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>that is on +the mend. I believe I have now a distant claim to tan.</p> +<p>A letter will be more than welcome in this distant clime where +I have a box at the post-office—generally, I regret to say, +empty. Could your recommendation introduce me to an +American publisher? My next book I should really try to get +hold of here, as its interest is international, and the more I am +in this country the more I understand the weight of your +influence. It is pleasant to be thus most at home abroad, +above all, when the prophet is still not without honour in his +own land. . . .</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>California</i>, +15<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Your letter +was to me such a bright spot that I answer it right away to the +prejudice of other correspondents or -dants (don’t know how +to spell it) who have prior claims. . . . It is the history of +our kindnesses that alone makes this world tolerable. If it +were not for that, for the effect of kind words, kind looks, kind +letters, multiplying, spreading, making one happy through another +and bringing forth benefits, some thirty, some fifty, some a +thousandfold, I should be tempted to think our life a practical +jest in the worst possible spirit. So your four pages have +confirmed my philosophy as well as consoled my heart in these ill +hours.</p> +<p>Yes, you are right; Monterey is a pleasant place; but I see I +can write no more to-night. I am tired and sad, and being +already in bed, have no more to do but turn out the +light.—Your affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<p>I try it again by daylight. Once more in bed however; +for to-day it is <i>mucho frio</i>, as we Spaniards say; and I +had no other means of keeping warm for my work. I have done +a good spell, 9½ foolscap pages; at least 8 of +<i>Cornhill</i>; ah, if I thought that I could get eight guineas +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>for +it. My trouble is that I am all too ambitious just +now. A book whereof 70 out of 120 are scrolled. A +novel whereof 85 out of, say, 140 are pretty well nigh +done. A short story of 50 pp., which shall be finished +to-morrow, or I’ll know the reason why. This may +bring in a lot of money: but I dread to think that it is all on +three chances. If the three were to fail, I am in a +bog. The novel is called <i>A Vendetta in the +West</i>. I see I am in a grasping, dismal humour, and +should, as we Americans put it, quit writing. In truth, I +am so haunted by anxieties that one or other is sure to come up +in all that I write.</p> +<p>I will send you herewith a Monterey paper where the works of +R. L. S. appear, nor only that, but all my life on studying the +advertisements will become clear. I lodge with Dr. Heintz; +take my meals with Simoneau; have been only two days ago shaved +by the tonsorial artist Michaels; drink daily at the Bohemia +saloon; get my daily paper from Hadsel’s; was stood a drink +to-day by Albano Rodriguez; in short, there is scarce a person +advertised in that paper but I know him, and I may add scarce a +person in Monterey but is there advertised. The paper is +the marrow of the place. Its bones—pooh, I am tired +of writing so sillily.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Monterey</i>, <i>December</i> +1879.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">To-day</span>, my dear Colvin, I send you +the first part of the <i>Amateur Emigrant</i>, 71 pp., by far the +longest and the best of the whole. It is not a monument of +eloquence; indeed, I have sought to be prosaic in view of the +nature of the subject; but I almost think it is interesting.</p> +<p>Whatever is done about any book publication, two things +remember: I must keep a royalty; and, second, I must have all my +books advertised, in the French manner, <a +name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>on the leaf +opposite the title. I know from my own experience how much +good this does an author with book <i>buyers</i>.</p> +<p>The entire A. E. will be a little longer than the two others, +but not very much. Here and there, I fancy, you will laugh +as you read it; but it seems to me rather a <i>clever</i> book +than anything else: the book of a man, that is, who has paid a +great deal of attention to contemporary life, and not through the +newspapers.</p> +<p>I have never seen my Burns! the darling of my heart! I +await your promised letter. Papers, magazines, articles by +friends; reviews of myself, all would be very welcome, I am +reporter for the <i>Monterey Californian</i>, at a salary of two +dollars a week! <i>Comment trouvez-vous +ça</i>? I am also in a conspiracy with the American +editor, a French restaurant-man, and an Italian fisherman against +the Padre. The enclosed poster is my last literary +appearance. It was put up to the number of 200 exemplaires +at the witching hour; and they were almost all destroyed by eight +in the morning. But I think the nickname will stick. +Dos Reales; deux réaux; two bits; twenty-five cents; about +a shilling; but in practice it is worth from ninepence to +threepence: thus two glasses of beer would cost two bits. +The Italian fisherman, an old Garibaldian, is a splendid +fellow.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monterey</i>, <i>Monterey +Co.</i>, <i>California</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 8, 1879.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I received +your book last night as I lay abed with a pleurisy, the result, I +fear, of overwork, gradual decline of appetite, etc. You +know what a wooden-hearted curmudgeon I am about contemporary +verse. I like none of it, except some of my own. (I +look back on that sentence with pleasure; it comes from an <a +name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>honest +heart.) Hence you will be kind enough to take this from me +in a kindly spirit; the piece ‘To my daughter’ is +delicious. And yet even here I am going to pick +holes. I am a <i>beastly</i> curmudgeon. It is the +last verse. ‘Newly budded’ is off the venue; +and haven’t you gone ahead to make a poetry daybreak +instead of sticking to your muttons, and comparing with the +mysterious light of stars the plain, friendly, perspicuous, human +day? But this is to be a beast. The little poem is +eminently pleasant, human, and original.</p> +<p>I have read nearly the whole volume, and shall read it nearly +all over again; you have no rivals!</p> +<p>Bancroft’s <i>History of the United States</i>, even in +a centenary edition, is essentially heavy fare; a little goes a +long way; I respect Bancroft, but I do not love him; he has +moments when he feels himself inspired to open up his +improvisations upon universal history and the designs of God; but +I flatter myself I am more nearly acquainted with the latter than +Mr. Bancroft. A man, in the words of my Plymouth Brother, +‘who knows the Lord,’ must needs, from time to time, +write less emphatically. It is a fetter dance to the music +of minute guns—not at sea, but in a region not a thousand +miles from the Sahara. Still, I am half-way through volume +three, and shall count myself unworthy of the name of an +Englishman if I do not see the back of volume six. The +countryman of Livingstone, Burton, Speke, Drake, Cook, etc.!</p> +<p>I have been sweated not only out of my pleuritic fever, but +out of all my eating cares, and the better part of my brains +(strange coincidence!), by aconite. I have that peculiar +and delicious sense of being born again in an expurgated edition +which belongs to convalescence. It will not be for long; I +hear the breakers roar; I shall be steering head first for +another rapid before many days; <i>nitor aquis</i>, said a +certain Eton boy, translating for his sins a part of the +<i>Inland Voyage</i> into Latin elegiacs; and <a +name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>from the +hour I saw it, or rather a friend of mine, the admirable Jenkin, +saw and recognised its absurd appropriateness, I took it for my +device in life. I am going for thirty now; and unless I can +snatch a little rest before long, I have, I may tell you in +confidence, no hope of seeing thirty-one. My health began +to break last winter, and has given me but fitful times since +then. This pleurisy, though but a slight affair in itself +was a huge disappointment to me, and marked an epoch. To +start a pleurisy about nothing, while leading a dull, regular +life in a mild climate, was not my habit in past days; and it is +six years, all but a few months, since I was obliged to spend +twenty-four hours in bed. I may be wrong, but if the niting +is to continue, I believe I must go. It is a pity in one +sense, for I believe the class of work I <i>might</i> yet give +out is better and more real and solid than people fancy. +But death is no bad friend; a few aches and gasps, and we are +done; like the truant child, I am beginning to grow weary and +timid in this big jostling city, and could run to my nurse, even +although she should have to whip me before putting me to bed.</p> +<p>Will you kiss your little daughter from me, and tell her that +her father has written a delightful poem about her? +Remember me, please, to Mrs. Gosse, to Middlemore, to whom some +of these days I will write, to —, to —, yes, to +—, and to —. I know you will gnash your teeth +at some of these; wicked, grim, catlike old poet. If I were +God, I would sort you—as we say in Scotland.—Your +sincere friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>‘Too young to be our child’: blooming good.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i> [<i>December</i> 26, 1879].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am now +writing to you in a café waiting for some music to +begin. For four days I have spoken to no one but to my +landlady or landlord or to <a name="page161"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 161</span>restaurant waiters. This is +not a gay way to pass Christmas, is it? and I must own the guts +are a little knocked out of me. If I could work, I could +worry through better. But I have no style at command for +the moment, with the second part of the <i>Emigrant</i>, the last +of the novel, the essay on Thoreau, and God knows all, waiting +for me. But I trust something can be done with the first +part, or, by God, I’ll starve here . . . . <a +name="citation161"></a><a href="#footnote161" +class="citation">[161]</a></p> +<p>O Colvin, you don’t know how much good I have done +myself. I feared to think this out by myself. I have +made a base use of you, and it comes out so much better than I +had dreamed. But I have to stick to work now; and +here’s December gone pretty near useless. But, Lord +love you, October and November saw a great harvest. It +might have affected the price of paper on the Pacific +coast. As for ink, they haven’t any, not what I call +ink; only stuff to write cookery-books with, or the works of +Hayley, or the pallid perambulations of the—I can find +nobody to beat Hayley. I like good, knock-me-down +black-strap to write with; that makes a mark and done with +it.—By the way, I have tried to read the <i>Spectator</i>, +which they all say I imitate, and—it’s very wrong of +me, I know—but I can’t. It’s all very +fine, you know, and all that, but it’s vapid. They +have just played the overture to <i>Norma</i>, and I know +it’s a good one, for I bitterly wanted the opera to go on; +I had just got thoroughly interested—and then no curtain to +rise.</p> +<p>I have written myself into a kind of spirits, bless your dear +heart, by your leave. But this is wild work for me, nearly +nine and me not back! What will Mrs. Carson think of +me! Quite a night-hawk, I do declare. You are the +worst correspondent in the world—no, not that, Henley is +that—well, I don’t know, I leave the pair of you to +Him that made you—surely with small attention. But +here’s my service, and I’ll away home to my den O! +much the better for this crack, Professor Colvin.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i> [<i>January</i> 10, 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This is a +circular letter to tell my estate fully. You have no right +to it, being the worst of correspondents; but I wish to efface +the impression of my last, so to you it goes.</p> +<p>Any time between eight and half-past nine in the morning, a +slender gentleman in an ulster, with a volume buttoned into the +breast of it, may be observed leaving No. 608 Bush and descending +Powell with an active step. The gentleman is R. L. S.; the +volume relates to Benjamin Franklin, on whom he meditates one of +his charming essays. He descends Powell, crosses Market, +and descends in Sixth on a branch of the original Pine Street +Coffee House, no less; I believe he would be capable of going to +the original itself, if he could only find it. In the +branch he seats himself at a table covered with waxcloth, and a +pampered menial, of High-Dutch extraction and, indeed, as yet +only partially extracted, lays before him a cup of coffee, a roll +and a pat of butter, all, to quote the deity, very good. A +while ago, and R. L. S. used to find the supply of butter +insufficient; but he has now learned the art to exactitude, and +butter and roll expire at the same moment. For this +refection he pays ten cents., or five pence sterling (£0, +0s. 5d.).</p> +<p>Half an hour later, the inhabitants of Bush Street observe the +same slender gentleman armed, like George Washington, with his +little hatchet, splitting, kindling and breaking coal for his +fire. He does this quasi-publicly upon the window-sill; but +this is not to be attributed to any love of notoriety, though he +is indeed vain of his prowess with the hatchet (which he persists +in calling an axe), and daily surprised at the perpetuation of +his fingers. The reason is this: that the sill is a strong, +supporting beam, and that blows of the same emphasis in other +parts of his room might knock the <a name="page163"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 163</span>entire shanty into hell. +Thenceforth, for from three to four hours, he is engaged darkly +with an inkbottle. Yet he is not blacking his boots, for +the only pair that he possesses are innocent of lustre and wear +the natural hue of the material turned up with caked and +venerable slush. The youngest child of his landlady remarks +several times a day, as this strange occupant enters or quits the +house, ‘Dere’s de author.’ Can it be that +this bright-haired innocent has found the true clue to the +mystery? The being in question is, at least, poor enough to +belong to that honourable craft.</p> +<p>His next appearance is at the restaurant of one Donadieu, in +Bush Street, between Dupont and Kearney, where a copious meal, +half a bottle of wine, coffee and brandy may be procured for the +sum of four bits, <i>alias</i> fifty cents., £0, 2s. 2d. +sterling. The wine is put down in a whole bottleful, and it +is strange and painful to observe the greed with which the +gentleman in question seeks to secure the last drop of his +allotted half, and the scrupulousness with which he seeks to +avoid taking the first drop of the other. This is partly +explained by the fact that if he were to go over the +mark—bang would go a tenpence. He is again armed with +a book, but his best friends will learn with pain that he seems +at this hour to have deserted the more serious studies of the +morning. When last observed, he was studying with apparent +zest the exploits of one Rocambole by the late Viscomte Ponson du +Terrail. This work, originally of prodigious dimensions, he +had cut into liths or thicknesses apparently for convenience of +carriage.</p> +<p>Then the being walks, where is not certain. But by about +half-past four, a light beams from the windows of 608 Bush, and +he may be observed sometimes engaged in correspondence, sometimes +once again plunged in the mysterious rites of the forenoon. +About six he returns to the Branch Original, where he once more +imbrues himself to the worth of fivepence in coffee and +roll. The <a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>evening is devoted to writing and reading, and by +eleven or half-past darkness closes over this weird and truculent +existence.</p> +<p>As for coin, you see I don’t spend much, only you and +Henley both seem to think my work rather bosh nowadays, and I do +want to make as much as I was making, that is £200; if I +can do that, I can swim: last year, with my ill health I touched +only £109, that would not do, I could not fight it through +on that; but on £200, as I say, I am good for the world, +and can even in this quiet way save a little, and that I must +do. The worst is my health; it is suspected I had an ague +chill yesterday; I shall know by to-morrow, and you know if I am +to be laid down with ague the game is pretty well lost. But +I don’t know; I managed to write a good deal down in +Monterey, when I was pretty sickly most of the time, and, by God, +I’ll try, ague and all. I have to ask you frankly, +when you write, to give me any good news you can, and chat a +little, but <i>just in the meantime</i>, give me no bad. If +I could get <i>Thoreau</i>, <i>Emigrant</i> and <i>Vendetta</i> +all finished and out of my hand, I should feel like a man who had +made half a year’s income in a half year; but until the two +last are <i>finished</i>, you see, they don’t fairly +count.</p> +<p>I am afraid I bore you sadly with this perpetual talk about my +affairs; I will try and stow it; but you see, it touches me +nearly. I’m the miser in earnest now: last night, +when I felt so ill, the supposed ague chill, it seemed strange +not to be able to afford a drink. I would have walked half +a mile, tired as I felt, for a brandy and soda.—Ever +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, <i>Jan.</i> 26, ’80</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I have to +drop from a 50 cent. to a 25 cent. dinner; to-day begins my +fall. That brings <a name="page165"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 165</span>down my outlay in food and drink to +45 cents., or 1s. 10½d. per day. How are the mighty +fallen! Luckily, this is such a cheap place for food; I +used to pay as much as that for my first breakfast in the Savile +in the grand old palmy days of yore. I regret nothing, and +do not even dislike these straits, though the flesh will rebel on +occasion. It is to-day bitter cold, after weeks of lovely +warm weather, and I am all in a chitter. I am about to +issue for my little shilling and halfpenny meal, taken in the +middle of the day, the poor man’s hour; and I shall eat and +drink to your prosperity.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, <i>California</i> [<i>January</i> 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received +this morning your long letter from Paris. Well, God’s +will be done; if it’s dull, it’s dull; it was a fair +fight, and it’s lost, and there’s an end. But, +fortunately, dulness is not a fault the public hates; perhaps +they may like this vein of dulness. If they don’t, +damn them, we’ll try them with another. I sat down on +the back of your letter, and wrote twelve Cornhill pages this day +as ever was of that same despised <i>Emigrant</i>; so you see my +moral courage has not gone down with my intellect. Only, +frankly, Colvin, do you think it a good plan to be so eminently +descriptive, and even eloquent in dispraise? You rolled +such a lot of polysyllables over me that a better man than I +might have been disheartened.—However, I was not, as you +see, and am not. The <i>Emigrant</i> shall be finished and +leave <a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>in +the course of next week. And then, I’ll stick to +stories. I am not frightened. I know my mind is +changing; I have been telling you so for long; and I suppose I am +fumbling for the new vein. Well, I’ll find it.</p> +<p>The <i>Vendetta</i> you will not much like, I dare say: and +that must be finished next; but I’ll knock you with <i>The +Forest State</i>: <i>A Romance</i>.</p> +<p>I’m vexed about my letters; I know it is painful to get +these unsatisfactory things; but at least I have written often +enough. And not one soul ever gives me any <i>news</i>, +about people or things; everybody writes me sermons; it’s +good for me, but hardly the food necessary for a man who lives +all alone on forty-five cents. a day, and sometimes less, with +quantities of hard work and many heavy thoughts. If one of +you could write me a letter with a jest in it, a letter like what +is written to real people in this world—I am still flesh +and blood—I should enjoy it. Simpson did, the other +day, and it did me as much good as a bottle of wine. A +lonely man gets to feel like a pariah after awhile—or no, +not that, but like a saint and martyr, or a kind of macerated +clergyman with pebbles in his boots, a pillared Simeon, I’m +damned if I know what, but, man alive, I want gossip.</p> +<p>My health is better, my spirits steadier, I am not the least +cast down. If the <i>Emigrant</i> was a failure, the +<i>Pavilion</i>, by your leave, was not: it was a story quite +adequately and rightly done, I contend; and when I find Stephen, +for whom certainly I did not mean it, taking it in, I am better +pleased with it than before. I know I shall do better work +than ever I have done before; but, mind you, it will not be like +it. My sympathies and interests are changed. There +shall be no more books of travel for me. I care for nothing +but the moral and the dramatic, not a jot for the picturesque or +the beautiful other than about people. It bored me +hellishly to write the <i>Emigrant</i>; well, it’s going to +bore others to read it; that’s only fair.</p> +<p><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>I +should also write to others; but indeed I am jack-tired, and must +go to bed to a French novel to compose myself for +slumber.—Ever your affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, <i>Cal.</i>, <i>February</i> 1880.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Before my +work or anything I sit down to answer your long and kind +letter.</p> +<p>I am well, cheerful, busy, hopeful; I cannot be knocked down; +I do not mind about the <i>Emigrant</i>. I never thought it +a masterpiece. It was written to sell, and I believe it +will sell; and if it does not, the next will. You need not +be uneasy about my work; I am only beginning to see my true +method.</p> +<p>(1) As to <i>Studies</i>. There are two more already +gone to Stephen. <i>Yoshida Torajiro</i>, which I think temperate +and adequate; and <i>Thoreau</i>, which will want a really +Balzacian effort over the proofs. But I want <i>Benjamin +Franklin and the Art of Virtue</i> to follow; and perhaps also +<i>William Penn</i>, but this last may be perhaps delayed for +another volume—I think not, though. The +<i>Studies</i> will be an intelligent volume, and in their latter +numbers more like what I mean to be my style, or I mean what my +style means to be, for I am passive. (2) The +<i>Essays</i>. Good news indeed. I think <i>Ordered +South</i> must be thrown in. It always swells the volume, +and it will never find a more appropriate place. It was May +1874, Macmillan, I believe. (3) <i>Plays</i>. I did +not understand you meant to try the draft. I shall make you +a full scenario as soon as the <i>Emigrant</i> is done. (4) +<i>Emigrant</i>. He shall be sent off next week. (5) +Stories. You need not be alarmed that I am going to imitate +Meredith. You know I was a Story-teller ingrain; did not +that reassure you? The <i>Vendetta</i>, which falls next to +be finished, is not entirely pleasant. But it has +points. <i>The Forest State</i> or <i>The </i><a +name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span><i>Greenwood State</i>: <i>A Romance</i>, is another +pair of shoes. It is my old Semiramis, our half-seen Duke +and Duchess, which suddenly sprang into sunshine clearness as a +story the other day. The kind, happy +<i>dénouement</i> is unfortunately absolutely undramatic, +which will be our only trouble in quarrying out the play. I +mean we shall quarry from it. <i>Characters</i>—Otto +Frederick John, hereditary Prince of Grünwald; Amelia +Seraphina, Princess; Conrad, Baron Gondremarck, Prime Minister; +Cancellarius Greisengesang; Killian Gottesacker, Steward of the +River Farm; Ottilie, his daughter; the Countess von Rosen. +Seven in all. A brave story, I swear; and a brave play too, +if we can find the trick to make the end. The play, I fear, +will have to end darkly, and that spoils the quality as I now see +it of a kind of crockery, eighteenth century, +high-life-below-stairs life, breaking up like ice in spring +before the nature and the certain modicum of manhood of my poor, +clever, feather-headed Prince, whom I love already. I see +Seraphina too. Gondremarck is not quite so clear. The +Countess von Rosen, I have; I’ll never tell you who she is; +it’s a secret; but I have known the countess; well, I will +tell you; it’s my old Russian friend, Madame Z. +Certain scenes are, in conception, the best I have ever made, +except for <i>Hester Noble</i>. Those at the end, Von Rosen +and the Princess, the Prince and Princess, and the Princess and +Gondremarck, as I now see them from here, should be nuts, Henley, +nuts. It irks me not to go to them straight. But the +<i>Emigrant</i> stops the way; then a reassured scenario for +<i>Hester</i>; then the <i>Vendetta</i>; then two (or three) +Essays—Benjamin Franklin, Thoughts on Literature as an Art, +Dialogue on Character and Destiny between two Puppets, The Human +Compromise; and then, at length—come to me, my +Prince. O Lord, it’s going to be courtly! And +there is not an ugly person nor an ugly scene in it. The +<i>Slate</i> both Fanny and I have damned utterly; it is too +morbid, ugly, and unkind; better starvation.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">608 <i>Bush Street</i>, <i>San +Francisco</i>, [<i>March</i> 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—My +landlord and landlady’s little four-year-old child is dying +in the house; and O, what he has suffered. It has really +affected my health. O never, never any family for me! +I am cured of that.</p> +<p>I have taken a long holiday—have not worked for three +days, and will not for a week; for I was really weary. +Excuse this scratch; for the child weighs on me, dear +Colvin. I did all I could to help; but all seems little, to +the point of crime, when one of these poor innocents lies in such +misery.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>San Francisco</i>, <i>Cal.</i>, +<i>April</i> 16 [1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—You have +not answered my last; and I know you will repent when you hear +how near I have been to another world. For about six weeks +I have been in utter doubt; it was a toss-up for life or death +all that time; but I won the toss, sir, and Hades went off once +more discomfited. This is not the first time, nor will it +be the last, that I have a friendly game with that +gentleman. I know he will end by cleaning me out; but the +rogue is insidious, and the habit of that sort of gambling seems +to be a part of my nature; it was, I suspect, too much indulged +in youth; break your children of this tendency, my dear Gosse, +from the first. It is, when once formed, a habit more fatal +than opium—I speak, as St. Paul says, like a fool. I +have been very very sick; on the verge of a galloping +consumption, cold sweats, prostrating attacks of cough, sinking +fits in which I lost the power of speech, fever, and all the +ugliest circumstances of the disease; <a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span>and I have cause to bless God, my +wife that is to be, and one Dr. Bamford (a name the Muse repels), +that I have come out of all this, and got my feet once more upon +a little hilltop, with a fair prospect of life and some new +desire of living. Yet I did not wish to die, neither; only +I felt unable to go on farther with that rough horseplay of human +life: a man must be pretty well to take the business in good +part. Yet I felt all the time that I had done nothing to +entitle me to an honourable discharge; that I had taken up many +obligations and begun many friendships which I had no right to +put away from me; and that for me to die was to play the cur and +slinking sybarite, and desert the colours on the eve of the +decisive fight. Of course I have done no work for I do not +know how long; and here you can triumph. I have been +reduced to writing verses for amusement. A fact. The +whirligig of time brings in its revenges, after all. But +I’ll have them buried with me, I think, for I have not the +heart to burn them while I live. Do write. I shall go +to the mountains as soon as the weather clears; on the way +thither, I marry myself; then I set up my family altar among the +pinewoods, 3000 feet, sir, from the disputatious sea.—I am, +dear Weg, most truly yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. W. Bamford</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>April</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—Will you let +me offer you this little book? If I had anything better, it +should be yours. May you not dislike it, for it will be +your own handiwork if there are other fruits from the same +tree! But for your kindness and skill, this would have been +my last book, and now I am in hopes that it will be neither my +last nor my best.</p> +<p>You doctors have a serious responsibility. You recall a +man from the gates of death, you give him health and strength +once more to use or to abuse. I hope I shall feel <a +name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>your +responsibility added to my own, and seek in the future to make a +better profit of the life you have renewed me.—I am, my +dear sir, gratefully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>April</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—You must +be sick indeed of my demand for books, for you have seemingly not +yet sent me one. Still, I live on promises: waiting for +Penn, for H. James’s <i>Hawthorne</i>, for my <i>Burns</i>, +etc.; and now, to make matters worse, pending your +<i>Centuries</i>, etc., I do earnestly desire the best book about +mythology (if it be German, so much the worse; send a bunctionary +along with it, and pray for me). This is why. If I +recover, I feel called on to write a volume of gods and demi-gods +in exile: Pan, Jove, Cybele, Venus, Charon, etc.; and though I +should like to take them very free, I should like to know a +little about ’em to begin with. For two days, till +last night, I had no night sweats, and my cough is almost gone, +and I digest well; so all looks hopeful. However, I was +near the other side of Jordan. I send the proof of +<i>Thoreau</i> to you, so that you may correct and fill up the +quotation from Goethe. It is a pity I was ill, as, for +matter, I think I prefer that to any of my essays except Burns; +but the style, though quite manly, never attains any melody or +lenity. So much for consumption: I begin to appreciate what +the <i>Emigrant</i> must be. As soon as I have done the +last few pages of the <i>Emigrant</i> they shall go to you. +But when will that be? I know not quite yet—I have to +be so careful.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>April</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—My dear +people telegraphed me in these words: ‘Count on 250 pounds +annually.’ You <a name="page172"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 172</span>may imagine what a blessed business +this was. And so now recover the sheets of the +<i>Emigrant</i>, and post them registered to me. And now +please give me all your venom against it; say your worst, and +most incisively, for now it will be a help, and I’ll make +it right or perish in the attempt. Now, do you understand +why I protested against your depressing eloquence on the +subject? When I <i>had</i> to go on any way, for dear life, +I thought it a kind of pity and not much good to discourage +me. Now all’s changed. God only knows how much +courage and suffering is buried in that <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. The second part was written in +a circle of hell unknown to Dante—that of the penniless and +dying author. For dying I was, although now saved. +Another week, the doctor said, and I should have been past +salvation. I think I shall always think of it as my best +work. There is one page in Part <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>., about having got to shore, and sich, +which must have cost me altogether six hours of work as miserable +as ever I went through. I feel sick even to think of +it.—Ever your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>May</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I received +your letter and proof to-day, and was greatly delighted with the +last.</p> +<p>I am now out of danger; in but a short while (<i>i.e.</i> as +soon as the weather is settled), F. and I marry and go up to the +hills to look for a place; ‘I to the hills will lift mine +eyes, from whence doth come mine aid’: once the place +found, the furniture will follow. There, sir, in, I hope, a +ranche among the pine-trees and hard by a running brook, we are +to fish, hunt, sketch, study Spanish, French, Latin, Euclid, and +History; and, if possible, not quarrel. Far from man, sir, +in the virgin forest. Thence, as my strength returns, you +may expect works of genius. I always feel as if I must +write a work of genius some <a name="page173"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 173</span>time or other; and when is it more +likely to come off, than just after I have paid a visit to Styx +and go thence to the eternal mountains? Such a revolution +in a man’s affairs, as I have somewhere written, would set +anybody singing. When we get installed, Lloyd and I are +going to print my poetical works; so all those who have been +poetically addressed shall receive copies of their +addresses. They are, I believe, pretty correct literary +exercises, or will be, with a few filings; but they are not +remarkable for white-hot vehemence of inspiration; tepid works! +respectable versifications of very proper and even original +sentiments: kind of Hayleyistic, I fear—but no, this is +morbid self-depreciation. The family is all very shaky in +health, but our motto is now ‘Al Monte!’ in the words +of Don Lope, in the play the sister and I are just beating +through with two bad dictionaries and an insane grammar.</p> +<p>I to the hills.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to C. W. Stoddard</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>East Oakland</i>, <i>Cal.</i>, +<i>May</i> 1880.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR STODDARD</span>,—I am +guilty in thy sight and the sight of God. However, I swore +a great oath that you should see some of my manuscript at last; +and though I have long delayed to keep it, yet it was to +be. You re-read your story and were disgusted; that is the +cold fit following the hot. I don’t say you did wrong +to be disgusted, yet I am sure you did wrong to be disgusted +altogether. There was, you may depend upon it, some reason +for your previous vanity, as well as your present +mortification. I shall hear you, years from now, timidly +begin to retrim your feathers for a little self-laudation, <a +name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>and trot +out this misdespised novelette as not the worst of your +performances. I read the album extracts with sincere +interest; but I regret that you spared to give the paper more +development; and I conceive that you might do a great deal worse +than expand each of its paragraphs into an essay or sketch, the +excuse being in each case your personal intercourse; the bulk, +when that would not be sufficient, to be made up from their own +works and stories. Three at least—Menken, Yelverton, +and Keeler—could not fail of a vivid human interest. +Let me press upon you this plan; should any document be wanted +from Europe, let me offer my services to procure it. I am +persuaded that there is stuff in the idea.</p> +<p>Are you coming over again to see me some day soon? I +keep returning, and now hand over fist, from the realms of Hades: +I saw that gentleman between the eyes, and fear him less after +each visit. Only Charon, and his rough boatmanship, I +somewhat fear.</p> +<p>I have a desire to write some verses for your album; so, if +you will give me the entry among your gods, goddesses, and +godlets, there will be nothing wanting but the Muse. I +think of the verses like Mark Twain; sometimes I wish fulsomely +to belaud you; sometimes to insult your city and fellow-citizens; +sometimes to sit down quietly, with the slender reed, and troll a +few staves of Panic ecstasy—but fy! fy! as my ancestors +observed, the last is too easy for a man of my feet and +inches.</p> +<p>At least, Stoddard, you now see that, although so costive, +when I once begin I am a copious letter-writer. I thank +you, and <i>au revoir</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>San Francisco</i>, <i>May</i> +1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—It is a +long while since I have heard from you; nearly a month, I +believe; and I begin <a name="page175"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 175</span>to grow very uneasy. At first +I was tempted to suppose that I had been myself to blame in some +way; but now I have grown to fear lest some sickness or trouble +among those whom you love may not be the impediment. I +believe I shall soon hear; so I wait as best I can. I am, +beyond a doubt, greatly stronger, and yet still useless for any +work, and, I may say, for any pleasure. My affairs and the +bad weather still keep me here unmarried; but not, I earnestly +hope, for long. Whenever I get into the mountain, I trust I +shall rapidly pick up. Until I get away from these sea fogs +and my imprisonment in the house, I do not hope to do much more +than keep from active harm. My doctor took a desponding fit +about me, and scared Fanny into blue fits; but I have talked her +over again. It is the change I want, and the blessed sun, +and a gentle air in which I can sit out and see the trees and +running water: these mere defensive hygienics cannot advance one, +though they may prevent evil. I do nothing now, but try to +possess my soul in peace, and continue to possess my body on any +terms.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Calistoga</i>, <i>Napa +County</i>, <i>California</i>.</p> +<p>All which is a fortnight old and not much to the point +nowadays. Here we are, Fanny and I, and a certain hound, in +a lovely valley under Mount Saint Helena, looking around, or +rather wondering when we shall begin to look around, for a house +of our own. I have received the first sheets of the +<i>Amateur Emigrant</i>; not yet the second bunch, as +announced. It is a pretty heavy, emphatic piece of +pedantry; but I don’t care; the public, I verily believe, +will like it. I have excised all you proposed and more on +my own movement. But I have not yet been able to rewrite +the two special pieces which, as you said, so badly wanted it; it +is hard work to rewrite passages in proof; and the easiest work +is still hard to me. But I am certainly recovering fast; a +married and convalescent being.</p> +<p><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span>Received James’s <i>Hawthorne</i>, on which I +meditate a blast, Miss Bird, Dixon’s <i>Penn</i>, a +<i>wrong Cornhill</i> (like my luck) and <i>Coquelin</i>: for all +which, and especially the last, I tender my best thanks. I +have opened only James; it is very clever, very well written, and +out of sight the most inside-out thing in the world; I have dug +up the hatchet; a scalp shall flutter at my belt ere long. +I think my new book should be good; it will contain our +adventures for the summer, so far as these are worth narrating; +and I have already a few pages of diary which should make up +bright. I am going to repeat my old experiment, after +buckling-to a while to write more correctly, lie down and have a +wallow. Whether I shall get any of my novels done this +summer I do not know; I wish to finish the <i>Vendetta</i> first, +for it really could not come after <i>Prince Otto</i>. +Lewis Campbell has made some noble work in that Agamemnon; it +surprised me. We hope to get a house at Silverado, a +deserted mining-camp eight miles up the mountain, now solely +inhabited by a mighty hunter answering to the name of Rufe +Hansome, who slew last year a hundred and fifty deer. This +is the motto I propose for the new volume: ‘<i>Vixerunt +nonnulli in agris</i>, <i>delectati re sua familiari</i>. +<i>His idem propositum fuit quod regibus</i>, <i>ut ne qua re +egerent</i>, <i>ne cui parerent</i>, <i>libertate uterentur</i>; +<i>cujus proprium est sic vivere ut velis</i>.’ I +always have a terror lest the wish should have been father to the +translation, when I come to quote; but that seems too plain +sailing. I should put <i>regibus</i> in capitals for the +pleasantry’s sake. We are in the Coast Range, that +being so much cheaper to reach; the family, I hope, will soon +follow.—Love to all, ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>V<br +/> +ALPINE WINTERS<br /> +AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUGUST 1880–OCTOBER 1882</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span><span class="smcap">to A. G. Dew-Smith</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>November</i> 1880.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Figure me to yourself, I pray—<br /> + A man of my peculiar cut—<br /> +Apart from dancing and deray, <a name="citation185"></a><a +href="#footnote185" class="citation">[185]</a><br /> + Into an Alpine valley shut;</p> +<p class="poetry">Shut in a kind of damned Hotel,<br /> + Discountenanced by God and man;<br /> +The food?—Sir, you would do as well<br /> + To cram your belly full of bran.</p> +<p class="poetry">The company? Alas, the day<br /> + That I should dwell with such a crew,<br /> +With devil anything to say,<br /> + Nor any one to say it to!</p> +<p class="poetry">The place? Although they call it +Platz,<br /> + I will be bold and state my view;<br /> +It’s not a place at all—and that’s<br /> + The bottom verity, my Dew.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are, as I will not deny,<br /> + Innumerable inns; a road;<br /> +Several Alps indifferent high;<br /> + The snow’s inviolable abode;</p> +<p class="poetry">Eleven English parsons, all<br /> + Entirely inoffensive; four<br /> +True human beings—what I call<br /> + Human—the deuce a cipher more;</p> +<p class="poetry">A climate of surprising worth;<br /> + Innumerable dogs that bark;<br /> +Some air, some weather, and some earth;<br /> + A native race—God save the mark!—</p> +<p class="poetry">A race that works, yet cannot work,<br /> + Yodels, but cannot yodel right,<br /> +Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk,<br /> + I vow that I could wholly smite.</p> +<p class="poetry">A river that from morn to night<br /> + Down all the valley plays the fool;<br /> +Not once she pauses in her flight,<br /> + Nor knows the comfort of a pool;</p> +<p class="poetry">But still keeps up, by straight or bend,<br /> + The selfsame pace she hath begun—<br /> +Still hurry, hurry, to the end—<br /> + Good God, is that the way to run?</p> +<p class="poetry">If I a river were, I hope<br /> + That I should better realise<br /> +The opportunities and scope<br /> + Of that romantic enterprise.</p> +<p class="poetry">I should not ape the merely strange,<br /> + But aim besides at the divine;<br /> +And continuity and change<br /> + I still should labour to combine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here should I gallop down the race,<br /> + Here charge the sterling <a +name="citation186"></a><a href="#footnote186" +class="citation">[186]</a> like a bull;<br /> +There, as a man might wipe his face,<br /> + Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool.</p> +<p class="poetry">But what, my Dew, in idle mood,<br /> + What prate I, minding not my debt?<br /> +What do I talk of bad or good?<br /> + The best is still a cigarette.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>Me whether evil fate assault,<br /> + Or smiling providences crown—<br /> +Whether on high the eternal vault<br /> + Be blue, or crash with thunder down—</p> +<p class="poetry">I judge the best, whate’er befall,<br /> + Is still to sit on one’s behind,<br /> +And, having duly moistened all,<br /> + Smoke with an unperturbèd mind.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>], +<i>Davos</i>, <i>December</i> 12 [1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Here is +the scheme as well as I can foresee. I begin the book +immediately after the ’15, as then began the attempt to +suppress the Highlands.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">I. <span class="smcap">Thirty +Years’ Interval</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) Rob Roy.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Independent Companies: the +Watches.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) Story of Lady Grange.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: +Wade and</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Burt.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II. <span class="smcap">The Heroic +Age</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) Flora Macdonald.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The Forfeited Estates; including +Hereditary Jurisdictions; and the admirable conduct of the +tenants.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page188"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 188</span>III. <span class="smcap">Literature +Here Intervenes</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) The Ossianic Controversy.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) Boswell and Johnson.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV. <span +class="smcap">Economy</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) Highland Economics.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Reinstatement of the +Proprietors.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The Evictions.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) Emigration.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Present State.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V. <span +class="smcap">Religion</span></p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and +Soc. Prop. Christ. Knowledge.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Men.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The Disruption.</p> +<p>All this, of course, will greatly change in form, scope, and +order; this is just a bird’s-eye glance. Thank you +for <i>Burt</i>, which came, and for your Union notes. I +have read one-half (about 900 pages) of Wodrow’s +<i>Correspondence</i>, with some improvement, but great +fatigue. The doctor thinks well of my recovery, which puts +me in good hope for the future. I should certainly be able +to make a fine history of this.</p> +<p>My Essays are going through the press, and should be out in +January or February.—Ever affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, <i>Davos +Platz</i> [<i>Dec.</i> 6, 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I have many +letters that I ought to write in preference to this; but a duty +to letters and to <a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>you prevails over any private consideration. You +are going to collect odes; I could not wish a better man to do +so; but I tremble lest you should commit two sins of +omission. You will not, I am sure, be so far left to +yourself as to give us no more of Dryden than the hackneyed St. +Cecilia; I know you will give us some others of those surprising +masterpieces where there is more sustained eloquence and harmony +of English numbers than in all that has been written since; there +is a machine about a poetical young lady, and another about +either Charles or James, I know not which; and they are both +indescribably fine. (Is Marvell’s Horatian Ode good +enough? I half think so.) But my great point is a +fear that you are one of those who are unjust to our old +Tennyson’s Duke of Wellington. I have just been +talking it over with Symonds; and we agreed that whether for its +metrical effects, for its brief, plain, stirring words of +portraiture, as—he ‘that never lost an English +gun,’ or—the soldier salute; or for the heroic +apostrophe to Nelson; that ode has never been surpassed in any +tongue or time. Grant me the Duke, O Weg! I suppose +you must not put in yours about the warship; you will have to +admit worse ones, however.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>], +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 19, 1880.</p> +<p>This letter is a report of a long sederunt, also steterunt in +small committee at Davos Platz, Dec. 15, 1880.</p> +<p>Its results are unhesitatingly shot at your head.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—We both +insist on the Duke of Wellington. Really it cannot be left +out. Symonds said you would cover yourself with shame, and +I add, your friends with confusion, if you leave it out. +Really, you know it is the only thing you have, since Dryden, +where that irregular odic, odal, odous (?) verse is used with +mastery <a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>and sense. And it’s one of our few English +blood-boilers.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) Byron: if anything: +<i>Prometheus</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) Shelley (1) <i>The world’s great +age</i> from Hellas; we are both dead on. After that you +have, of course, <i>The West Wind</i> thing. But we think +(1) would maybe be enough; no more than two any way.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) Herrick. <i>Meddowes</i> and +<i>Come</i>, <i>my Corinna</i>. After that <i>Mr. +Wickes</i>: two any way.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Leave out stanza 3rd of Congreve’s +thing, like a dear; we can’t stand the ‘sigh’ +nor the ‘peruke.’</p> +<p class="gutindent">(6) Milton. <i>Time</i> and the +<i>Solemn Music</i>. We both agree we would rather go +without L’Allegro and Il Penseroso than these; for the +reason that these are not so well known to the brutish herd.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(7) Is the <i>Royal George</i> an ode, or +only an elegy? It’s so good.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(8) We leave Campbell to you.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(9) If you take anything from Clough, but we +don’t either of us fancy you will, let it be <i>Come +back</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(10) Quite right about Dryden. I had a +hankering after <i>Threnodia Augustalis</i>; but I find it long +and with very prosaic holes: though, O! what fine stuff between +whiles.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(11) Right with Collins.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(12) Right about Pope’s Ode. But +what can you give? <i>The Dying Christian</i>? or one of +his inimitable courtesies? These last are fairly odes, by +the Horatian model, just as my dear <i>Meddowes</i> is an ode in +the name and for the sake of Bandusia.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(13) Whatever you do, you’ll give us +the Greek Vase.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(14) Do you like Jonson’s +‘loathèd stage’? Verses 2, 3, and 4 are +so bad, also the last line. But there is a fine movement +and feeling in the rest.</p> +<p>We will have the Duke of Wellington by God. Pro Symonds +and Stevenson.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Warren +Stoddard</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, <i>Davos +Platz</i>, <i>Switzerland</i> [<i>December</i> 1880].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR CHARLES WARREN +STODDARD</span>,—Many thanks to you for the letter and the +photograph. Will you think it mean if I ask you to wait +till there appears a promised cheap edition? Possibly the +canny Scot does feel pleasure in the superior cheapness; but the +true reason is this, that I think to put a few words, by way of +notes, to each book in its new form, because that will be the +Standard Edition, without which no g.’s l. <a +name="citation191"></a><a href="#footnote191" +class="citation">[191]</a> will be complete. The edition, +briefly, <i>sine qua non</i>. Before that, I shall hope to +send you my essays, which are in the printer’s hands. +I look to get yours soon. I am sorry to hear that the +Custom House has proved fallible, like all other human houses and +customs. Life consists of that sort of business, and I fear +that there is a class of man, of which you offer no inapt type, +doomed to a kind of mild, general disappointment through +life. I do not believe that a man is the more unhappy for +that. Disappointment, except with one’s self, is not +a very capital affair; and the sham beatitude, ‘Blessed is +he that expecteth little,’ one of the truest, and in a +sense, the most Christlike things in literature.</p> +<p>Alongside of you, I have been all my days a red cannon ball of +dissipated effort; here I am by the heels in this Alpine valley, +with just so much of a prospect of future restoration as shall +make my present caged estate easily tolerable to me—shall +or should, I would not swear to the word before the trial’s +done. I miss all my objects <a name="page192"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 192</span>in the meantime; and, thank God, I +have enough of my old, and maybe somewhat base philosophy, to +keep me on a good understanding with myself and Providence.</p> +<p>The mere extent of a man’s travels has in it something +consolatory. That he should have left friends and enemies +in many different and distant quarters gives a sort of earthly +dignity to his existence. And I think the better of myself +for the belief that I have left some in California interested in +me and my successes. Let me assure you, you who have made +friends already among such various and distant races, that there +is a certain phthisical Scot who will always be pleased to hear +good news of you, and would be better pleased by nothing than to +learn that you had thrown off your present incubus, largely +consisting of letters I believe, and had sailed into some square +work by way of change.</p> +<p>And by way of change in itself, let me copy on the other pages +some broad Scotch I wrote for you when I was ill last spring in +Oakland. It is no muckle worth: but ye should na look a +gien horse in the moo’.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 21, 1880. +<i>Davos</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—I do not +understand these reproaches. The letters come between seven +and nine in the evening; and every one about the books was +answered that same night, and the answer left Davos by seven +o’clock next morning. Perhaps the snow delayed then; +if so, ’tis a good hint to you not to be uneasy at apparent +silences. There is no hurry about my father’s notes; +I <a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>shall +not be writing anything till I get home again, I believe. +Only I want to be able to keep reading <i>ad hoc</i> all winter, +as it seems about all I shall be fit for. About John Brown, +I have been breaking my heart to finish a Scotch poem to +him. Some of it is not really bad, but the rest will not +come, and I mean to get it right before I do anything else.</p> +<p>The bazaar is over, £160 gained, and everybody’s +health lost: altogether, I never had a more uncomfortable time; +apply to Fanny for further details of the discomfort.</p> +<p>We have our Wogg in somewhat better trim now, and vastly +better spirits. The weather has been bad—for Davos, +but indeed it is a wonderful climate. It never feels cold; +yesterday, with a little, chill, small, northerly draught, for +the first time, it was pinching. Usually, it may freeze, or +snow, or do what it pleases, you feel it not, or hardly any.</p> +<p>Thanks for your notes; that fishery question will come in, as +you notice, in the Highland Book, as well as under the Union; it +is very important. I hear no word of Hugh Miller’s +<i>Evictions</i>; I count on that. What you say about the +old and new Statistical is odd. It seems to me very much as +if I were gingerly embarking on a <i>History of Modern +Scotland</i>. Probably Tulloch will never carry it +out. And, you see, once I have studied and written these +two vols., <i>The Transformation of the Scottish</i> +<i>Highlands</i> and <i>Scotland and the Union</i>, I shall have +a good ground to go upon. The effect on my mind of what I +have read has been to awaken a livelier sympathy for the Irish; +although they never had the remarkable virtues, I fear they have +suffered many of the injustices, of the Scottish +Highlanders. Ruedi has seen me this morning; he says the +disease is at a standstill, and I am to profit by it to take more +exercise. Altogether, he seemed quite hopeful and +pleased.—I am your ever affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, Christmas 1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thanks for +yours; I waited, as said I would. I now expect no answer +from you, regarding you as a mere dumb cock-shy, or a target, at +which we fire our arrows diligently all day long, with no +anticipation it will bring them back to us. We are both +sadly mortified you are not coming, but health comes first; alas, +that man should be so crazy. What fun we could have, if we +were all well, what work we could do, what a happy place we could +make it for each other! If I were able to do what I want; +but then I am not, and may leave that vein.</p> +<p>No. I do not think I shall require to know the Gaelic; +few things are written in that language, or ever were; if you +come to that, the number of those who could write, or even read +it, through almost all my period, must, by all accounts, have +been incredibly small. Of course, until the book is done, I +must live as much as possible in the Highlands, and that suits my +book as to health. It is a most interesting and sad story, +and from the ’45 it is all to be written for the first +time. This, of course, will cause me a far greater +difficulty about authorities; but I have already learned much, +and where to look for more. One pleasant feature is the +vast number of delightful writers I shall have to deal with: +Burt, Johnson, Boswell, Mrs. Grant of Laggan, Scott. There +will be interesting sections on the Ossianic controversy and the +growth of the taste for Highland scenery. I have to touch +upon Rob Roy, Flora Macdonald, the strange story of Lady Grange, +the beautiful story of the tenants on the Forfeited Estates, and +the odd, inhuman problem of the great evictions. The +religious conditions are wild, unknown, very surprising. +And three out of my five parts remain hitherto entirely +unwritten. Smack!—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Christmas Sermon</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>December</i> 26, 1880.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I was very +tired yesterday and could not write; tobogganed so furiously all +morning; we had a delightful day, crowned by an incredible +dinner—more courses than I have fingers on my hands. +Your letter arrived duly at night, and I thank you for it as I +should. You need not suppose I am at all insensible to my +father’s extraordinary kindness about this book; he is a +brick; I vote for him freely.</p> +<p>. . . The assurance you speak of is what we all ought to have, +and might have, and should not consent to live without. +That people do not have it more than they do is, I believe, +because persons speak so much in large-drawn, theological +similitudes, and won’t say out what they mean about life, +and man, and God, in fair and square human language. I +wonder if you or my father ever thought of the obscurities that +lie upon human duty from the negative form in which the Ten +Commandments are stated, or of how Christ was so continually +substituting affirmations. ‘Thou shalt not’ is +but an example; ‘Thou shalt’ is the law of God. +It was this that seems meant in the phrase that ‘not one +jot nor tittle of the law should pass.’ But what led +me to the remark is this: A kind of black, angry look goes with +that statement of the law of negatives. ‘To love +one’s neighbour as oneself’ is certainly much harder, +but states life so much more actively, gladly, and kindly, that +you begin to see some pleasure in it; and till you can see +pleasure in these hard choices and bitter necessities, where is +there any Good News to men? It is much more important to do +right than not to do wrong; further, the one is possible, the +other has always been and will ever be impossible; and the +faithful <i>design to do right</i> is <a name="page196"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 196</span>accepted by God; that seems to me to +be the Gospel, and that was how Christ delivered us from the +Law. After people are told that, surely they might hear +more encouraging sermons. To blow the trumpet for good +would seem the Parson’s business; and since it is not in +our own strength, but by faith and perseverance (no account made +of slips), that we are to run the race, I do not see where they +get the material for their gloomy discourses. Faith is not +to believe the Bible, but to believe in God; if you believe in +God (or, for it’s the same thing, have that assurance you +speak about), where is there any more room for terror? +There are only three possible attitudes—Optimism, which has +gone to smash; Pessimism, which is on the rising hand, and very +popular with many clergymen who seem to think they are +Christians. And this Faith, which is the Gospel. Once +you hold the last, it is your business (1) to find out what is +right in any given case, and (2) to try to do it; if you fail in +the last, that is by commission, Christ tells you to hope; if you +fail in the first, that is by omission, his picture of the last +day gives you but a black lookout. The whole necessary +morality is kindness; and it should spring, of itself, from the +one fundamental doctrine, Faith. If you are sure that God, +in the long run, means kindness by you, you should be happy; and +if happy, surely you should be kind.</p> +<p>I beg your pardon for this long discourse; it is not all +right, of course, but I am sure there is something in it. +One thing I have not got clearly; that about the omission and the +commission; but there is truth somewhere about it, and I have no +time to clear it just now. Do you know, you have had about +a Cornhill page of sermon? It is, however, true.</p> +<p>Lloyd heard with dismay Fanny was not going to give me a +present; so F. and I had to go and buy things for ourselves, and +go through a representation of surprise when they were presented +next morning. It gave us <a name="page197"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 197</span>both quite a Santa Claus feeling on +Xmas Eve to see him so excited and hopeful; I enjoyed it +hugely.—Your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Spring</i> 1881.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>.—My health +is not just what it should be; I have lost weight, pulse, +respiration, etc., and gained nothing in the way of my old +bellows. But these last few days, with tonic, cod-liver +oil, better wine (there is some better now), and perpetual +beef-tea, I think I have progressed. To say truth, I have +been here a little over long. I was reckoning up, and since +I have known you, already quite a while, I have not, I believe, +remained so long in any one place as here in Davos. That +tells on my old gipsy nature; like a violin hung up, I begin to +lose what music there was in me; and with the music, I do not +know what besides, or do not know what to call it, but something +radically part of life, a rhythm, perhaps, in one’s old and +so brutally over-ridden nerves, or perhaps a kind of variety of +blood that the heart has come to look for.</p> +<p>I purposely knocked myself off first. As to F. A. S., I +believe I am no sound authority; I alternate between a stiff +disregard and a kind of horror. In neither mood can a man +judge at all. I know the thing to be terribly perilous, I +fear it to be now altogether <a name="page198"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 198</span>hopeless. Luck has failed; the +weather has not been favourable; and in her true heart, the +mother hopes no more. But—well, I feel a great deal, +that I either cannot or will not say, as you well know. It +has helped to make me more conscious of the wolverine on my own +shoulders, and that also makes me a poor judge and poor +adviser. Perhaps, if we were all marched out in a row, and +a piece of platoon firing to the drums performed, it would be +well for us; although, I suppose—and yet I wonder!—so +ill for the poor mother and for the dear wife. But you can +see this makes me morbid. <i>Sufficit</i>; +<i>explicit</i>.</p> +<p>You are right about the Carlyle book; F. and I are in a world +not ours; but pardon me, as far as sending on goes, we take +another view: the first volume, <i>à la bonne</i> +<i>heure</i>! but not—never—the second. Two +hours of hysterics can be no good matter for a sick nurse, and +the strange, hard, old being in so lamentable and yet human a +desolation—crying out like a burnt child, and yet always +wisely and beautifully—how can that end, as a piece of +reading, even to the strong—but on the brink of the most +cruel kind of weeping? I observe the old man’s style +is stronger on me than ever it was, and by rights, too, since I +have just laid down his most attaching book. God rest the +baith o’ them! But even if they do not meet again, +how we should all be strengthened to be kind, and not only in +act, in speech also, that so much more important part. See +what this apostle of silence most regrets, not speaking out his +heart.</p> +<p>I was struck as you were by the admirable, sudden, clear +sunshine upon Southey—even on his works. Symonds, to +whom I repeated it, remarked at once, a man who was thus +respected by both Carlyle and Landor must have had more in him +than we can trace. So I feel with true humility.</p> +<p>It was to save my brain that Symonds proposed reviewing. +He and, it appears, Leslie Stephen fear a little <a +name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>some +eclipse; I am not quite without sharing the fear. I know my +own languor as no one else does; it is a dead down-draught, a +heavy fardel. Yet if I could shake off the wolverine +aforesaid, and his fangs are lighter, though perhaps I feel them +more, I believe I could be myself again a while. I have not +written any letter for a great time; none saying what I feel, +since you were here, I fancy. Be duly obliged for it, and +take my most earnest thanks not only for the books but for your +letter. Your affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>The effect of reading this on Fanny shows me I must tell you I +am very happy, peaceful, and jolly, except for questions of work +and the states of other people.</p> +<p>Woggin sends his love.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Horatio F. Brown</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Davos</i>, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BROWN</span>.—Here it is, +with the mark of a San Francisco <i>bouquiniste</i>. And if +ever in all my ‘human conduct’ I have done a better +thing to any fellow-creature than handing on to you this sweet, +dignified, and wholesome book, I know I shall hear of it on the +last day. To write a book like this were impossible; at +least one can hand it on—with a wrench—one to +another. My wife cries out and my own heart misgives me, +but still here it is. I could scarcely better prove +myself—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span><span class="smcap">to Horatio F. Brown</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Davos</i>, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BROWN</span>.—I hope, if +you get thus far, you will know what an invaluable present I have +made you. Even the copy was dear to me, printed in the +colony that Penn established, and carried in my pocket all about +the San Francisco streets, read in street cars and ferry-boats, +when I was sick unto death, and found in all times and places a +peaceful and sweet companion. But I hope, when you shall +have reached this note, my gift will not have been in vain; for +while just now we are so busy and intelligent, there is not the +man living, no, nor recently dead, that could put, with so lovely +a spirit, so much honest, kind wisdom into words.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Horatio F. Brown</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Belvedere</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Spring</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BROWN</span>,—Nine years +I have conded them.</p> +<p class="poetry">Brave lads in olden musical centuries<br /> +Sang, night by night, adorable choruses,<br /> + Sat late by alehouse doors in +April<br /> + Chaunting in joy as the moon was +rising:</p> +<p class="poetry">Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises,<br /> +Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables;<br /> + Spring scents inspired, old wine +diluted;<br /> + Love and Apollo were there to +chorus.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now these, the songs, remain to eternity,<br /> +Those, only those, the bountiful choristers<br /> + Gone—those are gone, those +unremembered<br /> + Sleep and are silent in earth for +ever.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>So man himself appears and evanishes,<br /> +So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at<br /> + Some green-embowered house, play +their music,<br /> + Play and are gone on the windy +highway;</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the +memory<br /> +Long after they departed eternally,<br /> + Forth-faring tow’rd far +mountain summits,<br /> + Cities of men on the sounding +Ocean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth sang the song in years immemorial;<br /> +Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful;<br /> + Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in +springtime<br /> + Heard and were pleased by the +voice of singing;</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth goes, and leaves behind him a +prodigy—<br /> +Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian<br /> + Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven +highways,<br /> + Dear to me here in my Alpine +exile.</p> +<p>Please, my dear Brown, forgive my horrid delay. Symonds +overworked and knocked up. I off my sleep; my wife gone to +Paris. Weather lovely.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Monte Generoso in May; here, I think, till the end of April; +write again, to prove you are forgiving.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel du Pavillon Henry +IV.</i>,<br /> +<i>St. Germain-en-Laye</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>May</i> 1<i>st</i>, +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—A week in +Paris reduced me to the limpness and lack of appetite peculiar to +a kid glove, and gave Fanny a jumping sore throat. +It’s my belief there is death in the kettle there; a +pestilence or the like. We came out here, pitched on the +<i>Star</i> and <i>Garter</i> (they call <a +name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>it +Somebody’s pavilion), found the place a bed of lilacs and +nightingales (first time I ever heard one), and also of a bird +called the <i>piasseur</i>, cheerfulest of sylvan creatures, an +ideal comic opera in itself. ‘Come along, what fun, +here’s Pan in the next glade at picnic, and +this-yer’s Arcadia, and it’s awful fun, and +I’ve had a glass, I will not deny, but not to see it on +me,’ that is his meaning as near as I can gather. +Well, the place (forest of beeches all new-fledged, grass like +velvet, fleets of hyacinth) pleased us and did us good. We +tried all ways to find a cheaper place, but could find nothing +safe; cold, damp, brick-floored rooms and sich; we could not +leave Paris till your seven days’ sight on draft expired; +we dared not go back to be miasmatised in these homes of +putridity; so here we are till Tuesday in the <i>Star and +Garter</i>. My throat is quite cured, appetite and strength +on the mend. Fanny seems also picking up.</p> +<p>If we are to come to Scotland, I <i>will</i> have fir-trees, +and I want a burn, the firs for my physical, the water for my +moral health.—Ever affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Perthshire</i>, +<i>June</i> 6, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—Here I am in +my native land, being gently blown and hailed upon, and sitting +nearer and nearer to the fire. A cottage near a moor is +soon to receive our human forms; it is also near a burn to which +Professor Blackie (no less!) has written some verses in his hot +old age, and near a farm from whence we shall draw cream and +fatness. Should I be moved to join Blackie, <a +name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>I shall go +upon my knees and pray hard against temptation; although, since +the new Version, I do not know the proper form of words. +The swollen, childish, and pedantic vanity that moved the said +revisers to put ‘bring’ for ‘lead,’ is a +sort of literary fault that calls for an eternal hell; it may be +quite a small place, a star of the least magnitude, and shabbily +furnished; there shall —, —, the revisers of the +Bible and other absolutely loathsome literary lepers, dwell among +broken pens, bad, <i>groundy</i> ink and ruled blotting-paper +made in France—all eagerly burning to write, and all +inflicted with incurable aphasia. I should not have thought +upon that torture had I not suffered it in moderation myself, but +it is too horrid even for a hell; let’s let ’em off +with an eternal toothache.</p> +<p>All this talk is partly to persuade you that I write to you +out of good feeling only, which is not the case. I am a +beggar: ask Dobson, Saintsbury, yourself, and any other of these +cheeses who know something of the eighteenth century, what became +of Jean Cavalier between his coming to England and his death in +1740. Is anything interesting known about him? Whom +did he marry? The happy French, smilingly following one +another in a long procession headed by the loud and empty +Napoleon Peyrat, say, Olympe Dunoyer, Voltaire’s old +flame. Vacquerie even thinks that they were rivals, and is +very French and very literary and very silly in his +comments. Now I may almost say it consists with my +knowledge that all this has not a shadow to rest upon. It +is very odd and very annoying; I have splendid materials for +Cavalier till he comes to my own country; and there, though he +continues to advance in the service, he becomes entirely +invisible to me. Any information about him will be greatly +welcome: I may mention that I know as much as I desire about the +other prophets, Marion, Fage, Cavalier (de Sonne), my +Cavalier’s cousin, the unhappy Lions, and the idiotic Mr. +Lacy; so if any erudite starts upon that track, you may choke him +off. If you can find <a name="page204"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 204</span>aught for me, or if you will but +try, count on my undying gratitude. Lang’s +‘Library’ is very pleasant reading.</p> +<p>My book will reach you soon, for I write about it +to-day—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Perthshire</i>, <i>June</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—<i>The +Black Man and Other Tales</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Black Man:</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">I</span>. Thrawn +Janet.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">II</span>. The Devil +on Cramond Sands.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Shadow on the Bed.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Body Snatchers.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Case Bottle.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The King’s Horn.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Actor’s Wife.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Wreck of the <i>Susanna</i>.</p> +<p>This is the new work on which I am engaged with Fanny; they +are all supernatural. ‘Thrawn Janet’ is off to +Stephen, but as it is all in Scotch he cannot take it, I +know. It was <i>so good</i>, I could not help sending +it. My health improves. We have a lovely spot here: a +little green glen with a burn, a wonderful burn, gold and green +and snow-white, singing loud and low in different steps of its +career, now pouring over miniature crags, now fretting itself to +death in a maze of rocky stairs and pots; never was so sweet a +little river. Behind, great purple moorlands reaching to +Ben Vrackie. Hunger lives here, alone with larks and +sheep. Sweet spot, sweet spot.</p> +<p>Write me a word about Bob’s professoriate and Landor, +and what you think of <i>The Black Man</i>. The <a +name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>tales are +all ghastly. ‘Thrawn Janet’ frightened me to +death. There will maybe be another—‘The Dead +Man’s A Letter.’ I believe I shall recover; and +I am, in this blessed hope, yours exuberantly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Professor Æneas +Mackay</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, <i>June</i> 21, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MACKAY</span>,—What is +this I hear?—that you are retiring from your chair. +It is not, I hope, from ill-health?</p> +<p>But if you are retiring, may I ask if you have promised your +support to any successor? I have a great mind to try. +The summer session would suit me; the chair would suit +me—if only I would suit it; I certainly should work it +hard: that I can promise. I only wish it were a few years +from now, when I hope to have something more substantial to show +for myself. Up to the present time, all that I have +published, even bordering on history, has been in an occasional +form, and I fear this is much against me.</p> +<p>Please let me hear a word in answer, and believe me, yours +very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Professor Æneas +Mackay</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>Perthshire</i> [<i>June</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MACKAY</span>,—Thank you +very much for your kind letter, and still more for your good +opinion. You are not the only one who has regretted my +absence from your lectures; but you were to me, then, only a part +of a mangle through which I was being slowly and unwillingly +dragged—part of a course which I had not chosen—part, +in a word, of an organised boredom.</p> +<p>I am glad to have your reasons for giving up the chair; <a +name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>they are +partly pleasant, and partly honourable to you. And I think +one may say that every man who publicly declines a plurality of +offices, makes it perceptibly more difficult for the next man to +accept them.</p> +<p>Every one tells me that I come too late upon the field, every +one being pledged, which, seeing it is yet too early for any one +to come upon the field, I must regard as a polite evasion. +Yet all advise me to stand, as it might serve me against the next +vacancy. So stand I shall, unless things are changed. +As it is, with my health this summer class is a great attraction; +it is perhaps the only hope I may have of a permanent +income. I had supposed the needs of the chair might be met +by choosing every year some period of history in which questions +of Constitutional Law were involved; but this is to look too far +forward.</p> +<p>I understand (1<i>st</i>) that no overt steps can be taken +till your resignation is accepted; and (2<i>nd</i>) that in the +meantime I may, without offence, mention my design to stand.</p> +<p>If I am mistaken about these, please correct me, as I do not +wish to appear where I should not.</p> +<p>Again thanking you very heartily for your coals of fire I +remain yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>June</i> 24, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I wonder if +I misdirected my last to you. I begin to fear it. I +hope, however, this will go right. I am in act to do a mad +thing—to stand for the Edinburgh Chair of History; it is +elected for by the advocates, <i>quorum pars</i>; I am told that +I am too late this year; but advised on all hands to go on, as it +is likely soon to be once more vacant; and I shall have done +myself good for the next time. Now, if I got the <a +name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>thing +(which I cannot, it appears), I believe, in spite of all my +imperfections, I could be decently effectual. If you can +think so also, do put it in a testimonial.</p> +<p>Heavens! <i>Je me sauve</i>, I have something else to +say to you, but after that (which is not a joke) I shall keep it +for another shoot.—Yours testimonially,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>I surely need not add, dear lad, that if you don’t feel +like it, you will only have to pacify me by a long letter on +general subjects, when I shall hasten to respond in recompense +for my assault upon the postal highway.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i> [<i>July</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—Many thanks +for the testimonial; many thanks for your blind, wondering +letter; many wishes, lastly, for your swift recovery. +Insomnia is the opposite pole from my complaint; which brings +with it a nervous lethargy, an unkind, unwholesome, and ungentle +somnolence, fruitful in heavy heads and heavy eyes at +morning. You cannot sleep; well, I can best explain my +state thus: I cannot wake. Sleep, like the lees of a +posset, lingers all day, lead-heavy, in my knees and +ankles. Weight on the shoulders, torpor on the brain. +And there is more than too much of that from an ungrateful hound +who is now enjoying his first decently competent and peaceful +weeks for close upon two years; happy in a big brown moor behind +him, and an incomparable burn by his side; happy, above all, in +some work—for at last I am at work with that appetite and +confidence that alone makes work supportable.</p> +<p>I told you I had something else to say. I am very +tedious—it is another request. In August and a good +part of September we shall be in Braemar, in a house with some +accommodation. Now Braemar is a place <a +name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>patronised +by the royalty of the Sister Kingdoms—Victoria and the +Cairngorms, sir, honouring that countryside by their conjunct +presence. This seems to me the spot for A Bard. Now +can you come to see us for a little while? I can promise +you, you must like my father, because you are a human being; you +ought to like Braemar, because of your avocation; and you ought +to like me, because I like you; and again, you must like my wife, +because she likes cats; and as for my mother—well, come and +see, what do you think? that is best. Mrs. Gosse, my wife +tells me, will have other fish to fry; and to be plain, I should +not like to ask her till I had seen the house. But a lone +man I know we shall be equal to. <i>Qu’en dis +tu</i>? <i>Viens</i>.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i> [<i>July</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. +HAMMERTON</span>,—(There goes the second M.; it is a +certainty.) Thank you for your prompt and kind answer, +little as I deserved it, though I hope to show you I was less +undeserving than I seemed. But just might I delete two +words in your testimonial? The two words ‘and +legal’ were unfortunately winged by chance against my +weakest spot, and would go far to damn me.</p> +<p>It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I was +married; it was a sort of marriage <i>in extremis</i>; and if I +am where I am, it is thanks to the care of that lady who married +me when I was a mere complication of cough and bones, much fitter +for an emblem of mortality than a bridegroom.</p> +<p>I had a fair experience of that kind of illness when all the +women (God bless them!) turn round upon the streets and look +after you with a look that is only too kind not to be +cruel. I have had nearly two years of more or less +prostration. I have done no work whatever since the <a +name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>February +before last until quite of late. To be precise, until the +beginning of last month, exactly two essays. All last +winter I was at Davos; and indeed I am home here just now against +the doctor’s orders, and must soon be back again to that +unkindly haunt ‘upon the mountains +visitant’—there goes no angel there but the angel of +death. <a name="citation209"></a><a href="#footnote209" +class="citation">[209]</a> The deaths of last winter are +still sore spots to me. . . . So, you see, I am not very likely +to go on a ‘wild expedition,’ cis-Stygian at +least. The truth is, I am scarce justified in standing for +the chair, though I hope you will not mention this; and yet my +health is one of my reasons, for the class is in summer.</p> +<p>I hope this statement of my case will make my long neglect +appear less unkind. It was certainly not because I ever +forgot you, or your unwonted kindness; and it was not because I +was in any sense rioting in pleasures.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; you have +my warmest wishes for a good cruise down the Saône; and yet +there comes some envy to that wish, for when shall I go +cruising? Here a sheer hulk, alas! lies R. L. S. But +I will continue to hope for a better time, canoes that will sail +better to the wind, and a river grander than the Saône.</p> +<p>I heard, by the way, in a letter of counsel from a +well-wisher, one reason of my town’s absurdity about the +chair of Art: I fear it is characteristic of her manners. +It was because you did not call upon the electors!</p> +<p>Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son?—And +believe me, etc., etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, [<i>July</i> 1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I do +believe I am better, mind and body; I am tired just now, for I +have just been up <a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>the burn with Wogg, daily growing better and +boo’f’ler; so do not judge my state by my style in +this. I am working steady, four Cornhill pages scrolled +every day, besides the correspondence about this chair, which is +heavy in itself. My first story, ‘Thrawn +Janet,’ all in Scotch, is accepted by Stephen; my second, +‘The Body Snatchers,’ is laid aside in a justifiable +disgust, the tale being horrid; my third, ‘The Merry +Men,’ I am more than half through, and think real well +of. It is a fantastic sonata about the sea and wrecks; and +I like it much above all my other attempts at story-telling; I +think it is strange; if ever I shall make a hit, I have the line +now, as I believe.</p> +<p>Fanny has finished one of hers, ‘The Shadow on the +Bed,’ and is now hammering at a second, for which we have +‘no name’ as yet—not by Wilkie Collins.</p> +<p><i>Tales for Winter Nights</i>. Yes, that, I think, we +will call the lot of them when republished.</p> +<p>Why have you not sent me a testimonial? Everybody else +but you has responded, and Symonds, but I’m afraid +he’s ill. Do think, too, if anybody else would write +me a testimonial. I am told quantity goes far. I have +good ones from Rev. Professor Campbell, Professor Meiklejohn, +Leslie Stephen, Lang, Gosse, and a very shaky one from +Hamerton.</p> +<p>Grant is an elector, so can’t, but has written me +kindly. From Tulloch I have not yet heard. Do help me +with suggestions. This old chair, with its £250 and +its light work, would make me.</p> +<p>It looks as if we should take Cater’s chalet <a +name="citation210"></a><a href="#footnote210" +class="citation">[210]</a> after all; but O! to go back to that +place, it seems cruel. I have not yet received the Landor; +but it may be at home, detained by my mother, who returns +to-morrow.</p> +<p>Believe me, dear Colvin, ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Yours came; the class is in summer; many thanks for the +testimonial, it is bully; arrived along with it another <a +name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>from +Symonds, also bully; he is ill, but not lungs, thank +God—fever got in Italy. We <i>have</i> taken +Cater’s chalet; so we are now the aristo.’s of the +valley. There is no hope for me, but if there were, you +would hear sweetness and light streaming from my lips.</p> +<p>‘The Merry Men’</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">Chap. <span +class="GutSmall">I</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Eilean Aros.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Tip</p> +<p>Top</p> +<p>Tale.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>What the Wreck had brought to Aros.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Past and Present in Sandag Bay.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Gale.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Man out of the Sea.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kinnaird Cottage</i>, +<i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>July</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope, +then, to have a visit from you. If before August, here; if +later, at Braemar. Tupe!</p> +<p>And now, <i>mon bon</i>, I must babble about ‘The Merry +Men,’ my favourite work. It is a fantastic sonata +about the sea and wrecks. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">I</span>. ‘Eilean Aros’—the +island, the roost, the ‘merry men,’ the three people +there living—sea superstitions. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>. ‘What the Wreck had brought to +Aros.’ Eh, boy? what had it? Silver and clocks +and brocades, and what a conscience, what a mad brain! +Chapter <span class="GutSmall">III</span>. ‘Past and +Present in Sandag Bay’—the new wreck and the +old—so old—the Armada treasure-ship, Santma +Trinid—the grave in the heather—strangers +there. Chapter <span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. ‘The +Gale’—the doomed ship—the storm—the +drunken madman on the head—cries in the night. +Chapter <span class="GutSmall">V</span>. ‘A Man out of the +Sea.’ But I must not breathe to you my plot. It +is, I fancy, my first real shoot at a story; an odd thing, sir, +but, I believe, my own, though there is a little of Scott’s +<i>Pirate</i> in it, as how should there not? He had the +root of romance in such places. Aros is Earraid, where I +lived <a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>lang syne; the Ross of Grisapol is the Ross of Mull; +Ben Ryan, Ben More. I have written to the middle of Chapter +<span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. Like enough, when it is +finished I shall discard all chapterings; for the thing is +written straight through. It must, unhappily, be +re-written—too well written not to be.</p> +<p>The chair is only three months in summer; that is why I try +for it. If I get it, which I shall not, I should be +independent at once. Sweet thought. I liked your +Byron well; your Berlioz better. No one would remark these +cuts; even I, who was looking for it, knew it not at all to be a +<i>torso</i>. The paper strengthens me in my recommendation +to you to follow Colvin’s hint. Give us an 1830; you +will do it well, and the subject smiles widely on the +world:—</p> +<p>1830: <i>A Chapter of Artistic History</i>, by William Ernest +Henley (or <i>of Social and Artistic History</i>, as the thing +might grow to you). Sir, you might be in the Athenæum +yet with that; and, believe me, you might and would be far +better, the author of a readable book.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>The following names have been invented for Wogg by his dear +papa:—</p> +<p>Grunty-pig (when he is scratched),</p> +<p>Rose-mouth (when he comes flying up with his rose-leaf tongue +depending), and</p> +<p>Hoofen-boots (when he has had his foots wet).</p> +<p>How would <i>Tales for Winter Nights</i> do?</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>if you +please</i>, [<i>August</i>] 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—To answer a +point or two. First, the Spanish ship was sloop-rigged and +clumsy, because she <a name="page213"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 213</span>was fitted out by some private +adventurers, not over wealthy, and glad to take what they could +get. Is that not right? Tell me if you think +not. That, at least, was how I meant it. As for the +boat-cloaks, I am afraid they are, as you say, false imagination; +but I love the name, nature, and being of them so dearly, that I +feel as if I would almost rather ruin a story than omit the +reference. The proudest moments of my life have been passed +in the stern-sheets of a boat with that romantic garment over my +shoulders. This, without prejudice to one glorious day when +standing upon some water stairs at Lerwick I signalled with my +pocket-handkerchief for a boat to come ashore for me. I was +then aged fifteen or sixteen; conceive my glory.</p> +<p>Several of the phrases you object to are proper nautical, or +long-shore phrases, and therefore, I think, not out of place in +this long-shore story. As for the two members which you +thought at first so ill-united; I confess they seem perfectly so +to me. I have chosen to sacrifice a long-projected story of +adventure because the sentiment of that is identical with the +sentiment of ‘My uncle.’ My uncle himself is +not the story as I see it, only the leading episode of that +story. It’s really a story of wrecks, as they appear +to the dweller on the coast. It’s a view of the +sea. Goodness knows when I shall be able to re-write; I +must first get over this copper-headed cold.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Pitlochry</i>, <i>August</i> +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This is +the first letter I have written this good while. I have had +a brutal cold, not <a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>perhaps very wisely treated; lots of blood—for +me, I mean. I was so well, however, before, that I seem to +be sailing through with it splendidly. My appetite never +failed; indeed, as I got worse, it sharpened—a sort of +reparatory instinct. Now I feel in a fair way to get round +soon.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Monday</i>, <i>August</i> (2<i>nd</i>, is it?).—We +set out for the Spital of Glenshee, and reach Braemar on +Tuesday. The Braemar address we cannot learn; it looks as +if ‘Braemar’ were all that was necessary; if +particular, you can address 17 Heriot Row. We shall be +delighted to see you whenever, and as soon as ever, you can make +it possible.</p> +<p>. . . I hope heartily you will survive me, and do not doubt +it. There are seven or eight people it is no part of my +scheme in life to survive—yet if I could but heal me of my +bellowses, I could have a jolly life—have it, even now, +when I can work and stroll a little, as I have been doing till +this cold. I have so many things to make life sweet to me, +it seems a pity I cannot have that other one +thing—health. But though you will be angry to hear +it, I believe, for myself at least, what is is best. I +believed it all through my worst days, and I am not ashamed to +profess it now.</p> +<p>Landor has just turned up; but I had read him already. I +like him extremely; I wonder if the ‘cuts’ were +perhaps not advantageous. It seems quite full enough; but +then you know I am a compressionist.</p> +<p>If I am to criticise, it is a little staid; but the classical +is apt to look so. It is in curious contrast to that +inexpressive, unplanned wilderness of Forster’s; clear, +readable, precise, and sufficiently human. I see nothing +lost in it, though I could have wished, in my Scotch capacity, a +trifle clearer and fuller exposition of his moral attitude, which +is not quite clear ‘from here.’</p> +<p>He and his tyrannicide! I am in a mad fury about these +explosions. If that is the new world! Damn <a +name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>O’Donovan Rossa; damn him behind and before, +above, below, and roundabout; damn, deracinate, and destroy him, +root and branch, self and company, world without end. +Amen. I write that for sport if you like, but I will pray +in earnest, O Lord, if you cannot convert, kindly delete him!</p> +<p>Stories naturally at—halt. Henley has seen one and +approves. I believe it to be good myself, even real +good. He has also seen and approved one of +Fanny’s. It will snake a good volume. We have +now</p> +<p class="gutindent">Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof +to-day.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny’s +copying).</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Merry Men (scrolled).</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Body Snatchers (scrolled).</p> +<p><i>In germis</i></p> +<p class="gutindent">The Travelling Companion.</p> +<p class="gutindent">The Torn Surplice (<i>not final +title</i>).</p> +<p>Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i>, <i>Castleton of +Braemar</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, <i>August</i> 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—I should long +ago have written to thank you for your kind and frank letter; but +in my state of health papers are apt to get mislaid, and your +letter has been vainly hunted for until this (Sunday) +morning.</p> +<p>I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh; one +visit to Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in that +invaluable particular health; but if it should be at all possible +for you to push on as far as Braemar, I believe you would find an +attentive listener, and I can offer you a bed, a drive, and +necessary food, etc.</p> +<p>If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, I <a +name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>can promise +you two things: First, I shall religiously revise what I have +written, and bring out more clearly the point of view from which +I regarded Thoreau; second, I shall in the Preface record your +objection.</p> +<p>The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any +such short paper is essentially only a <i>section through</i> a +man) was this: I desired to look at the man through his +books. Thus, for instance, when I mentioned his return to +the pencil-making, I did it only in passing (perhaps I was +wrong), because it seemed to me not an illustration of his +principles, but a brave departure from them. Thousands of +such there were I do not doubt; still, they might be hardly to my +purpose, though, as you say so, some of them would be.</p> +<p>Our difference as to pity I suspect was a logomachy of my +making. No pitiful acts on his part would surprise me; I +know he would be more pitiful in practice than most of the +whiners; but the spirit of that practice would still seem to be +unjustly described by the word pity.</p> +<p>When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected of +a sneaking unkindness for my subject; but you may be sure, sir, I +would give up most other things to be so good a man as +Thoreau. Even my knowledge of him leads me thus far.</p> +<p>Should you find yourself able to push on to Braemar—it +may even be on your way—believe me, your visit will be most +welcome. The weather is cruel, but the place is, as I dare +say you know, the very ‘wale’ of Scotland—bar +Tummelside.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i>, <i>Castleton of +Braemar</i>, <i>August</i> 1881.</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Well</span>, I have been pretty +mean, but I have not yet got over my cold so completely as to +have recovered much energy. It is really extraordinary that +I should have <a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>recovered as well as I have in this blighting weather; +the wind pipes, the rain comes in squalls, great black clouds are +continually overhead, and it is as cold as March. The +country is delightful, more cannot be said; it is very beautiful, +a perfect joy when we get a blink of sun to see it in. The +Queen knows a thing or two, I perceive; she has picked out the +finest habitable spot in Britain.</p> +<p>I have done no work, and scarce written a letter for three +weeks, but I think I should soon begin again; my cough is now +very trifling. I eat well, and seem to have lost but I +little flesh in the meanwhile. I was <i>wonderfully</i> +well before I caught this horrid cold. I never thought I +should have been as well again; I really enjoyed life and work; +and, of course, I now have a good hope that this may return.</p> +<p>I suppose you heard of our ghost stories. They are +somewhat delayed by my cold and a bad attack of laziness, +embroidery, etc., under which Fanny had been some time +prostrate. It is horrid that we can get no better +weather. I did not get such good accounts of you as might +have been. You must imitate me. I am now one of the +most conscientious people at trying to get better you ever +saw. I have a white hat, it is much admired; also a plaid, +and a heavy stoop; so I take my walks abroad, witching the +world.</p> +<p>Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under +the blow.—Ever your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i> (<i>late the late +Miss M’Gregor’s</i>),<br /> +<i>Castleton of Braemar</i>, <i>August</i> 10, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Come on the +24th, there is a dear fellow. Everybody else wants to come +later, and it will be a godsend for, sir—Yours +sincerely.</p> +<p><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>You +can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, +sir—Your obedient, humble servant.</p> +<p>We have family worship in the home of, sir—Yours +respectfully.</p> +<p>Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also +see) the maps of, sir—Yours in the Lord.</p> +<p>A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of +two before the house of, sir—Yours truly.</p> +<p>The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the +late Miss Macgregor and of, sir—Yours affectionately.</p> +<p>It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know +the halls of, sir—Yours emphatically.</p> +<p>All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, +sir—Yours ever.</p> +<p>You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual +collapse of, sir—Yours indeed.</p> +<p>And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, +sir—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>N.B.</i>—Each of these clauses has to be read with +extreme glibness, coming down whack upon the +‘Sir.’ This is very important. The fine +stylistic inspiration will else be lost.</p> +<p>I commit the man who made, the man who sold, and the woman who +supplied me with my present excruciating gilt nib to that place +where the worm never dies.</p> +<p>The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending as it does +to foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from +the address, which would therefore run—The Cottage, +Castleton of Braemar.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Cottage</i>, <i>Castleton of +Braemar</i>, <i>August</i> 19, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">If</span> you had an uncle who was a sea +captain and went to the North Pole, you had better bring his +outfit. <i>Verbum Sapientibus</i>. I look towards +you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Braemar</i>], <i>August</i> 19, +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—I have by an +extraordinary drollery of Fortune sent off to you by this +day’s post a P. C. inviting you to appear in +sealskin. But this had reference to the weather, and not at +all, as you may have been led to fancy, to our rustic raiment of +an evening.</p> +<p>As to that question, I would deal, in so far as in me lies, +fairly with all men. We are not dressy people by nature; +but it sometimes occurs to us to entertain angels. In the +country, I believe, even angels may be decently welcomed in +tweed; I have faced many great personages, for my own part, in a +tasteful suit of sea-cloth with an end of carpet pending from my +gullet. Still, we do maybe twice a summer burst out in the +direction of blacks . . . and yet we do it seldom. . . . In +short, let your own heart decide, and the capacity of your +portmanteau. If you came in camel’s hair, you would +still, although conspicuous, be welcome.</p> +<p>The sooner the better after Tuesday.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Braemar</i> [<i>August</i> 25, +1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Of course +I am a rogue. Why, Lord, it’s known, man; but you +should remember I have had a horrid cold. Now, I’m +better, I think; and see here—nobody, not you, nor Lang, +nor the devil, will hurry me with our crawlers. They are +coming. Four of them are as good as done, and the rest will +come when ripe; but I am now on another lay for the moment, +purely owing to Lloyd, this one; but I believe there’s more +coin in it <a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>than in any amount of crawlers: now, see here, +‘The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Story for +Boys.’</p> +<p>If this don’t fetch the kids, why, they have gone rotten +since my day. Will you be surprised to learn that it is +about Buccaneers, that it begins in the <i>Admiral Benbow</i> +public-house on Devon coast, that it’s all about a map, and +a treasure, and a mutiny, and a derelict ship, and a current, and +a fine old Squire Trelawney (the real Tre, purged of literature +and sin, to suit the infant mind), and a doctor, and another +doctor, and a sea-cook with one leg, and a sea-song with the +chorus ‘Yo-ho-ho-and a bottle of rum’ (at the third +Ho you heave at the capstan bars), which is a real +buccaneer’s song, only known to the crew of the late +Captain Flint (died of rum at Key West, much regretted, friends +will please accept this intimation); and lastly, would you be +surprised to hear, in this connection, the name of +<i>Routledge</i>? That’s the kind of man I am, blast +your eyes. Two chapters are written, and have been tried on +Lloyd with great success; the trouble is to work it off without +oaths. Buccaneers without oaths—bricks without +straw. But youth and the fond parient have to be +consulted.</p> +<p>And now look here—this is next day—and three +chapters are written and read. (Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">I</span>. The Old Sea-dog at the <i>Admiral +Benbow</i>. Chapter <span class="GutSmall">II</span>. Black +Dog appears and disappears. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">III</span>. The Black Spot) All now heard +by Lloyd, F., and my father and mother, with high approval. +It’s quite silly and horrid fun, and what I want is the +<i>best</i> book about the Buccaneers that can be had—the +latter B’s above all, Blackbeard and sich, and get Nutt or +Bain to send it skimming by the fastest post. And now I +know you’ll write to me, for ‘The Sea +Cook’s’ sake.</p> +<p>Your ‘Admiral Guinea’ is curiously near my line, +but of course I’m fooling; and your Admiral sounds like a +shublime gent. Stick to him like wax—he’ll +do. My Trelawney is, as I indicate, several thousand +sea-miles off <a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>the lie of the original or your Admiral Guinea; and +besides, I have no more about him yet but one mention of his +name, and I think it likely he may turn yet farther from the +model in the course of handling. A chapter a day I mean to +do; they are short; and perhaps in a month the ‘Sea +Cook’ may to Routledge go, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of +rum! My Trelawney has a strong dash of Landor, as I see him +from here. No women in the story, Lloyd’s orders; and +who so blithe to obey? It’s awful fun boys’ +stories; you just indulge the pleasure of your heart, +that’s all; no trouble, no strain. The only stiff +thing is to get it ended—that I don’t see, but I look +to a volcano. O sweet, O generous, O human toils. You +would like my blind beggar in Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">III</span>. I believe; no writing, just drive +along as the words come and the pen will scratch!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.<br /> +Author of <i>Boys’ Stories</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Braemar</i>, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—My +father has gone, but I think may take it upon me to ask you to +keep the book. Of all things you could do to endear +yourself to me, you have done the best, for my father and you +have taken a fancy to each other.</p> +<p>I do not know how to thank you for all your kind trouble in +the matter of ‘The Sea-Cook,’ but I am not +unmindful. My health is still poorly, and I have added +intercostal rheumatism—a new attraction—which sewed +me up nearly double for two days, and still gives me a list to +starboard—let us be ever nautical!</p> +<p><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>I do +not think with the start I have there will be any difficulty in +letting Mr. Henderson go ahead whenever he likes. I will +write my story up to its legitimate conclusion; and then we shall +be in a position to judge whether a sequel would be desirable, +and I would then myself know better about its practicability from +the story-teller’s point of view.—Yours ever very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Braemar</i>, <i>September</i> +1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Thanks for +your last. The £100 fell through, or dwindled at +least into somewhere about £30. However, that +I’ve taken as a mouthful, so you may look out for +‘The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Tale of the +Buccaneers,’ in <i>Young Folks</i>. (The terms are +£2, 10s. a page of 4500 words; that’s not noble, is +it? But I have my copyright safe. I don’t get +illustrated—a blessing; that’s the price I have to +pay for my copyright.)</p> +<p>I’ll make this boys’ book business pay; but I have +to make a beginning. When I’m done with <i>Young +Folks</i>, I’ll try Routledge or some one. I feel +pretty sure the ‘Sea Cook’ will do to reprint, and +bring something decent at that.</p> +<p>Japp is a good soul. The poet was very gay and +pleasant. He told me much: he is simply the most active +young man in England, and one of the most intelligent. <a +name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>‘He +shall o’er Europe, shall o’er earth extend.’ <a +name="citation223"></a><a href="#footnote223" +class="citation">[223]</a> He is now extending over +adjacent parts of Scotland.</p> +<p>I propose to follow up the ‘Sea Cook’ at proper +intervals by ‘Jerry Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath’ +(which or its site I must visit), ‘The Leading Light: A +Tale of the Coast,’ ‘The Squaw Men: or the Wild +West,’ and other instructive and entertaining work. +‘Jerry Abershaw’ should be good, eh? I love +writing boys’ books. This first is only an +experiment; wait till you see what I can make ’em with my +hand in. I’ll be the Harrison Ainsworth of the +future; and a chalk better by St. Christopher; or at least as +good. You’ll see that even by the ‘Sea +Cook.’</p> +<p>Jerry Abershaw—O what a title! Jerry Abershaw: d-n +it, sir, it’s a poem. The two most lovely words in +English; and what a sentiment! Hark you, how the hoofs +ring! Is this a blacksmith’s? No, it’s a +wayside inn. Jerry Abershaw. ‘It was a clear, +frosty evening, not 100 miles from Putney,’ etc. +Jerry Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. +The ‘Sea Cook’ is now in its sixteenth chapter, and +bids for well up in the thirties. Each three chapters is +worth £2, 10s. So we’ve £12, 10s. +already.</p> +<p>Don’t read Marryat’s’ <i>Pirate</i> anyhow; +it is written in sand with a salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, +tottering production. But then we’re not always all +there. <i>He</i> was <i>all</i> somewhere else that +trip. It’s <i>damnable</i>, Henley. I +don’t go much on the ‘Sea Cook’; but, Lord, +it’s a little fruitier than the <i>Pirate</i> by +Cap’n. Marryat.</p> +<p>Since this was written ‘The Cook’ is in his +nineteenth chapter. Yo-heave ho!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page224"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 224</span>[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Autumn</i> 1881.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—It +occurred to me last night in bed that I could write</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">The Murder of Red +Colin,</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">A Story of the +Forfeited Estates.</p> +<p>This I have all that is necessary for, with the following +exceptions:—</p> +<p><i>Trials of the Sons of Roy Rob with Anecdotes</i>: +Edinburgh, 1818, and</p> +<p>The second volume of <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i>.</p> +<p>You might also look in Arnot’s <i>Criminal Trials</i> up +in my room, and see what observations he has on the case (Trial +of James Stewart in Appin for murder of Campbell of Glenure, +1752); if he has none, perhaps you could see—O yes, see if +Burton has it in his two vols. of trial stories. I hope he +hasn’t; but care not; do it over again anyway.</p> +<p>The two named authorities I must see. With these, I +could soon pull off this article; and it shall be my first for +the electors.—Ever affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Châlet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>Autumn</i> [1881].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON</span>,—My +conscience has long been smiting me, till it became nearly +chronic. My <a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>excuses, however, are many and not pleasant. +Almost immediately after I last wrote to you, I had a hemorreage +(I can’t spell it), was badly treated by a doctor in the +country, and have been a long while picking up—still, in +fact, have much to desire on that side. Next, as soon as I +got here, my wife took ill; she is, I fear, seriously so; and +this combination of two invalids very much depresses both.</p> +<p>I have a volume of republished essays coming out with Chatto +and Windus; I wish they would come, that my wife might have the +reviews to divert her. Otherwise my news is +<i>nil</i>. I am up here in a little chalet, on the borders +of a pinewood, overlooking a great part of the Davos Thal, a +beautiful scene at night, with the moon upon the snowy mountains, +and the lights warmly shining in the village. J. A. Symonds +is next door to me, just at the foot of my Hill Difficulty (this +you will please regard as the House Beautiful), and his society +is my great stand-by.</p> +<p>Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? +‘Hardly one of us,’ said my <i>confrères</i> +at the bar.</p> +<p>I was blamed by a common friend for asking you to give me a +testimonial; in the circumstances he thought it was +indelicate. Lest, by some calamity, you should ever have +felt the same way, I must say in two words how the matter +appeared to me. That silly story of the election altered in +no tittle the value of your testimony: so much for that. On +the other hand, it led me to take quite a particular pleasure in +asking you to give it; and so much for the other. I trust, +even if you cannot share it, you will understand my view.</p> +<p>I am in treaty with Bentley for a life of Hazlitt; I hope it +will not fall through, as I love the subject, and appear to have +found a publisher who loves it also. That, I think, makes +things more pleasant. You know I am a fervent Hazlittite; I +mean regarding him as <i>the</i> English writer who has had the +scantiest justice. Besides which, <a +name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>I am +anxious to write biography; really, if I understand myself in +quest of profit, I think it must be good to live with another man +from birth to death. You have tried it, and know.</p> +<p>How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. +Hamerton and your son, and believe me, yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>], +<i>Davos</i>, <i>December</i> 5, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—We have +been in miserable case here; my wife worse and worse; and now +sent away with Lloyd for sick nurse, I not being allowed to go +down. I do not know what is to become of us; and you may +imagine how rotten I have been feeling, and feel now, alone with +my weasel-dog and my German maid, on the top of a hill here, +heavy mist and thin snow all about me, and the devil to pay in +general. I don’t care so much for solitude as I used +to; results, I suppose, of marriage.</p> +<p>Pray write me something cheery. A little Edinburgh +gossip, in Heaven’s name. Ah! what would I not give +to steal this evening with you through the big, echoing, college +archway, and away south under the street lamps, and away to dear +Brash’s, now defunct! But the old time is dead also, +never, never to revive. It was a sad time too, but so gay +and so hopeful, and we had such sport with all our low spirits +and all our distresses, that it looks like a kind of lamplit +fairyland behind me. O for ten Edinburgh +minutes—sixpence between us, and the ever-glorious Lothian +Road, or dear mysterious Leith Walk! But here, a sheer +hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling; here in this strange place, whose +very strangeness would have been heaven to him then; and aspires, +yes, C. B., with tears, after the past. See what comes of +being left alone. Do you remember Brash? the sheet of glass +<a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>that we +followed along George Street? Granton? the blight at Bonny +mainhead? the compass near the sign of the <i>Twinkling Eye</i>? +the night I lay on the pavement in misery?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +swear it by the eternal sky<br /> +Johnson—nor Thomson—ne’er shall die!</p> +<p>Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet Buol</i>, +<i>Davos-Platz</i>, <i>December</i> 26, 1881.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Yesterday, +Sunday and Christmas, we finished this eventful journey by a +drive in an <i>open</i> sleigh—none others were to be +had—seven hours on end through whole forests of Christmas +trees. The cold was beyond belief. I have often +suffered less at a dentist’s. It was a clear, sunny +day, but the sun even at noon falls, at this season, only here +and there into the Prättigau. I kept up as long as I +could in an imitation of a street singer:—</p> +<p>Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, etc.</p> +<p>At last Lloyd remarked, a blue mouth speaking from a +corpse-coloured face, ‘You seem to be the only one with any +courage left?’ And, do you know, with that word my +courage disappeared, and I made the rest of the stage in the same +dumb wretchedness as the others. My only terror was lest +Fanny should ask for brandy, or laudanum, or something. So +awful was the idea of putting my hands out, that I half thought I +would refuse.</p> +<p>Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd’s cold +better; I, with a twinge of the rheumatic; and Fanny better than +her ordinary.</p> +<p><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +228</span>General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the +journey: A prolonged visit to the dentist’s, complicated +with the fear of death.</p> +<p>Never, O never, do you get me there again.—Ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos-Platz</i>, <i>February</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—My wife and +I are very much vexed to hear you are still unwell. We are +both keeping far better; she especially seems quite to have taken +a turn—<i>the</i> turn, we shall hope. Please let us +know how you get on, and what has been the matter with you; +Braemar I believe—the vile hole. You know what a lazy +rascal I am, so you won’t be surprised at a short letter, I +know; indeed, you will be much more surprised at my having had +the decency to write at all. We have got rid of our young, +pretty, and incompetent maid; and now we have a fine, canny, +twinkling, shrewd, auld-farrant peasant body, who gives us good +food and keeps us in good spirits. If we could only +understand what she says! But she speaks Davos language, +which is to German what Aberdeen-awa’ is to English, so it +comes heavy. God bless you, my dear Cummy; and so says +Fanny forbye.—Ever your affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>], 22<i>nd</i> <i>February</i> ’82.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Your most +welcome letter has raised clouds of sulphur from my horizon. . . +.</p> +<p>I am glad you have gone back to your music. Life is a +poor thing, I am more and more convinced, without an art, that +always waits for us and is always new. Art and marriage are +two very good stand-by’s.</p> +<p><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>In an +article which will appear sometime in the <i>Cornhill</i>, +‘Talk and Talkers,’ and where I have full-lengthened +the conversation of Bob, Henley, Jenkin, Simpson, Symonds, and +Gosse, I have at the end one single word about yourself. It +may amuse you to see it.</p> +<p>We are coming to Scotland after all, so we shall meet, which +pleases me, and I do believe I am strong enough to stand it this +time. My knee is still quite lame.</p> +<p>My wife is better again. . . . But we take it by turns; it is +the dog that is ill now.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos-Platz</i>, <i>February</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—Here comes +the letter as promised last night. And first two requests: +Pray send the enclosed to c/o Blackmore’s publisher, +’tis from Fanny; second, pray send us Routledge’s +shilling book, Edward Mayhew’s <i>Dogs</i>, by return if it +can be managed.</p> +<p>Our dog is very ill again, poor fellow, looks very ill too, +only sleeps at night because of morphine; and we do not know what +ails him, only fear it to be canker of the ear. He makes a +bad, black spot in our life, poor, selfish, silly, little tangle; +and my wife is wretched. Otherwise she is better, steadily +and slowly moving up through all her relapses. My knee +never gets the least better; it hurts to-night, which it has not +done for long. I do not suppose my doctor knows any least +thing about it. He says it is a nerve that I struck, but I +assure you he does not know.</p> +<p>I have just finished a paper, ‘A Gossip on +Romance,’ <a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>in which I have tried to do, very popularly, about +one-half of the matter you wanted me to try. In a way, I +have found an answer to the question. But the subject was +hardly fit for so chatty a paper, and it is all loose ends. +If ever I do my book on the Art of Literature, I shall gather +them together and be clear.</p> +<p>To-morrow, having once finished off the touches still due on +this, I shall tackle <i>San Francisco</i> for you. Then the +tide of work will fairly bury me, lost to view and hope. +You have no idea what it costs me to wring out my work now. +I have certainly been a fortnight over this Romance, sometimes +five hours a day; and yet it is about my usual length—eight +pages or so, and would be a d-d sight the better for another +curry. But I do not think I can honestly re-write it all; +so I call it done, and shall only straighten words in a revision +currently.</p> +<p>I had meant to go on for a great while, and say all manner of +entertaining things. But all’s gone. I am now +an idiot.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—. . . Last +night we had a dinner-party, consisting of the John Addington, +curry, onions (lovely onions), and beefsteak. So unusual is +any excitement, that F. and I feel this morning as if we had been +to a coronation. However I must, I suppose, write.</p> +<p>I was sorry about your female contributor squabble. +’Tis very comic, but really unpleasant. But what care +I? <a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>Now that I illustrate my own books, I can always offer +you a situation in our house—S. L. Osbourne and Co. +As an author gets a halfpenny a copy of verses, and an artist a +penny a cut, perhaps a proof-reader might get several pounds a +year.</p> +<p>O that Coronation! What a shouting crowd there +was! I obviously got a firework in each eye. The king +looked very magnificent, to be sure; and that great hall where we +feasted on seven hundred delicate foods, and drank fifty royal +wines—<i>quel coup d’œil</i>! but was it not +over-done, even for a coronation—almost a vulgar +luxury? And eleven is certainly too late to begin +dinner. (It was really 6.30 instead of 5.30.)</p> +<p>Your list of books that Cassells have refused in these weeks +is not quite complete; they also refused:—</p> +<p>1. Six undiscovered Tragedies, one romantic Comedy, a fragment +of Journal extending over six years, and an unfinished +Autobiography reaching up to the first performance of King +John. By William Shakespeare.</p> +<p>2. The journals and Private Correspondence of David, King of +Israel.</p> +<p>3. Poetical Works of Arthur, Iron Dook of Wellington, +including a Monody on Napoleon.</p> +<p>4. Eight books of an unfinished novel, <i>Solomon +Crabb</i>. By Henry Fielding.</p> +<p>5. Stevenson’s Moral Emblems.</p> +<p>You also neglected to mention, as <i>per contra</i>, that they +had during the same time accepted and triumphantly published +Brown’s <i>Handbook to Cricket</i>, Jones’s +<i>First</i> <i>French Reader</i>, and Robinson’s +<i>Picturesque Cheshire</i>, uniform with the same author’s +<i>Stately Homes of Salop</i>.</p> +<p>O if that list could come true! How we would tear at +Solomon Crabb! O what a bully, bully, bully business. +Which would you read first—Shakespeare’s +autobiography, or his journals? What sport the monody on +Napoleon would be—what wooden verse, what stucco +ornament! I should read both the autobiography and <a +name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>the +journals before I looked at one of the plays, beyond the names of +them, which shows that Saintsbury was right, and I do care more +for life than for poetry. No—I take it back. Do +you know one of the tragedies—a Bible tragedy +too—<i>David</i>—was written in his third +period—much about the same time as Lear? The comedy, +<i>April Rain</i>, is also a late work. <i>Beckett</i> is a +fine ranting piece, like <i>Richard II.</i>, but very fine for +the stage. Irving is to play it this autumn when I’m +in town; the part rather suits him—but who is to play +Henry—a tremendous creation, sir. Betterton in his +private journal seems to have seen this piece; and he says +distinctly that Henry is the best part in any play. +‘Though,’ he adds, ‘how it be with the ancient +plays I know not. But in this I have ever feared to do ill, +and indeed will not be persuaded to that +undertaking.’ So says Betterton. <i>Rufus</i> +is not so good; I am not pleased with <i>Rufus</i>; plainly a +<i>rifaccimento</i> of some inferior work; but there are some +damned fine lines. As for the purely satiric ill-minded +<i>Abelard and Heloise</i>, another <i>Troilus</i>, <i>quoi</i>! +it is not pleasant, truly, but what strength, what verve, what +knowledge of life, and the Canon! What a finished, +humorous, rich picture is the Canon! Ah, there was nobody +like Shakespeare. But what I like is the David and Absalom +business. Absalom is so well felt—you love him as +David did; David’s speech is one roll of royal music from +the first act to the fifth.</p> +<p>I am enjoying <i>Solomon Crabb</i> extremely; Solomon’s +capital adventure with the two highwaymen and Squire Trecothick +and Parson Vance; it is as good, I think, as anything in Joseph +Andrews. I have just come to the part where the highwayman +with the black patch over his eye has tricked poor Solomon into +his place, and the squire and the parson are hearing the +evidence. Parson Vance is splendid. How good, too, is +old Mrs. Crabb and the coastguardsman in the third chapter, or +her delightful quarrel with the sexton of Seaham; Lord Conybeare +<a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>is +surely a little overdone; but I don’t know either; +he’s such damned fine sport. Do you like Sally +Barnes? I’m in love with her. Constable Muddon +is as good as Dogberry and Verges put together; when he takes +Solomon to the cage, and the highwayman gives him Solomon’s +own guinea for his pains, and kisses Mrs. Muddon, and just then +up drives Lord Conybeare, and instead of helping Solomon, calls +him all the rascals in Christendom—O Henry Fielding, Henry +Fielding! Yet perhaps the scenes at Seaham are the +best. But I’m bewildered among all these +excellences.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin +crack—<br /> +This here’s a dream, return and study <span +class="smcap">Black</span>!</p> +<p>—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alexander Ireland</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SIR</span>,—This +formidable paper need not alarm you; it argues nothing beyond +penury of other sorts, and is not at all likely to lead me into a +long letter. If I were at all grateful it would, for yours +has just passed for me a considerable part of a stormy +evening. And speaking of gratitude, let me at once and with +becoming eagerness accept your kind invitation to Bowdon. I +shall hope, if we can agree as to dates when I am nearer hand, to +come to you sometime in the month of May. I was pleased to +hear you were a Scot; I feel more at home with my compatriots +always; perhaps the more we are away, the stronger we feel that +bond.</p> +<p>You ask about Davos; I have discoursed about it <a +name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>already, +rather sillily I think, in the <i>Pall Mall</i>, and I mean to +say no more, but the ways of the Muse are dubious and obscure, +and who knows? I may be wiled again. As a place of +residence, beyond a splendid climate, it has to my eyes but one +advantage—the neighbourhood of J. A. Symonds—I dare +say you know his work, but the man is far more interesting. +It has done me, in my two winters’ Alpine exile, much good; +so much, that I hope to leave it now for ever, but would not be +understood to boast. In my present unpardonably crazy +state, any cold might send me skipping, either back to Davos, or +further off. Let us hope not. It is dear; a little +dreary; very far from many things that both my taste and my needs +prompt me to seek; and altogether not the place that I should +choose of my free will.</p> +<p>I am chilled by your description of the man in question, +though I had almost argued so much from his cold and undigested +volume. If the republication does not interfere with my +publisher, it will not interfere with me; but there, of course, +comes the hitch. I do not know Mr. Bentley, and I fear all +publishers like the devil from legend and experience both. +However, when I come to town, we shall, I hope, meet and +understand each other as well as author and publisher ever +do. I liked his letters; they seemed hearty, kind, and +personal. Still—I am notedly suspicious of the +trade—your news of this republication alarms me.</p> +<p>The best of the present French novelists seems to me, +incomparably, Daudet. <i>Les Rois en Exil</i> comes very +near being a masterpiece. For Zola I have no toleration, +though the curious, eminently bourgeois, and eminently French +creature has power of a kind. But I would he were +deleted. I would not give a chapter of old Dumas (meaning +himself, not his collaborators) for the whole boiling of the +Zolas. Romance with the smallpox—as the great one: +diseased anyway and blackhearted and fundamentally at enmity with +joy.</p> +<p><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>I +trust that Mrs. Ireland does not object to smoking; and if you +are a teetotaller, I beg you to mention it before I come—I +have all the vices; some of the virtues also, let us +hope—that, at least, of being a Scotchman, and yours very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—My father was in the old High School the +last year, and walked in the procession to the new. I blush +to own I am an Academy boy; it seems modern, and smacks not of +the soil.</p> +<p><i>P.P.S.</i>—I enclose a good joke—at least, I +think so—my first efforts at wood engraving printed by my +stepson, a boy of thirteen. I will put in also one of my +later attempts. I have been nine days at the +art—observe my progress.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 23, +1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>,—And I had +just written the best note to Mrs. Gosse that was in my +power. Most blameable.</p> +<p>I now send (for Mrs. Gosse).</p> +<p style="text-align: center">BLACK CANYON.</p> +<p>Also an advertisement of my new appearance as poet (bard, +rather) and hartis on wood. The cut represents the Hero and +the Eagle, and is emblematic of Cortez first viewing the Pacific +Ocean, which (according to the bard Keats) it took place in +Darien. The cut is much admired for the sentiment of +discovery, the manly proportions of the voyager, and the fine +impression of tropical scenes and the untrodden <span +class="GutSmall">WASTE</span>, so aptly rendered by the +hartis.</p> +<p>I would send you the book; but I declare I’m +ruined. <a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span>I got a penny a cut and a halfpenny a set of verses +from the flint-hearted publisher, and only one specimen copy, as +I’m a sinner. — was apostolic alongside of +Osbourne.</p> +<p>I hope you will be able to decipher this, written at steam +speed with a breaking pen, the hotfast postman at my heels. +No excuse, says you. None, sir, says I, and touches my +’at most civil (extraordinary evolution of pen, now quite +doomed—to resume—) I have not put pen to the +Bloody Murder yet. But it is early on my list; and when +once I get to it, three weeks should see the last +bloodstain—maybe a fortnight. For I am beginning to +combine an extraordinary laborious slowness while at work, with +the most surprisingly quick results in the way of finished +manuscripts. How goes Gray? Colvin is to do +Keats. My wife is still not well.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>March</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—You must +think me a forgetful rogue, as indeed I am; for I have but now +told my publisher to send you a copy of the <i>Familiar +Studies</i>. However, I own I have delayed this letter till +I could send you the enclosed. Remembering the nights at +Braemar when we visited the Picture Gallery, I hoped they might +amuse you. You see, we do some publishing hereaway. I +shall hope to see you in town in May.—Always yours +faithfully,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Alexander Japp</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Châlet Buol</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>April</i> 1, 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. JAPP</span>,—A good +day to date this letter, which is in fact a confession of +incapacity. During my <a name="page237"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 237</span>wife’s illness I somewhat lost +my head, and entirely lost a great quire of corrected +proofs. This is one of the results; I hope there are none +more serious. I was never so sick of any volume as I was of +that; was continually receiving fresh proofs with fresh +infinitesimal difficulties. I was ill—I did really +fear my wife was worse than ill. Well, it’s out now; +and though I have observed several carelessnesses myself, and now +here’s another of your finding—of which, indeed, I +ought to be ashamed—it will only justify the sweeping +humility of the Preface.</p> +<p>Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and +I communicated your remarks. . . . He is a far better and more +interesting thing than any of his books.</p> +<p>The Elephant was my wife’s; so she is proportionately +elate you should have picked it out for praise—from a +collection, let me add, so replete with the highest qualities of +art.</p> +<p>My wicked carcase, as John Knox calls it, holds together +wonderfully. In addition to many other things, and a volume +of travel, I find I have written, since December, 90 +<i>Cornhill</i> pages of magazine work—essays and stories: +40,000 words, and I am none the worse—I am the +better. I begin to hope I may, if not outlive this +wolverine upon my shoulders, at least carry him bravely like +Symonds and Alexander Pope. I begin to take a pride in that +hope.</p> +<p>I shall be much interested to see your criticisms; you might +perhaps send them to me. I believe you know that is not +dangerous; one folly I have not—I am not touchy under +criticism.</p> +<p>Lloyd and my wife both beg to be remembered; and Lloyd sends +as a present a work of his own. I hope you feel flattered; +for this is <i>simply the first time he has ever given one +away</i>. I have to buy my own works, I can tell +you.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>April</i> 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—I hope and +hope for a long letter—soon I hope to be superseded by long +talks—and it comes not. I remember I have never +formally thanked you for that hundred quid, nor in general for +the introduction to Chatto and Windus, and continue to bury you +in copy as if you were my private secretary. Well, I am not +unconscious of it all; but I think least said is often best, +generally best; gratitude is a tedious sentiment, it’s not +ductile, not dramatic.</p> +<p>If Chatto should take both, <i>cui dedicare</i>? I am +running out of dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is +stranded. <i>Treasure Island</i>, if it comes out, and I +mean it shall, of course goes to Lloyd. Lemme see, I have +now dedicated to</p> +<p class="gutindent">W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley].</p> +<p class="gutindent">S. C. [Sidney Colvin].</p> +<p class="gutindent">T. S. [Thomas Stevenson].</p> +<p class="gutindent">Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson].</p> +<p>There remain: C. B., the Williamses—you know they were +the parties who stuck up for us about our marriage, and Mrs. W. +was my guardian angel, and our Best Man and Bridesmaid rolled in +one, and the only third of the wedding party—my +sister-in-law, who is booked for <i>Prince Otto</i>—Jenkin +I suppose sometime—George Meredith, the only man of genius +of my acquaintance, and then I believe I’ll have to take to +the dead, the immortal memory business.</p> +<p>Talking of Meredith, I have just re-read for the third and +fourth time <i>The Egoist</i>. When I shall have read it +the sixth or seventh, I begin to see I shall know about it. +<a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>You will +be astonished when you come to re-read it; I had no idea of the +matter—human, red matter he has contrived to plug and pack +into that strange and admirable book. Willoughby is, of +course, a pure discovery; a complete set of nerves, not +heretofore examined, and yet running all over the human +body—a suit of nerves. Clara is the best girl ever I +saw anywhere. Vernon is almost as good. The manner +and the faults of the book greatly justify themselves on further +study. Only Dr. Middleton does not hang together; and +Ladies Busshe and Culmer <i>sont des +monstruosités</i>. Vernon’s conduct makes a +wonderful odd contrast with Daniel Deronda’s. I see +more and more that Meredith is built for immortality.</p> +<p>Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an immortalet, +claims some attention. <i>The Woman killed with +Kindness</i> is one of the most striking novels—not plays, +though it’s more of a play than anything else of +his—I ever read. He had such a sweet, sound soul, the +old boy. The death of the two pirates in <i>Fortune by Sea +and</i> <i>Land</i> is a document. He had obviously been +present, and heard Purser and Clinton take death by the beard +with similar braggadocios. Purser and Clinton, names of +pirates; Scarlet and Bobbington, names of highwaymen. He +had the touch of names, I think. No man I ever knew had +such a sense, such a tact, for English nomenclature: Rainsforth, +Lacy, Audley, Forrest, Acton, Spencer, Frankford—so his +names run.</p> +<p>Byron not only wrote <i>Don Juan</i>; he called Joan of Arc +‘a fanatical strumpet.’ These are his +words. I think the double shame, first to a great poet, +second to an English noble, passes words.</p> +<p>Here is a strange gossip.—I am yours loquaciously,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel +examination, an exa<i>nim</i>ation I may call it, had this brave +result. <i>Taïaut</i>! Hillo! Hey! +Stand by! Avast! Hurrah!</p> +<h3><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. T. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet am Stein</i>, +<i>Davos</i>, <i>April</i> 9, 1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Herewith +please find belated birthday present. Fanny has +another.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Cockshot = Jenkin.</p> +</td> +<td><p>But</p> +<p>pray</p> +<p>regard</p> +<p>these</p> +<p>as</p> +<p>secrets.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Jack = Bob.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Burly = Henley.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Athelred = Simpson.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Opalstein = Symonds.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Purcel = Gosse.</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>My dear mother, how can I keep up with your breathless +changes? Innerleithen, Cramond, Bridge of Allan, +Dunblane, Selkirk. I lean to Cramond, but I shall be +pleased anywhere, any respite from Davos; never mind, it has been +a good, though a dear lesson. Now, with my improved health, +if I can pass the summer, I believe I shall be able no more to +exceed, no more to draw on you. It is time I sufficed for +myself indeed. And I believe I can.</p> +<p>I am still far from satisfied about Fanny; she is certainly +better, but it is by fits a good deal, and the symptoms continue, +which should not be. I had her persuaded to leave without +me this very day (Saturday 8th), but the disclosure of my +mismanagement broke up that plan; she would not leave me lest I +should mismanage more. I think this an unfair revenge; but +I have been so bothered that I cannot struggle. All Davos +has been drinking our wine. During the month of March, +three litres a day were drunk—O it is too +sickening—and that is only a specimen. It is enough +to make any one a misanthrope, but the right thing is to hate the +donkey that was duped—which I devoutly do.</p> +<p>I have this winter finished <i>Treasure Island</i>, written +the preface to the <i>Studies</i>, a small book about the +<i>Inland </i><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span><i>Voyage</i> size, <i>The Silverado Squatters</i>, and +over and above that upwards of ninety (90) <i>Cornhill</i> pages +of magazine work. No man can say I have been +idle.—Your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>] <i>Sunday</i> +[<i>June</i> 1882].</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Note</span> turned up, but no gray +opuscule, which, however, will probably turn up to-morrow in time +to go out with me to Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire, where, if you can +make it out, you will be a good soul to pay a visit. I +shall write again about the opuscule; and about Stobo, which I +have not seen since I was thirteen, though my memory speaks +delightfully of it.</p> +<p>I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have written +before, <i>inter alia</i>, to tell you that I had visited my +murder place and found <i>living traditions</i> not yet in any +printed book; most startling. I also got photographs taken, +but the negatives have not yet turned up. I lie on the sofa +to write this, whence the pencil; having slept yesterdays—1 ++ 4 + 7½ = 12½ hours and being (9 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span>) very anxious to sleep again. +The arms of Porpus, quoi! A poppy gules, etc.</p> +<p>From Stobo you can conquer Peebles and Selkirk, or to give +them their old decent names, Tweeddale and Ettrick. Think +of having been called Tweeddale, and being called <span +class="smcap">Peebles</span>! Did I ever tell you my skit +on my own travel books? We understand that Mr. Stevenson +has in the press another volume of unconventional <a +name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>travels: +<i>Personal Adventures in Peeblesshire</i>. <i>Je la trouve +méchante</i>.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>—Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the +Buccaneers? I did, and <i>ça-y-est</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Stobo Manse</i>, +<i>Peeblesshire</i> [<i>July</i> 1882].</p> +<p class="poetry">I would shoot you, but I have no bow:<br /> +The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo.<br /> +As Gallic Kids complain of ‘Bobo,’<br /> +I mourn for your mistake of Stobo.</p> +<p>First, we shall be gone in September. But if you think +of coming in August, my mother will hunt for you with +pleasure. We should all be overjoyed—though Stobo it +could not be, as it is but a kirk and manse, but possibly +somewhere within reach. Let us know.</p> +<p>Second, I have read your Gray with care. A more +difficult subject I can scarce fancy; it is crushing; yet I think +you have managed to shadow forth a man, and a good man too; and +honestly, I doubt if I could have done the same. This may +seem egoistic; but you are not such a fool as to think so. +It is the natural expression of real praise. The book as a +whole is readable; your subject peeps every here and there out of +the crannies like a shy violet—he could do no +more—and his aroma hangs there.</p> +<p>I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence +brevity. Answer about the house.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page243"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 243</span>[<i>Stobo Manse</i>, <i>July</i> +1882.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>, . . . I am not +worth an old damn. I am also crushed by bad news of +Symonds; his good lung going; I cannot help reading it as a +personal hint; God help us all! Really I am not very fit +for work; but I try, try, and nothing comes of it.</p> +<p>I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, damp, +and <i>mauchy</i>; the rain it raineth every day; and the glass +goes tol-de-rol-de riddle.</p> +<p>Yet it’s a bonny bit; I wish I could live in it, but +doubt. I wish I was well away somewhere else. I feel +like flight some days; honour bright.</p> +<p>Pirbright Smith is well. Old Mr. Pegfurth Bannatyne is +here staying at a country inn. His whole baggage is a pair +of socks and a book in a fishing-basket; and he borrows even a +rod from the landlord. He walked here over the hills from +Sanquhar, ‘singin’, he says, ‘like a +mavis.’ I naturally asked him about Hazlitt. +‘He wouldnae take his drink,’ he said, ‘a +queer, queer fellow.’ But did not seem further +communicative. He says he has become +‘releegious,’ but still swears like a trooper. +I asked him if he had no headquarters. ‘No +likely,’ said he. He says he is writing his memoirs, +which will be interesting. He once met Borrow; they boxed; +‘and Geordie,’ says the old man chuckling, +‘gave me the damnedest hiding.’ Of Wordsworth +he remarked, ‘He wasnae sound in the faith, sir, and a +milk-blooded, blue-spectacled bitch forbye. But his +po’mes are grand—there’s no denying +that.’ I asked him what his book was. ‘I +havenae mind,’ said he—that was his only book! +On <a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +244</span>turning it out, I found it was one of my own, and on +showing it to him, he remembered it at once. ‘O +aye,’ he said, ‘I mind now. It’s pretty +bad; ye’ll have to do better than that, chieldy,’ and +chuckled, chuckled. He is a strange old figure, to be +sure. He cannot endure Pirbright Smith—‘a mere +æsth<i>a</i>tic,’ he said. +‘Pooh!’ ‘Fishin’ and +releegion—these are my aysthatics,’ he wound up.</p> +<p>I thought this would interest you, so scribbled it down. +I still hope to get more out of him about Hazlitt, though he +utterly pooh-poohed the idea of writing H.’s life. +‘Ma life now,’ he said, ‘there’s been +queer things in <i>it</i>.’ He is seventy-nine! but +may well last to a hundred!—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h2><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +245</span>VI<br /> +MARSEILLES AND HYÈRES,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OCTOBER 1882-AUGUST 1884</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span><span class="smcap">to the Editor of the</span> +‘<span class="smcap">New York Tribune</span>’</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Terminus Hotel</i>, +<i>Marseilles</i>, <i>October</i> 16, 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">SIR</span>,—It has come to my +ears that you have lent the authority of your columns to an +error.</p> +<p>More than half in pleasantry—and I now think the +pleasantry ill-judged—I complained in a note to my <i>New +Arabian Nights</i> that some one, who shall remain nameless for +me, had borrowed the idea of a story from one of mine. As +if I had not borrowed the ideas of the half of my own! As +if any one who had written a story ill had a right to complain of +any other who should have written it better! I am indeed +thoroughly ashamed of the note, and of the principle which it +implies.</p> +<p>But it is no mere abstract penitence which leads me to beg a +corner of your paper—it is the desire to defend the honour +of a man of letters equally known in America and England, of a +man who could afford to lend to me and yet be none the poorer; +and who, if he would so far condescend, has my free permission to +borrow from me all that he can find worth borrowing.</p> +<p><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +252</span>Indeed, sir, I am doubly surprised at your +correspondent’s error. That James Payn should have +borrowed from me is already a strange conception. The +author of <i>Lost Sir Massingberd</i> and <i>By Proxy</i> may be +trusted to invent his own stories. The author of <i>A Grape +from a Thorn</i> knows enough, in his own right, of the humorous +and pathetic sides of human nature.</p> +<p>But what is far more monstrous—what argues total +ignorance of the man in question—is the idea that James +Payn could ever have transgressed the limits of professional +propriety. I may tell his thousands of readers on your side +of the Atlantic that there breathes no man of letters more +inspired by kindness and generosity to his brethren of the +profession, and, to put an end to any possibility of error, I may +be allowed to add that I often have recourse, and that I had +recourse once more but a few weeks ago, to the valuable practical +help which he makes it his pleasure to extend to younger men.</p> +<p>I send a duplicate of this letter to a London weekly; for the +mistake, first set forth in your columns, has already reached +England, and my wanderings have made me perhaps last of the +persons interested to hear a word of it.—I am, etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Terminus Hotel</i>, +<i>Marseille</i>, <i>Saturday</i> (<i>October</i> 1882).</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—We have found +a house!—at Saint Marcel, Banlieue de Marseille. In a +lovely valley between hills part wooded, part white cliffs; a +house of a dining-room, of a fine salon—one side lined with +a long divan—three good bedrooms (two of them with +dressing-rooms), three small rooms (chambers of <i>bonne</i> and +sich), a large kitchen, a lumber room, many cupboards, a back +court, a large, large olive yard, cultivated by a resident +<i>paysan</i>, a well, <a name="page253"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 253</span>a berceau, a good deal of rockery, a +little pine shrubbery, a railway station in front, two lines of +omnibus to Marseille.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">£48 per annum.</p> +<p>It is called Campagne Defli! query Campagne Debug? The +Campagne Demosquito goes on here nightly, and is very +deadly. Ere we can get installed, we shall be beggared to +the door, I see.</p> +<p>I vote for separations; F.’s arrival here, after our +separation, was better fun to me than being married was by +far. A separation completed is a most valuable property; +worth piles.—Ever your affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Terminus Hotel</i>, +<i>Marseille</i>, <i>le</i> 17<i>th</i> <i>October</i> 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—. We +grow, every time we see it, more delighted with our house. +It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a lovely spot, among +lovely wooded and cliffy hills—most mountainous in +line—far lovelier, to my eyes, than any Alps. To-day +we have been out inventorying; and though a mistral blew, it was +delightful in an open cab, and our house with the windows open +was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear there are +fleas—it is called Campagne Defli—and I look forward +to tons of insecticide being employed.</p> +<p>I have had to write a letter to the <i>New York Tribune</i> +and the <i>Athenæum</i>. Payn was accused of stealing +my stories! I think I have put things handsomely for +him.</p> +<p>Just got a servant! ! !—Ever affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Our servant is a Muckle Hash of a Weedy!</p> +<h3><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +254</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Campagne Defli</i>, <i>St. +Marcel</i>,<br /> +<i>Banlieue de Marseille</i>, <i>November</i> 13, 1882.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—Your +delightful letters duly arrived this morning. They were the +only good feature of the day, which was not a success. +Fanny was in bed—she begged I would not split upon her, she +felt so guilty; but as I believe she is better this evening, and +has a good chance to be right again in a day or two, I will +disregard her orders. I do not go back, but do not go +forward—or not much. It is, in one way, +miserable—for I can do no work; a very little wood-cutting, +the newspapers, and a note about every two days to write, +completely exhausts my surplus energy; even Patience I have to +cultivate with parsimony. I see, if I could only get to +work, that we could live here with comfort, almost with +luxury. Even as it is, we should be able to get through a +considerable time of idleness. I like the place immensely, +though I have seen so little of it—I have only been once +outside the gate since I was here! It puts me in mind of a +summer at Prestonpans and a sickly child you once told me of.</p> +<p>Thirty-two years now finished! My twenty-ninth was in +San Francisco, I remember—rather a bleak birthday. +The twenty-eighth was not much better; but the rest have been +usually pleasant days in pleasant circumstances.</p> +<p>Love to you and to my father and to Cummy.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">From me and Fanny and Wogg.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page255"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 255</span><i>Grand Hotel</i>, <i>Nice</i>, +12<i>th</i> <i>January</i> ’83.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Thanks for +your good letter. It is true, man, God’s trüth, +what ye say about the body Stevison. The deil himsel, +it’s my belief, couldnae get the soul harled oot o’ +the creature’s wame, or he had seen the hinder end o’ +they proofs. Ye crack o’ Mæcenas, he’s +naebody by you! He gied the lad Horace a rax forrit by all +accounts; but he never gied him proofs like yon. Horace may +hae been a better hand at the clink than Stevison—mind, +I’m no sayin’ ‘t—but onyway he was never +sae weel prentit. Damned, but it’s bonny! Hoo +mony pages will there be, think ye? Stevison maun hae sent +ye the feck o’ twenty sangs—fifteen I’se +warrant. Weel, that’ll can make thretty pages, gin ye +were to prent on ae side only, whilk wad be perhaps what a man +o’ your <i>great</i> idees would be ettlin’ at, man +Johnson. Then there wad be the Pre-face, an’ prose ye +ken prents oot langer than po’try at the hinder end, for ye +hae to say things in’t. An’ then there’ll +be a title-page and a dedication and an index wi’ the first +lines like, and the deil an’ a’. Man, +it’ll be grand. Nae copies to be given to the +Liberys.</p> +<p>I am alane myself, in Nice, they ca’t, but damned, I +think they micht as well ca’t Nesty. The Pile-on, +‘s they ca’t, ‘s aboot as big as the river Tay +at Perth; and it’s rainin’ maist like Greenock. +Dod, I’ve seen ‘s had mair o’ what they +ca’ the I-talian at Muttonhole. I-talian! I +haenae seen the sun for eicht and forty hours. +Thomson’s better, I believe. But the body’s +fair attenyated. He’s <a name="page256"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 256</span>doon to seeven stane eleeven, +an’ he sooks awa’ at cod liver ile, till it’s a +fair disgrace. Ye see he tak’s it on a drap brandy; +and it’s my belief, it’s just an excuse for a +dram. He an’ Stevison gang aboot their lane, maistly; +they’re company to either, like, an’ whiles +they’ll speak o’Johnson. But <i>he’s</i> +far awa’, losh me! Stevison’s last book’s +in a third edeetion; an’ it’s bein’ translated +(like the psaulms o’ David, nae less) into French; and an +eediot they ca’ Asher—a kind o’ rival of +Tauchnitz—is bringin’ him oot in a paper book for the +Frenchies and the German folk in twa volumes. Sae +he’s in luck, ye see.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Thomson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Nice</i>, <i>February</i> +1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—You must +think, and quite justly, that I am one of the meanest rogues in +creation. But though I do not write (which is a thing I +hate), it by no means follows that people are out of my +mind. It is natural that I should always think more or less +about you, and still more natural that I should think of you when +I went back to Nice. But the real reason why you have been +more in my mind than usual is because of some little verses that +I have been writing, and that I mean to make a book of; and the +real reason of this letter (although I ought to have written to +you anyway) is that I have just seen that the book in question +must be dedicated to</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Alison +Cunningham</span>,</p> +<p>the only person who will really understand it. I +don’t know when it may be ready, for it has to be +illustrated, but I hope in the meantime you may like the idea of +what is to be; and when the time comes, I shall try to make the +dedication as pretty as I can make it. Of course, this is +only a flourish, like taking off one’s hat; but still, <a +name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 257</span>a person +who has taken the trouble to write things does not dedicate them +to any one without meaning it; and you must just try to take this +dedication in place of a great many things that I might have +said, and that I ought to have done, to prove that I am not +altogether unconscious of the great debt of gratitude I owe +you. This little book, which is all about my childhood, +should indeed go to no other person but you, who did so much to +make that childhood happy.</p> +<p>Do you know, we came very near sending for you this +winter. If we had not had news that you were ill too, I +almost believe we should have done so, we were so much in +trouble.</p> +<p>I am now very well; but my wife has had a very, very bad +spell, through overwork and anxiety, when I was +<i>lost</i>! I suppose you heard of that. She sends +you her love, and hopes you will write to her, though she no more +than I deserves it. She would add a word herself, but she +is too played out.—I am, ever your old boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Nice</i>, <i>March</i> +1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—This is to +announce to you the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. of Nursery +Verses, now numbering <span class="GutSmall">XLVIII</span>. +pieces or 599 verses, which, of course, one might augment <i>ad +infinitum</i>.</p> +<p>But here is my notion to make all clear.</p> +<p>I do not want a big ugly quarto; my soul sickens at the look +of a quarto. I want a refined octavo, not large—not +<i>larger</i> than the <i>Donkey Book</i>, at any price.</p> +<p>I think the full page might hold four verses of four <a +name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>lines, that +is to say, counting their blanks at two, of twenty-two lines in +height. The first page of each number would only hold two +verses or ten lines, the title being low down. At this +rate, we should have seventy-eight or eighty pages of +letterpress.</p> +<p>The designs should not be in the text, but facing the poem; so +that if the artist liked, he might give two pages of design to +every poem that turned the leaf, <i>i.e.</i> longer than eight +lines, <i>i.e.</i> to twenty-eight out of the forty-six. I +should say he would not use this privilege (?) above five times, +and some he might scorn to illustrate at all, so we may say fifty +drawings. I shall come to the drawings next.</p> +<p>But now you see my book of the thickness, since the drawings +count two pages, of 180 pages; and since the paper will perhaps +be thicker, of near two hundred by bulk. It is bound in a +quiet green with the words in thin gilt. Its shape is a +slender, tall octavo. And it sells for the +publisher’s fancy, and it will be a darling to look at; in +short, it would be like one of the original Heine books in type +and spacing.</p> +<p>Now for the pictures. I take another sheet and begin to +jot notes for them when my imagination serves: I will run through +the book, writing when I have an idea. There, I have jotted +enough to give the artist a notion. Of course, I +don’t do more than contribute ideas, but I will be happy to +help in any and every way. I may as well add another idea; +when the artist finds nothing much to illustrate, a good drawing +of any <i>object</i> mentioned in the text, were it only a loaf +of bread or a candlestick, is a most delightful thing to a young +child. I remember this keenly.</p> +<p>Of course, if the artist insists on a larger form, I must I +suppose, bow my head. But my idea I am convinced is the +best, and would make the book truly, not fashionably pretty.</p> +<p>I forgot to mention that I shall have a dedication; I <a +name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 259</span>am going to +dedicate ’em to Cummy; it will please her, and lighten a +little my burthen of ingratitude. A low affair is the Muse +business.</p> +<p>I will add no more to this lest you should want to communicate +with the artist; try another sheet. I wonder how many +I’ll keep wandering to.</p> +<p>O I forgot. As for the title, I think ‘Nursery +Verses’ the best. Poetry is not the strong point of +the text, and I shrink from any title that might seem to claim +that quality; otherwise we might have ‘Nursery Muses’ +or ‘New Songs of Innocence’ (but that were a +blasphemy), or ‘Rimes of Innocence’: the last not +bad, or—an idea—‘The Jews’ Harp,’ +or—now I have it—‘The Penny Whistle.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE PENNY WHISTLE:<br /> +NURSERY VERSES<br /> +BY<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.<br /> +ILLUSTRATED BY — — —</p> +<p>And here we have an excellent frontispiece, of a party playing +on a P. W. to a little ring of dancing children.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE PENNY WHISTLE<br /> +is the name for me.</p> +<p>Fool! this is all wrong, here is the true name:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PENNY WHISTLES<br /> +FOR SMALL WHISTLERS.</p> +<p>The second title is queried, it is perhaps better, as simply +<span class="GutSmall">PENNY WHISTLES</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor you, O Penny Whistler, grudge<br /> + That I your instrument debase:<br /> +By worse performers still we judge,<br /> + And give that fife a second place!</p> +<p><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +260</span>Crossed penny whistles on the cover, or else a sheaf of +’em.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SUGGESTIONS.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">IV</span>. The procession—the +child running behind it. The procession tailing off through +the gates of a cloudy city.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">IX</span>. <i>Foreign +Lands</i>.—This will, I think, want two plates—the +child climbing, his first glimpse over the garden wall, with what +he sees—the tree shooting higher and higher like the +beanstalk, and the view widening. The river slipping +in. The road arriving in Fairyland.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">X</span>. <i>Windy +Nights</i>.—The child in bed listening—the horseman +galloping.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XII</span>. The child helplessly +watching his ship—then he gets smaller, and the doll +joyfully comes alive—the pair landing on the +island—the ship’s deck with the doll steering and the +child firing the penny canon. Query two plates? The +doll should never come properly alive.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XV</span>. Building of the +ship—storing her—Navigation—Tom’s +accident, the other child paying no attention.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XXXI</span>. <i>The Wind</i>.—I +sent you my notion of already.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XXXVII</span>. <i>Foreign +Children</i>.—The foreign types dancing in a jing-a-ring, +with the English child pushing in the middle. The foreign +children looking at and showing each other marvels. The +English child at the leeside of a roast of beef. The +English child sitting thinking with his picture-books all round +him, and the jing-a-ring of the foreign children in miniature +dancing over the picture-books.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XXXIX</span>. Dear artist, can +you do me that?</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XLII</span>. The child being started +off—the bed sailing, curtains and all, upon the +sea—the child waking and finding himself at home; the +corner of toilette might be worked in to look like the pier.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">XLVII</span>. The lighted part of the +room, to be carefully distinguished from my child’s dark +hunting grounds. A shaded lamp.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +261</span><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel des Iles d’Or</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>March</i> 2, [1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—It must be +at least a fortnight since we have had a scratch of a pen from +you; and if it had not been for Cummy’s letter, I should +have feared you were worse again: as it is, I hope we shall hear +from you to-day or to-morrow at latest.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Health</i>.</p> +<p>Our news is good: Fanny never got so bad as we feared, and we +hope now that this attack may pass off in threatenings. I +am greatly better, have gained flesh, strength, spirits; eat +well, walk a good deal, and do some work without fatigue. I +am off the sick list.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Lodging</i>.</p> +<p>We have found a house up the hill, close to the town, an +excellent place though very, very little. If I can get the +landlord to agree to let us take it by the month just now, and +let our month’s rent count for the year in case we take it +on, you may expect to hear we are again installed, and to receive +a letter dated thus:—</p> +<blockquote><p>La Solitude,<br /> + Hyères-les-Palmiers,<br /> + + +Var.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If the man won’t agree to that, of course I must just +give it up, as the house would be dear enough anyway at 2000 +f. However, I hope we may get it, as it is healthy, +cheerful, and close to shops, and society, and +civilisation. The garden, which is above, is lovely, and +will be cool in summer. There are two rooms below with a +kitchen, and four rooms above, all told.—Ever your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel des Iles d’Or</i>, +<i>but my address will be Chalet la Solitude</i>,<br /> +<i>Hyères-le-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>France</i>, +<i>March</i> 17, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—Your undated +favour from Eastbourne came to hand in course of post, and I now +hasten to acknowledge its receipt. We must ask you in +future, for the convenience of our business arrangements, to +struggle with and tread below your feet this most unsatisfactory +and uncommercial habit. Our Mr. Cassandra is better; our +Mr. Wogg expresses himself dissatisfied with our new place of +business; when left alone in the front shop, he bawled like a +parrot; it is supposed the offices are haunted.</p> +<p>To turn to the matter of your letter, your remarks on <i>Great +Expectations</i> are very good. We have both re-read it +this winter, and I, in a manner, twice. The object being a +play; the play, in its rough outline, I now see: and it is +extraordinary how much of Dickens had to be discarded as unhuman, +impossible, and ineffective: all that really remains is the loan +of a file (but from a grown-up young man who knows what he was +doing, and to a convict who, although he does not know it is his +father—the father knows it is his son), and the fact of the +convict-father’s return and disclosure of himself to the +son whom he has made rich. Everything else has been thrown +aside; and the position has had to be explained by a prologue +which is pretty strong. I have great hopes of this piece, +which is very amiable and, in places, very strong indeed: but it +was curious how Dickens had to be rolled away; he had made his +story turn on such improbabilities, such fantastic trifles, not +on a good human basis, such as I recognised. You are right +about the casts, they were a capital idea; a good description of +them at first, and then <a name="page263"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 263</span>afterwards, say second, for the +lawyer to have illustrated points out of the history of the +originals, dusting the particular bust—that was all the +development the thing would bear. Dickens killed +them. The only really well <i>executed</i> scenes are the +riverside ones; the escape in particular is excellent; and I may +add, the capture of the two convicts at the beginning. Miss +Havisham is, probably, the worst thing in human fiction. +But Wemmick I like; and I like Trabb’s boy; and Mr. Wopsle +as Hamlet is splendid.</p> +<p>The weather here is greatly improved, and I hope in three days +to be in the chalet. That is, if I get some money to float +me there.</p> +<p>I hope you are all right again, and will keep better. +The month of March is past its mid career; it must soon begin to +turn toward the lamb; here it has already begun to do so; and I +hope milder weather will pick you up. Wogg has eaten a +forpet of rice and milk, his beard is streaming, his eyes +wild. I am besieged by demands of work from America.</p> +<p>The £50 has just arrived; many thanks; I am now at +ease.—Ever your affectionate son, <i>pro</i> Cassandra, +Wogg and Co.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet la Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>April</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I am one +of the lowest of the—but that’s understood. I +received the copy, <a name="citation263"></a><a +href="#footnote263" class="citation">[263]</a> excellently +written, with I think only one slip from first to last. I +have struck out two, and added five or six; so they now number +forty-five; when they are fifty, they shall out on the +world. I have not written a letter for a cruel time; I have +been, and am, so busy, drafting a long story (for me, I mean), +about a hundred <i>Cornhill</i> pages, or say about as long as +the Donkey book: <i>Prince Otto</i> it is called, and is, <a +name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>at the +present hour, a sore burthen but a hopeful. If I had him +all drafted, I should whistle and sing. But no: then +I’ll have to rewrite him; and then there will be the +publishers, alas! But some time or other, I shall whistle +and sing, I make no doubt.</p> +<p>I am going to make a fortune, it has not yet begun, for I am +not yet clear of debt; but as soon as I can, I begin upon the +fortune. I shall begin it with a halfpenny, and it shall +end with horses and yachts and all the fun of the fair. +This is the first real grey hair in my character: rapacity has +begun to show, the greed of the protuberant guttler. Well, +doubtless, when the hour strikes, we must all guttle and +protube. But it comes hard on one who was always so +willow-slender and as careless as the daisies.</p> +<p>Truly I am in excellent spirits. I have crushed through +a financial crisis; Fanny is much better; I am in excellent +health, and work from four to five hours a day—from one to +two above my average, that is; and we all dwell together and make +fortunes in the loveliest house you ever saw, with a garden like +a fairy story, and a view like a classical landscape.</p> +<p>Little? Well, it is not large. And when you come +to see us, you will probably have to bed at the hotel, which is +hard by. But it is Eden, madam, Eden and Beulah and the +Delectable Mountains and Eldorado and the Hesperidean Isles and +Bimini.</p> +<p>We both look forward, my dear friend, with the greatest +eagerness to have you here. It seems it is not to be this +season; but I appoint you with an appointment for next +season. You cannot see us else: remember that. Till +my health has grown solid like an oak-tree, till my fortune +begins really to spread its boughs like the same monarch of the +woods (and the acorn, ay de mi! is not yet planted), I expect to +be a prisoner among the palms.</p> +<p>Yes, it is like old times to be writing you from the Riviera, +and after all that has come and gone who can <a +name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>predict +anything? How fortune tumbles men about! Yet I have +not found that they change their friends, thank God.</p> +<p>Both of our loves to your sister and yourself. As for +me, if I am here and happy, I know to whom I owe it; I know who +made my way for me in life, if that were all, and I remain, with +love, your faithful friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet la Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>April</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I am very +guilty; I should have written to you long ago; and now, though it +must be done, I am so stupid that I can only boldly +recapitulate. A phrase of three members is the outside of +my syntax.</p> +<p>First, I liked the <i>Rover</i> better than any of your other +verse. I believe you are right, and can make stories in +verse. The last two stanzas and one or two in the +beginning—but the two last above all—I thought +excellent. I suggest a pursuit of the vein. If you +want a good story to treat, get the <i>Memoirs of the Chevalier +Johnstone</i>, and do his passage of the Tay; it would be +excellent: the dinner in the field, the woman he has to follow, +the dragoons, the timid boatmen, the brave lasses. It would +go like a charm; look at it, and you will say you owe me one.</p> +<p>Second, Gilder asking me for fiction, I suddenly took a great +resolve, and have packed off to him my new work, <i>The Silverado +Squatters</i>. I do not for a moment suppose he will take +it; but pray say all the good words you can for it. I +should be awfully glad to get it taken. But if it does not +mean dibbs at once, I shall be ruined for life. Pray write +soon and beg Gilder your prettiest for a poor gentleman in +pecuniary sloughs.</p> +<p>Fourth, next time I am supposed to be at death’s door, +<a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>write to +me like a Christian, and let not your correspondence attend on +business.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I see I have led you to conceive the +<i>Squatters</i> are fiction. They are not, alas!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Chalet Solitude</i>, <i>May</i> +5, [1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST PEOPLE</span>,—I have +had a great piece of news. There has been offered for +<i>Treasure Island</i>—how much do you suppose? I +believe it would be an excellent jest to keep the answer till my +next letter. For two cents I would do so. Shall +I? Anyway, I’ll turn the page first. +No—well—A hundred pounds, all alive, O! A +hundred jingling, tingling, golden, minted quid. Is not +this wonderful? Add that I have now finished, in draft, the +fifteenth chapter of my novel, and have only five before me, and +you will see what cause of gratitude I have.</p> +<p>The weather, to look at the per contra sheet, continues +vomitable; and Fanny is quite out of sorts. But, really, +with such cause of gladness, I have not the heart to be +dispirited by anything. My child’s verse book is +finished, dedication and all, and out of my hands—you may +tell Cummy; <i>Silverado</i> is done, too, and cast upon the +waters; and this novel so near completion, it does look as if I +should support myself without trouble in the future. If I +have only health, I can, I thank God. It is dreadful to be +a great, big man, and not be able to buy bread.</p> +<p>O that this may last!</p> +<p>I have to-day paid my rent for the half year, till the middle +of September, and got my lease: why they have been so long, I +know not.</p> +<p>I wish you all sorts of good things.</p> +<p>When is our marriage day?—Your loving and ecstatic +son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Treesure +Eilaan</span>,</p> +<p>It has been for me a Treasure Island verily.</p> +<h3><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +267</span><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> 8, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—I was +disgusted to hear my father was not so well. I have a most +troubled existence of work and business. But the work goes +well, which is the great affair. I meant to have written a +most delightful letter; too tired, however, and must stop. +Perhaps I’ll find time to add to it ere post.</p> +<p>I have returned refreshed from eating, but have little time, +as Lloyd will go soon with the letters on his way to his tutor, +Louis Robert (!!!!), with whom he learns Latin in French, and +French, I suppose, in Latin, which seems to me a capital +education. He, Lloyd, is a great bicycler already, and has +been long distances; he is most new-fangled over his instrument, +and does not willingly converse on other subjects.</p> +<p>Our lovely garden is a prey to snails; I have gathered about a +bushel, which, not having the heart to slay, I steal forth withal +and deposit near my neighbour’s garden wall. As a +case of casuistry, this presents many points of interest. I +loathe the snails, but from loathing to actual butchery, +trucidation of multitudes, there is still a step that I hesitate +to take. What, then, to do with them? My +neighbour’s vineyard, pardy! It is a rich, villa, +pleasure-garden of course; if it were a peasant’s patch, +the snails, I suppose, would have to perish.</p> +<p>The weather these last three days has been much better, though +it is still windy and unkind. I keep splendidly well, and +am cruelly busy, with mighty little time even for a walk. +And to write at all, under such pressure, must be held to lean to +virtue’s side.</p> +<p>My financial prospects are shining. O if the health will +hold, I should easily support myself.—Your ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>,<br /> +[<i>May</i> 20, 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I enclose +the receipt and the corrections. As for your letter and +Gilder’s, I must take an hour or so to think; the matter +much importing—to me. The £40 was a heavenly +thing.</p> +<p>I send the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. by Henley, +because he acts for me in all matters, and had the thing, like +all my other books, in his detention. He is my unpaid +agent—an admirable arrangement for me, and one that has +rather more than doubled my income on the spot.</p> +<p>If I have been long silent, think how long you were so and +blush, sir, blush.</p> +<p>I was rendered unwell by the arrival of your cheque, and, like +Pepys, ‘my hand still shakes to write of it.’ +To this grateful emotion, and not to D.T., please attribute the +raggedness of my hand.</p> +<p>This year I should be able to live and keep my family on my +own earnings, and that in spite of eight months and more of +perfect idleness at the end of last and beginning of this. +It is a sweet thought.</p> +<p>This spot, our garden and our view, are sub-celestial. I +sing daily with my Bunyan, that great bard,</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘I dwell already +the next door to Heaven!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If you could see my roses, and my aloes, and my fig-marigolds, +and my olives, and my view over a plain, and my view of certain +mountains as graceful as Apollo, as severe as Zeus, you would not +think the phrase exaggerated.</p> +<p>It is blowing to-day a <i>hot</i> mistral, which is the devil +or a near connection of his.</p> +<p>This to catch the post.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +269</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>France</i>,<br +/> +<i>May</i> 21, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—The night +giveth advice, generally bad advice; but I have taken it. +And I have written direct to Gilder to tell him to keep the book +<a name="citation269"></a><a href="#footnote269" +class="citation">[269]</a> back and go on with it in November at +his leisure. I do not know if this will come in time; if it +doesn’t, of course things will go on in the way +proposed. The £40, or, as I prefer to put it, the +1000 francs, has been such a piercing sun-ray as my whole grey +life is gilt withal. On the back of it I can endure. +If these good days of <i>Longman</i> and the <i>Century</i> only +last, it will be a very green world, this that we dwell in and +that philosophers miscall. I have no taste for that +philosophy; give me large sums paid on the receipt of the <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. and copyright reserved, and what do I +care about the non-bëent? Only I know it can’t +last. The devil always has an imp or two in every house, +and my imps are getting lively. The good lady, the dear, +kind lady, the sweet, excellent lady, Nemesis, whom alone I +adore, has fixed her wooden eye upon me. I fall prone; +spare me, Mother Nemesis! But catch her!</p> +<p>I must now go to bed; for I have had a whoreson influenza +cold, and have to lie down all day, and get up only to meals and +the delights, June delights, of business correspondence.</p> +<p>You said nothing about my subject for a poem. +Don’t you like it? My own fishy eye has been fixed on +it for prose, but I believe it could be thrown out finely in +verse, and hence I resign and pass the hand. Twig the +compliment?—Yours affectionately</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +270</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> +1883.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">The</span> influenza has busted me a +good deal; I have no spring, and am headachy. So, as my +good Red Lion Counter begged me for another Butcher’s +Boy—I turned me to—what thinkest ’ou?—to +Tushery, by the mass! Ay, friend, a whole tale of +tushery. And every tusher tushes me so free, that may I be +tushed if the whole thing is worth a tush. <i>The Black +Arrow</i>: <i>A Tale of Tunstall Forest</i> is his name: tush! a +poor thing!</p> +<p>Will <i>Treasure Island</i> proofs be coming soon, think +you?</p> +<p>I will now make a confession. It was the sight of your +maimed strength and masterfulness that begot John Silver in +<i>Treasure Island</i>. Of course, he is not in any other +quality or feature the least like you; but the idea of the maimed +man, ruling and dreaded by the sound, was entirely taken from +you.</p> +<p>Otto is, as you say, not a thing to extend my public on. +It is queer and a little, little bit free; and some of the +parties are immoral; and the whole thing is not a romance, nor +yet a comedy; nor yet a romantic comedy; but a kind of +preparation of some of the elements of all three in a glass +jar. I think it is not without merit, but I am not always +on the level of my argument, and some parts are false, and much +of the rest is thin; it is more a triumph for myself than +anything else; for I see, beyond it, better stuff. I have +nine chapters ready, or almost ready, for press. My feeling +would be to get it placed anywhere for as much as could be got +for it, and rather in the shadow, till one saw the look of it in +print.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Pretty +Sick</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +271</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>May</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—The books +came some time since, but I have not had the pluck to answer: a +shower of small troubles having fallen in, or troubles that may +be very large.</p> +<p>I have had to incur a huge vague debt for cleaning sewers; our +house was (of course) riddled with hidden cesspools, but that was +infallible. I have the fever, and feel the duty to work +very heavy on me at times; yet go it must. I have had to +leave <i>Fontainebleau</i>, when three hours would finish it, and +go full-tilt at tushery for a while. But it will come +soon.</p> +<p>I think I can give you a good article on Hokusai; but that is +for afterwards; <i>Fontainebleau</i> is first in hand</p> +<p>By the way, my view is to give the <i>Penny Whistles</i> to +Crane or Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is +a fellow who, at least, always does his best.</p> +<p>Shall I ever have money enough to write a play? O dire +necessity!</p> +<p>A word in your ear: I don’t like trying to support +myself. I hate the strain and the anxiety; and when +unexpected expenses are foisted on me, I feel the world is +playing with false dice.—Now I must Tush, adieu,</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">An +Aching</span>, <span class="smcap">Fevered</span>, <span +class="smcap">Penny-Journalist</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">A lytle Jape of <span +class="GutSmall">TUSHERIE</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">By A. Tusher.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pleasant river gushes<br /> + Among the meadows green;<br /> +At home the author tushes;<br /> + For him it flows unseen.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Birds among the Bûshes<br /> + May wanton on the spray;<br /> +But vain for him who tushes<br /> + The brightness of the day!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +272</span>The frog among the rushes<br /> + Sits singing in the blue.<br /> +By’r la’kin! but these tushes<br /> + Are wearisome to do!</p> +<p class="poetry">The task entirely crushes<br /> + The spirit of the bard:<br /> +God pity him who tushes—<br /> + His task is very hard.</p> +<p class="poetry">The filthy gutter slushes,<br /> + The clouds are full of rain,<br /> +But doomed is he who tushes<br /> + To tush and tush again.</p> +<p class="poetry">At morn with his hair-br<i>u</i>shes,<br /> + Still, ‘tush’ he says, and weeps;<br /> +At night again he tushes,<br /> + And tushes till he sleeps.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when at length he pushes<br /> + Beyond the river dark—<br /> +‘Las, to the man who tushes,<br /> + ‘Tush’ shall be God’s remark!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> 1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—You may be +surprised to hear that I am now a great writer of verses; that +is, however, so. I have the mania now like my betters, and +faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a book of rhymes +like Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. Really, I have +begun to learn some of the rudiments of that trade, and have +written three or four pretty enough pieces of octosyllabic +nonsense, semi-serious, semi-smiling. A kind of prose +Herrick, divested of the gift of verse, and you behold the +Bard. But I like it.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hyères</i> [<i>June</i> +1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—I was delighted +to hear the good news about —. Bravo, he goes uphill +fast. Let him beware of vanity, and he will go higher; let +him be still discontented, and let him (if it might be) see the +merits and not the faults of his rivals, and he may swarm at last +to the top-gallant. There is no other way. Admiration +is the only road to excellence; and the critical spirit kills, +but envy and injustice are putrefaction on its feet.</p> +<p>Thus far the moralist. The eager author now begs to know +whether you may have got the other Whistles, and whether a fresh +proof is to be taken; also whether in that case the dedication +should not be printed therewith; <i>B</i>ulk <i>D</i>elights +<i>P</i>ublishers (original aphorism; to be said sixteen times in +succession as a test of sobriety).</p> +<p>Your wild and ravening commands were received; but cannot be +obeyed. And anyway, I do assure you I am getting better +every day; and if the weather would but turn, I should soon be +observed to walk in hornpipes. Truly I am on the +mend. I am still very careful. I have the new +dictionary; a joy, a thing of beauty, and—bulk. I +shall be raked i’ the mools before it’s finished; +that is the only pity; but meanwhile I sing.</p> +<p>I beg to inform you that I, Robert Louis Stevenson, author of +<i>Brashiana</i> and other works, am merely beginning to commence +to prepare to make a first start at trying to understand my +profession. O the height and depth of novelty and worth in +any art! and O that I am privileged to swim and shoulder through +such oceans! Could one get out of sight of land—all +in the blue? Alas not, being anchored here in flesh, and +the bonds of logic being still about us.</p> +<p><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>But +what a great space and a great air there is in these small +shallows where alone we venture! and how new each sight, squall, +calm, or sunrise! An art is a fine fortune, a palace in a +park, a band of music, health, and physical beauty; all but +love—to any worthy practiser. I sleep upon my art for +a pillow; I waken in my art; I am unready for death, because I +hate to leave it. I love my wife, I do not know how much, +nor can, nor shall, unless I lost her; but while I can conceive +my being widowed, I refuse the offering of life without my +art. I <i>am</i> not but in my art; it is me; I am the body +of it merely.</p> +<p>And yet I produce nothing, am the author of <i>Brashiana</i> +and other works: tiddy-iddity—as if the works one wrote +were anything but ‘prentice’s experiments. Dear +reader, I deceive you with husks, the real works and all the +pleasure are still mine and incommunicable. After this +break in my work, beginning to return to it, as from light sleep, +I wax exclamatory, as you see.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Sursum Corda:</p> +<p class="gutindent">Heave ahead:</p> +<p class="gutindent">Here’s luck.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Art and Blue Heaven,</p> +<p class="gutindent">April and God’s Larks.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Green reeds and the sky-scattering +river.</p> +<p class="gutindent">A stately music.</p> +<p class="gutindent">Enter God!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Ay, but you know, until a man can write that ‘Enter +God,’ he has made no art! None! Come, let us +take counsel together and make some!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i> [<i>Summer</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—Glad you like +<i>Fontainebleau</i>. I am going to be the means, under +heaven, of aërating or liberating <a +name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 275</span>your +pages. The idea that because a thing is a picture-book all +the writing should be on the wrong tack is <i>triste</i> but +widespread. Thus Hokusai will be really a gossip on +convention, or in great part. And the Skelt will be as like +a Charles Lamb as I can get it. The writer should write, +and not illustrate pictures: else it’s bosh. . . .</p> +<p>Your remarks about the ugly are my eye. Ugliness is only +the prose of horror. It is when you are not able to write +<i>Macbeth</i> that you write <i>Thérèse +Raquin</i>. Fashions are external: the essence of art only +varies in so far as fashion widens the field of its application; +art is a mill whose thirlage, in different ages, widens and +contracts; but, in any case and under any fashion, the great man +produces beauty, terror, and mirth, and the little man produces +cleverness (personalities, psychology) instead of beauty, +ugliness instead of terror, and jokes instead of mirth. As +it was in the beginning, is now, and shall be ever, world without +end. Amen!</p> +<p>And even as you read, you say, ‘Of course, <i>quelle +rengaîne</i>!’</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i> [<i>Summer</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—Yes, I own +I am a real bad correspondent, and am as bad as can be in most +directions.</p> +<p>I have been adding some more poems to your book. I wish +they would look sharp about it; but, you see, they are trying to +find a good artist to make the illustrations, without which no +child would give a kick for it. It will be quite a fine +work, I hope. The dedication is a poem too, and has been +quite a long while written, but I do not mean you to see it till +you get the book; keep the jelly <a name="page276"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 276</span>for the last, you know, as you would +often recommend in former days, so now you can take your own +medicine.</p> +<p>I am very sorry to hear you have been so poorly; I have been +very well; it used to be quite the other way, used it not? +Do you remember making the whistle at Mount Chessie? I do +not think it <i>was</i> my knife; I believe it was yours; but +rhyme is a very great monarch, and goes before honesty, in these +affairs at least. Do you remember, at Warriston, one autumn +Sunday, when the beech nuts were on the ground, seeing heaven +open? I would like to make a rhyme of that, but cannot.</p> +<p>Is it not strange to think of all the changes: Bob, Cramond, +Delhi, Minnie, and Henrietta, all married, and fathers and +mothers, and your humble servant just the one point better +off? And such a little while ago all children +together! The time goes swift and wonderfully even; and if +we are no worse than we are, we should be grateful to the power +that guides us. For more than a generation I have now been +to the fore in this rough world, and been most tenderly helped, +and done cruelly wrong, and yet escaped; and here I am still, the +worse for wear, but with some fight in me still, and not +unthankful—no, surely not unthankful, or I were then the +worst of human beings!</p> +<p>My little dog is a very much better child in every way, both +more loving and more amiable; but he is not fond of strangers, +and is, like most of his kind, a great, specious humbug.</p> +<p>Fanny has been ill, but is much better again; she now goes +donkey rides with an old woman, who compliments her on her +French. That old woman—seventy odd—is in a +parlous spiritual state.</p> +<p>Pretty soon, in the new sixpenny illustrated magazine, +Wogg’s picture is to appear: this is a great honour! +And the poor soul whose vanity would just explode if he could +understand it, will never be a bit the wiser!—With much +love, in which Fanny joins, believe me, your affectionate +boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Summer</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—Snatches in +return for yours; for this little once, I’m well to +windward of you.</p> +<p>Seventeen chapters of <i>Otto</i> are now drafted, and finding +I was working through my voice and getting screechy, I have +turned back again to rewrite the earlier part. It has, I do +believe, some merit: of what order, of course, I am the last to +know; and, triumph of triumphs, my wife—my wife who hates +and loathes and slates my women—admits a great part of my +Countess to be on the spot.</p> +<p>Yes, I could borrow, but it is the joy of being before the +public, for once. Really, £100 is a sight more than +<i>Treasure Island</i> is worth.</p> +<p>The reason of my <i>dèche</i>? Well, if you begin +one house, have to desert it, begin another, and are eight months +without doing any work, you will be in a <i>dèche</i> +too. I am not in a <i>dèche</i>, however; +<i>distinguo</i>—I would fain distinguish; I am rather a +swell, but <i>not solvent</i>. At a touch the edifice, +<i>ædificium</i>, might collapse. If my creditors +began to babble around me, I would sink with a slow strain of +music into the crimson west. The difficulty in my elegant +villa is to find oil, <i>oleum</i>, for the dam axles. But +I’ve paid my rent until September; and beyond the chemist, +the grocer, the baker, the doctor, the gardener, Lloyd’s +teacher, and the great thief creditor Death, I can snap my +fingers at all men. Why will people spring bills on +you? I try to make ’em charge me at the moment; they +won’t, the money goes, the debt remains.—The Required +Play is in the <i>Merry Men</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Q. E. F.</p> +<p>I thus render honour to your <i>flair</i>; it came on me of a +clap; I do not see it yet beyond a kind of sunset glory. +But it’s there: passion, romance, the picturesque, +involved: startling, simple, horrid: a sea-pink in +sea-froth! <a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +278</span><i>S’agit de la désenterrer</i>. +‘Help!’ cries a buried masterpiece.</p> +<p>Once I see my way to the year’s end, clear, I turn to +plays; till then I grind at letters; finish <i>Otto</i>; write, +say, a couple of my <i>Traveller’s Tales</i>; and then, if +all my ships come home, I will attack the drama in earnest. +I cannot mix the skeins. Thus, though I’m morally +sure there is a play in <i>Otto</i>, I dare not look for it: I +shoot straight at the story.</p> +<p>As a story, a comedy, I think <i>Otto</i> very well +constructed; the echoes are very good, all the sentiments change +round, and the points of view are continually, and, I think (if +you please), happily contrasted. None of it is exactly +funny, but some of it is smiling.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i> [<i>Summer</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have now +leisurely read your volume; pretty soon, by the way, you will +receive one of mine.</p> +<p>It is a pleasant, instructive, and scholarly volume. The +three best being, quite out of sight—Crashaw, Otway, and +Etherege. They are excellent; I hesitate between them; but +perhaps Crashaw is the most brilliant</p> +<p>Your Webster is not my Webster; nor your Herrick my +Herrick. On these matters we must fire a gun to leeward, +show our colours, and go by. Argument is impossible. +They are two of my favourite authors: Herrick above all: I +suppose they are two of yours. Well, Janus-like, they do +behold us two with diverse countenances, few features are common +to these different avatars; and we can but agree to differ, but +still with gratitude to our entertainers, like two guests at the +same dinner, one <a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>of whom takes clear and one white soup. By my way +of thinking, neither of us need be wrong.</p> +<p>The other papers are all interesting, adequate, clear, and +with a pleasant spice of the romantic. It is a book you may +be well pleased to have so finished, and will do you much +good. The Crashaw is capital: capital; I like the taste of +it. Preface clean and dignified. The handling +throughout workmanlike, with some four or five touches of +preciosity, which I regret.</p> +<p>With my thanks for information, entertainment, and a +pleasurable envy here and there.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>,<br /> +<i>Var</i>, <i>September</i> 19, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOY</span>,—Our letters +vigorously cross: you will ere this have received a note to +Coggie: God knows what was in it.</p> +<p>It is strange, a little before the first word you sent +me—so late—kindly late, I know and feel—I was +thinking in my bed, when I knew you I had six friends—Bob I +had by nature; then came the good James Walter—with all his +failings—the <i>gentleman</i> of the lot, alas to sink so +low, alas to do so little, but now, thank God, in his quiet rest; +next I found Baxter—well do I remember telling Walter I had +unearthed ‘a W.S. that I thought would do’—it +was in the Academy Lane, and he questioned me <a +name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>as to the +Signet’s qualifications; fourth came Simpson; somewhere +about the same time, I began to get intimate with Jenkin; last +came Colvin. Then, one black winter afternoon, long Leslie +Stephen, in his velvet jacket, met me in the <i>Spec.</i> by +appointment, took me over to the infirmary, and in the crackling, +blighting gaslight showed me that old head whose excellent +representation I see before me in the photograph. Now when +a man has six friends, to introduce a seventh is usually +hopeless. Yet when you were presented, you took to them and +they to you upon the nail. You must have been a fine +fellow; but what a singular fortune I must have had in my six +friends that you should take to all. I don’t know if +it is good Latin, most probably not: but this is enscrolled +before my eye for Walter: <i>Tandem e nubibus in apricum +properat</i>. Rest, I suppose, I know, was all that +remained; but O to look back, to remember all the mirth, all the +kindness, all the humorous limitations and loved defects of that +character; to think that he was young with me, sharing that +weather-beaten, Fergussonian youth, looking forward through the +clouds to the sunburst; and now clean gone from my path, +silent—well, well. This has been a strange +awakening. Last night, when I was alone in the house, with +the window open on the lovely still night, I could have sworn he +was in the room with me; I could show you the spot; and, what was +very curious, I heard his rich laughter, a thing I had not called +to mind for I know not how long.</p> +<p>I see his coral waistcoat studs that he wore the first time he +dined in my house; I see his attitude, leaning back a little, +already with something of a portly air, and laughing +internally. How I admired him! And now in the West +Kirk.</p> +<p>I am trying to write out this haunting bodily sense of +absence; besides, what else should I write of?</p> +<p>Yes, looking back, I think of him as one who was good, though +sometimes clouded. He was the only gentle one <a +name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 281</span>of all my +friends, save perhaps the other Walter. And he was +certainly the only modest man among the lot. He never gave +himself away; he kept back his secret; there was always a gentle +problem behind all. Dear, dear, what a wreck; and yet how +pleasant is the retrospect! God doeth all things well, +though by what strange, solemn, and murderous contrivances!</p> +<p>It is strange: he was the only man I ever loved who did not +habitually interrupt. The fact draws my own portrait. +And it is one of the many reasons why I count myself honoured by +his friendship. A man like you <i>had</i> to like me; you +could not help yourself; but Ferrier was above me, we were not +equals; his true self humoured and smiled paternally upon my +failings, even as I humoured and sorrowed over his.</p> +<p>Well, first his mother, then himself, they are gone: ‘in +their resting graves.’</p> +<p>When I come to think of it, I do not know what I said to his +sister, and I fear to try again. Could you send her +this? There is too much both about yourself and me in it; +but that, if you do not mind, is but a mark of sincerity. +It would let her know how entirely, in the mind of (I suppose) +his oldest friend, the good, true Ferrier obliterates the memory +of the other, who was only his ‘lunatic brother.’</p> +<p>Judge of this for me, and do as you please; anyway, I will try +to write to her again; my last was some kind of scrawl that I +could not see for crying. This came upon me, remember, with +terrible suddenness; I was surprised by this death; and it is +fifteen or sixteen years since first I saw the handsome face in +the <i>Spec</i>. I made sure, besides, to have died +first. Love to you, your wife, and her sisters.</p> +<p>—Ever yours, dear boy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I never knew any man so superior to himself as poor James +Walter. The best of him only came as a vision, like Corsica +from the Corniche. He never gave his <a +name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>measure +either morally or intellectually. The curse was on +him. Even his friends did not know him but by fits. I +have passed hours with him when he was so wise, good, and sweet, +that I never knew the like of it in any other. And for a +beautiful good humour he had no match. I remember breaking +in upon him once with a whole red-hot story (in my worst manner), +pouring words upon him by the hour about some truck not worth an +egg that had befallen me; and suddenly, some half hour after, +finding that the sweet fellow had some concern of his own of +infinitely greater import, that he was patiently and smilingly +waiting to consult me on. It sounds nothing; but the +courtesy and the unselfishness were perfect. It makes me +rage to think how few knew him, and how many had the chance to +sneer at their better.</p> +<p>Well, he was not wasted, that we know; though if anything +looked liker irony than this fitting of a man out with these rich +qualities and faculties to be wrecked and aborted from the very +stocks, I do not know the name of it. Yet we see that he +has left an influence; the memory of his patient courtesy has +often checked me in rudeness; has it not you?</p> +<p>You can form no idea of how handsome Walter was. At +twenty he was splendid to see; then, too, he had the sense of +power in him, and great hopes; he looked forward, ever jesting of +course, but he looked to see himself where he had the right to +expect. He believed in himself profoundly; but <i>he never +disbelieved in others</i>. To the roughest Highland student +he always had his fine, kind, open dignity of manner; and a good +word behind his back.</p> +<p>The last time that I saw him before leaving for +America—it was a sad blow to both of us. When he +heard I was leaving, and that might be the last time we might +meet—it almost was so—he was terribly upset, and came +round at once. We sat late, in Baxter’s empty house, +where I <a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>was sleeping. My dear friend Walter Ferrier: O if +I had only written to him more! if only one of us in these last +days had been well! But I ever cherished the honour of his +friendship, and now when he is gone, I know what I have lost +still better. We live on, meaning to meet; but when the +hope is gone, the, pang comes.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>,<br /> +26<i>th</i> <i>September</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—It appears +a bolt from Transatlantica is necessary to produce four lines +from you. It is not flattering; but as I was always a bad +correspondent, ’tis a vice to which I am lenient. I +give you to know, however, that I have already twice (this makes +three times) sent you what I please to call a letter, and +received from you in return a subterfuge—or nothing. . . +.</p> +<p>My present purpose, however, which must not be postponed, is +to ask you to telegraph to the Americans.</p> +<p>After a summer of good health of a very radiant order, +toothache and the death of a very old friend, which came upon me +like a thunderclap, have rather shelved my powers. I stare +upon the paper, not write. I wish I could write like your +Sculptors; yet I am well aware that I should not try in that +direction. A certain warmth (tepid enough) and a certain +dash of the picturesque are my poor essential qualities; and if I +went fooling after the too classical, I might lose even +these. But I envied you that page.</p> +<p>I am, of course, deep in schemes; I was so ever. +Execution alone somewhat halts. How much do you make per +annum, I wonder? This year, for the first time, I shall +pass £300; I may even get halfway to the next +milestone. This seems but a faint remuneration; and the +devil of it is, that I manage, with sickness, and moves, <a +name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>and +education, and the like, to keep steadily in front of my +income. However, I console myself with this, that if I were +anything else under God’s Heaven, and had the same crank +health, I should make an even zero. If I had, with my +present knowledge, twelve months of my old health, I would, +could, and should do something neat. As it is, I have to +tinker at my things in little sittings; and the rent, or the +butcher, or something, is always calling me off to rattle up a +pot-boiler. And then comes a back-set of my health, and I +have to twiddle my fingers and play patience.</p> +<p>Well, I do not complain, but I do envy strong health where it +is squandered. Treasure your strength, and may you never +learn by experience the profound <i>ennui</i> and irritation of +the shelved artist. For then, what is life? All that +one has done to make one’s life effective then doubles the +itch of inefficiency.</p> +<p>I trust also you may be long without finding out the devil +that there is in a bereavement. After love it is the one +great surprise that life preserves for us. Now I +don’t think I can be astonished any more.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i> [<i>October</i> +1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">COLVIN</span>, <span +class="GutSmall">COLVIN</span>, <span +class="GutSmall">COLVIN</span>,—Yours received; also +interesting copy of <i>P. Whistles</i>. ‘In the +multitude of <a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span>councillors the Bible declares there is wisdom,’ +said my great-uncle, ‘but I have always found in them +distraction.’ It is extraordinary how tastes vary: +these proofs have been handed about, it appears, and I have had +several letters; and—distraction. ‘Æsop: the +Miller and the Ass.’ Notes on details:—</p> +<p>1. I love the occasional trochaic line; and so did many +excellent writers before me.</p> +<p>2. If you don’t like ‘A Good Boy,’ I +do.</p> +<p>3. In ‘Escape at Bedtime,’ I found two +suggestions. ‘Shove’ for ‘above’ is +a correction of the press; it was so written. +‘Twinkled’ is just the error; to the child the stars +appear to be there; any word that suggests illusion is a +horror.</p> +<p>4. I don’t care; I take a different view of the +vocative.</p> +<p>5. Bewildering and childering are good enough for +me. These are rhymes, jingles; I don’t go for +eternity and the three unities.</p> +<p>I will delete some of those condemned, but not all. I +don’t care for the name Penny Whistles; I sent a sheaf to +Henley when I sent ’em. But I’ve forgot the +others. I would just as soon call ’em ‘Rimes +for Children’ as anything else. I am not proud nor +particular.</p> +<p>Your remarks on the <i>Black Arrow</i> are to the point. +I am pleased you liked Crookback; he is a fellow whose hellish +energy has always fired my attention. I wish Shakespeare +had written the play after he had learned some of the rudiments +of literature and art rather than before. Some day, I will +re-tickle the Sable Missile, and shoot it, <i>moyennant +finances</i>, once more into the air; I can lighten it of much, +and devote some more attention to Dick o’ Gloucester. +It’s great sport to write tushery.</p> +<p>By this I reckon you will have heard of my proposed +excursiolorum to the Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, and +kindred sites. If the excursiolorum goes on, that is, <a +name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>if +<i>moyennant finances</i> comes off, I shall write to beg you to +collect introductiolorums for me.</p> +<p>Distinguo: 1. <i>Silverado</i> was not written in America, but +in Switzerland’s icy mountains. 2. What you read is +the bleeding and disembowelled remains of what I wrote. 3. +The good stuff is all to come—so I think. ‘The +Sea Fogs,’ ‘The Hunter’s Family,’ +‘Toils and Pleasures’—<i>belles +pages</i>.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Ramnugger</span>.</p> +<p>O!—Seeley is too clever to live, and the book a +gem. But why has he read too much Arnold? Why will he +avoid—obviously avoid—fine writing up to which he has +led? This is a winking, curled-and-oiled, ultra-cultured, +Oxford-don sort of an affectation that infuriates my honest +soul. ‘You see’—they say—‘how +unbombastic <i>we</i> are; we come right up to eloquence, and, +when it’s hanging on the pen, dammy, we scorn +it!’ It is literary Deronda-ism. If you +don’t want the woman, the image, or the phrase, mortify +your vanity and avoid the appearance of wanting them.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>October</i> [1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—. . . Some +day or other, in Cassell’s <i>Magazine of Art</i>, you will +see a paper which will interest you, and where your name +appears. It is called ‘Fontainebleau: Village +Communities of Artists,’ and the signature of R. L. +Stevenson will be found annexed.</p> +<p>Please tell the editor of <i>Manhattan</i> the following +secrets for me: 1<i>st</i>, That I am a beast; 2<i>nd</i>, that I +owe him a letter; 3<i>rd</i>, that I have lost his, and cannot +recall either his name or address; 4<i>th</i>, that I am very +deep in engagements, which my absurd health makes it hard for me +<a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>to +overtake; but 5<i>th</i>, that I will bear him in mind; +6<i>th</i> and last, that I am a brute.</p> +<p>My address is still the same, and I live in a most sweet +corner of the universe, sea and fine hills before me, and a rich +variegated plain; and at my back a craggy hill, loaded with vast +feudal ruins. I am very quiet; a person passing by my door +half startles me; but I enjoy the most aromatic airs, and at +night the most wonderful view into a moonlit garden. By day +this garden fades into nothing, overpowered by its surroundings +and the luminous distance; but at night and when the moon is out, +that garden, the arbour, the flight of stairs that mount the +artificial hillock, the plumed blue gum-trees that hang +trembling, become the very skirts of Paradise. Angels I +know frequent it; and it thrills all night with the flutes of +silence. Damn that garden;—and by day it is gone.</p> +<p>Continue to testify boldly against realism. Down with +Dagon, the fish god! All art swings down towards imitation, +in these days, fatally. But the man who loves art with +wisdom sees the joke; it is the lustful that tremble and respect +her ladyship; but the honest and romantic lovers of the Muse can +see a joke and sit down to laugh with Apollo.</p> +<p>The prospect of your return to Europe is very agreeable; and I +was pleased by what you said about your parents. One of my +oldest friends died recently, and this has given me new thoughts +of death. Up to now I had rather thought of him as a mere +personal enemy of my own; but now that I see him hunting after my +friends, he looks altogether darker. My own father is not +well; and Henley, of whom you must have heard me speak, is in a +questionable state of health. These things are very solemn, +and take some of the colour out of life. It is a great +thing, after all, to be a man of reasonable honour and +kindness. Do you remember once consulting me in Paris +whether you had not better sacrifice honesty <a +name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>to art; and +how, after much confabulation, we agreed that your art would +suffer if you did? We decided better than we knew. In +this strange welter where we live, all hangs together by a +million filaments; and to do reasonably well by others, is the +first prerequisite of art. Art is a virtue; and if I were +the man I should be, my art would rise in the proportion of my +life.</p> +<p>If you were privileged to give some happiness to your parents, +I know your art will gain by it. <i>By God</i>, <i>it +will</i>! <i>Sic subscribitur</i>,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i> [<i>October</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—Yes, I got +both your letters at Lyons, but have been since then decading in +several steps Toothache; fever; Ferrier’s death; +lung. Now it is decided I am to leave to-morrow, penniless, +for Nice to see Dr. Williams.</p> +<p>I was much struck by your last. I have written a +breathless note on Realism for Henley; a fifth part of the +subject, hurriedly touched, which will show you how my thoughts +are driving. You are now at last beginning to think upon +the problems of executive, plastic art, for you are now for the +first time attacking them. Hitherto you have spoken and +thought of two things—technique and the <i>ars artium</i>, +or common background of all arts. Studio work is the real +touch. That is the genial error of the present French +teaching. Realism I regard as a mere question of +method. The ‘brown foreground,’ ‘old +mastery,’ and the like, ranking with villanelles, as +technical sports and pastimes. Real art, whether ideal or +realistic, addresses precisely the same feeling, and seeks the +same qualities—significance or charm. And the +same—very same—inspiration is only methodically +differentiated according as the artist is an arrant realist or an +arrant <a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +289</span>idealist. Each, by his own method, seeks to save +and perpetuate the same significance or charm; the one by +suppressing, the other by forcing, detail. All other +idealism is the brown foreground over again, and hence only art +in the sense of a game, like cup and ball. All other +realism is not art at all—but not at all. It is, +then, an insincere and showy handicraft.</p> +<p>Were you to re-read some Balzac, as I have been doing, it +would greatly help to clear your eyes. He was a man who +never found his method. An inarticulate Shakespeare, +smothered under forcible-feeble detail. It is astounding to +the riper mind how bad he is, how feeble, how untrue, how +tedious; and, of course, when he surrendered to his temperament, +how good and powerful. And yet never plain nor clear. +He could not consent to be dull, and thus became so. He +would leave nothing undeveloped, and thus drowned out of sight of +land amid the multitude of crying and incongruous details. +There is but one art—to omit! O if I knew how to +omit, I would ask no other knowledge. A man who knew how to +omit would make an <i>Iliad</i> of a daily paper.</p> +<p>Your definition of seeing is quite right. It is the +first part of omission to be partly blind. Artistic sight +is judicious blindness. Sam Bough <a +name="citation289"></a><a href="#footnote289" +class="citation">[289]</a> must have been a jolly blind old +boy. He would turn a corner, look for one-half or quarter +minute, and then say, ‘This’ll do, lad.’ +Down he sat, there and then, with whole artistic plan, scheme of +colour, and the like, and begin by laying a foundation of +powerful and seemingly incongruous colour on the block. He +saw, not the scene, but the water-colour sketch. Every +artist by sixty should so behold nature. Where does he +learn that? In the studio, I swear. He goes to nature +for facts, relations, values—material; as a man, before +writing a historical novel, reads up memoirs. But it is not +by reading memoirs that he has learned the <a +name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>selective +criterion. He has learned that in the practice of his art; +and he will never learn it well, but when disengaged from the +ardent struggle of immediate representation, of realistic and +<i>ex facto</i> art. He learns it in the crystallisation of +day-dreams; in changing, not in copying, fact; in the pursuit of +the ideal, not in the study of nature. These temples of art +are, as you say, inaccessible to the realistic climber. It +is not by looking at the sea that you get</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘The +multitudinous seas incarnadine,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>nor by looking at Mont Blanc that you find</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘And visited all +night by troops of stars.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A kind of ardour of the blood is the mother of all this; and +according as this ardour is swayed by knowledge and seconded by +craft, the art expression flows clear, and significance and +charm, like a moon rising, are born above the barren juggle of +mere symbols.</p> +<p>The painter must study more from nature than the man of +words. But why? Because literature deals with +men’s business and passions which, in the game of life, we +are irresistibly obliged to study; but painting with relations of +light, and colour, and significances, and form, which, from the +immemorial habit of the race, we pass over with an unregardful +eye. Hence this crouching upon camp-stools, and these +crusts. <a name="citation290"></a><a href="#footnote290" +class="citation">[290]</a> But neither one nor other is a +part of art, only preliminary studies.</p> +<p>I want you to help me to get people to understand that realism +is a method, and only methodic in its consequences; when the +realist is an artist, that is, and supposing the idealist with +whom you compare him to be anything but a <i>farceur</i> and a +<i>dilettante</i>. The two schools of working do, and +should, lead to the choice of different subjects. But that +is a consequence, not a <a name="page291"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 291</span>cause. See my chaotic note, +which will appear, I fancy, in November in Henley’s +sheet.</p> +<p>Poor Ferrier, it bust me horrid. He was, after you, the +oldest of my friends.</p> +<p>I am now very tired, and will go to bed having prelected +freely. Fanny will finish.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, 12<i>th</i> +<i>October</i> 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I have +just lunched; the day is exquisite, the air comes though the open +window rich with odour, and I am by no means spiritually +minded. Your letter, however, was very much valued, and has +been read oftener than once. What you say about yourself I +was glad to hear; a little decent resignation is not only +becoming a Christian, but is likely to be excellent for the +health of a Stevenson. To fret and fume is undignified, +suicidally foolish, and theologically unpardonable; we are here +not to make, but to tread predestined, pathways; we are the foam +of a wave, and to preserve a proper equanimity is not merely the +first part of submission to God, but the chief of possible +kindnesses to those about us. I am lecturing myself, but +you also. To do our best is one part, but to wash our hands +smilingly of the consequence is the next part, of any sensible +virtue.</p> +<p>I have come, for the moment, to a pause in my moral works; for +I have many irons in the fire, and I wish to finish something to +bring coin before I can afford to go on with what I think +doubtfully to be a duty. It is a most difficult work; a +touch of the parson will drive off those I hope to influence; a +touch of overstrained laxity, besides disgusting, like a grimace, +may do harm. Nothing that I have ever seen yet speaks +directly and efficaciously to <a name="page292"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 292</span>young men; and I do hope I may find +the art and wisdom to fill up a gap. The great point, as I +see it, is to ask as little as possible, and meet, if it may be, +every view or absence of view; and it should be, must be, +easy. Honesty is the one desideratum; but think how hard a +one to meet. I think all the time of Ferrier and myself; +these are the pair that I address. Poor Ferrier, so much a +better man than I, and such a temporal wreck. But the thing +of which we must divest our minds is to look partially upon +others; all is to be viewed; and the creature judged, as he must +be by his Creator, not dissected through a prism of morals, but +in the unrefracted ray. So seen, and in relation to the +almost omnipotent surroundings, who is to distinguish between F. +and such a man as Dr. Candlish, or between such a man as David +Hume and such an one as Robert Burns? To compare my poor +and good Walter with myself is to make me startle; he, upon all +grounds above the merely expedient, was the nobler being. +Yet wrecked utterly ere the full age of manhood; and the last +skirmishes so well fought, so humanly useless, so pathetically +brave, only the leaps of an expiring lamp. All this is a +very pointed instance. It shuts the mouth. I have +learned more, in some ways, from him than from any other soul I +ever met; and he, strange to think, was the best gentleman, in +all kinder senses, that I ever knew.—Ever your affectionate +son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Chalet la Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Oct.</i> 23, 1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +LOW</span>,—<i>C’est d’un bon camarade</i>; and +I am much obliged to you for your two letters and the +inclosure. Times are a lityle changed with all of us since +the ever <a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +293</span>memorable days of Lavenue: hallowed be his name! +hallowed his old Fleury!—of which you did not see—I +think—as I did—the glorious apotheosis: advanced on a +Tuesday to three francs, on the Thursday to six, and on Friday +swept off, holus bolus, for the proprietor’s private +consumption. Well, we had the start of that +proprietor. Many a good bottle came our way, and was, I +think, worthily made welcome.</p> +<p>I am pleased that Mr. Gilder should like my literature; and I +ask you particularly to thank Mr. Bunner (have I the name right?) +for his notice, which was of that friendly, headlong sort that +really pleases an author like what the French call a +‘shake-hands.’ It pleased me the more coming +from the States, where I have met not much recognition, save from +the buccaneers, and above all from pirates who misspell my +name. I saw my book advertised in a number of the +<i>Critic</i> as the work of one R. L. Stephenson; and, I own, I +boiled. It is so easy to know the name of the man whose +book you have stolen; for there it is, at full length, on the +title-page of your booty. But no, damn him, not he! +He calls me Stephenson. These woes I only refer to by the +way, as they set a higher value on the <i>Century</i> notice.</p> +<p>I am now a person with an established ill-health—a +wife—a dog possessed with an evil, a Gadarene +spirit—a chalet on a hill, looking out over the +Mediterranean—a certain reputation—and very obscure +finances. Otherwise, very much the same, I guess; and were +a bottle of Fleury a thing to be obtained, capable of developing +theories along with a fit spirit even as of yore. Yet I now +draw near to the Middle Ages; nearly three years ago, that fatal +Thirty struck; and yet the great work is not yet done—not +yet even conceived. But so, as one goes on, the wood seems +to thicken, the footpath to narrow, and the House Beautiful on +the hill’s summit to draw further and further away. +We learn, indeed, to use our means; but only to learn, along with +it, the paralysing knowledge that these means <a +name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>are only +applicable to two or three poor commonplace motives. Eight +years ago, if I could have slung ink as I can now, I should have +thought myself well on the road after Shakespeare; and +now—I find I have only got a pair of walking-shoes and not +yet begun to travel. And art is still away there on the +mountain summit. But I need not continue; for, of course, +this is your story just as much as it is mine; and, strange to +think, it was Shakespeare’s too, and Beethoven’s, and +Phidias’s. It is a blessed thing that, in this forest +of art, we can pursue our wood-lice and sparrows, <i>and not +catch them</i>, with almost the same fervour of exhilaration as +that with which Sophocles hunted and brought down the +Mastodon.</p> +<p>Tell me something of your work, and your wife.—My dear +fellow, I am yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>My wife begs to be remembered to both of you; I cannot say as +much for my dog, who has never seen you, but he would like, on +general principles, to bite you.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Hyères</i>, +<i>November</i> 1883.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—. . . +Of course, my seamanship is jimmy: did I not beseech you I know +not how often to find me an ancient mariner—and you, whose +own wife’s own brother is one of the ancientest, did +nothing for me? As for my seamen, did Runciman ever know +eighteenth century buccaneers? No? Well, no more did +I. But I have known and sailed with seamen too, and lived +and eaten with them; and I made my put-up shot in no great +ignorance, but as a put-up thing has to be made, <i>i.e.</i> to +be coherent and picturesque, and damn the expense. Are they +fairly lively on the wires? Then, favour me with <a +name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>your +tongues. Are they wooden, and dim, and no sport? Then +it is I that am silent, otherwise not. The work, strange as +it may sound in the ear, is not a work of realism. The next +thing I shall hear is that the etiquette is wrong in Otto’s +Court! With a warrant, and I mean it to be so, and the +whole matter never cost me half a thought. I make these +paper people to please myself, and Skelt, and God Almighty, and +with no ulterior purpose. Yet am I mortal myself; for, as I +remind you, I begged for a supervising mariner. However, my +heart is in the right place. I have been to sea, but I +never crossed the threshold of a court; and the courts shall be +the way I want ’em.</p> +<p>I’m glad to think I owe you the review that pleased me +best of all the reviews I ever had; the one I liked best before +that was —’s on the <i>Arabians</i>. These two +are the flowers of the collection, according to me. To live +reading such reviews and die eating ortolans—sich is my +aspiration.</p> +<p>Whenever you come you will be equally welcome. I am +trying to finish <i>Otto</i> ere you shall arrive, so as to take +and be able to enjoy a well-earned—O yes, a +well-earned—holiday. Longman fetched by Otto: is it a +spoon or a spoilt horn? Momentous, if the latter; if the +former, a spoon to dip much praise and pudding, and to give, I do +think, much pleasure. The last part, now in hand, much +smiles upon me.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>November</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—You must +not blame me too much for my silence; I am over head and ears in +work, and do not know what to do first. I have been hard at +<i>Otto</i>, hard at <i>Silverado</i> proofs, which I have worked +over again to a tremendous extent; cutting, adding, rewriting, +until some of the worst chapters of the original are now, to my +mind, <a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 296</span>as +good as any. I was the more bound to make it good, as I had +such liberal terms; it’s not for want of trying if I have +failed.</p> +<p>I got your letter on my birthday; indeed, that was how I found +it out about three in the afternoon, when postie comes. +Thank you for all you said. As for my wife, that was the +best investment ever made by man; but ‘in our branch of the +family’ we seem to marry well. I, considering my +piles of work, am wonderfully well; I have not been so busy for I +know not how long. I hope you will send me the money I +asked however, as I am not only penniless, but shall remain so in +all human probability for some considerable time. I have +got in the mass of my expectations; and the £100 which is +to float us on the new year can not come due till +<i>Silverado</i> is all ready; I am delaying it myself for the +moment; then will follow the binders and the travellers and an +infinity of other nuisances; and only at the last, the +jingling-tingling.</p> +<p>Do you know that <i>Treasure Island</i> has appeared? In +the November number of Henley’s Magazine, a capital number +anyway, there is a funny publisher’s puff of it for your +book; also a bad article by me. Lang dotes on <i>Treasure +Island</i>: ‘Except <i>Tom Sawyer</i> and the +<i>Odyssey</i>,’ he writes, ‘I never liked any +romance so much.’ I will inclose the letter +though. The Bogue is angelic, although very dirty. It +has rained—at last! It was jolly cold when the rain +came.</p> +<p>I was overjoyed to hear such good news of my father. Let +him go on at that! Ever your affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, [<i>November</i> +1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no shame. I raise a +blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self-righteous +spirit.</p> +<p><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>I +continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and +indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to +fancy’s ear.</p> +<p>I suppose you heard of Ferrier’s death: my oldest +friend, except Bob. It has much upset me. I did not +fancy how much. I am strangely concerned about it.</p> +<p>My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight +nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the +Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world—nest +there like mavises.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Here lies<br /> +The carcase<br /> +of<br /> +Robert Louis Stevenson,<br /> +An active, austere, and not inelegant<br /> +writer,<br /> +who,<br /> +at the termination of a long career,<br /> +wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by<br /> +the attention of two hemispheres,<br /> +yet owned it to have been his crowning favour<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO INHABIT</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LA SOLITUDE</span>.</p> +<p>(With the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyères, +he has been interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden +which he honoured for so long with his poetic presence.)</p> +<p>I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. +Write.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Milne</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>November</i> 1883].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +HENRIETTA</span>,—Certainly; who else would they be? +More by token, on that particular occasion, <a +name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>you were +sailing under the title of Princess Royal; I, after a furious +contest, under that of Prince Alfred; and Willie, still a little +sulky, as the Prince of Wales. We were all in a buck basket +about half-way between the swing and the gate; and I can still +see the Pirate Squadron heave in sight upon the weather bow.</p> +<p>I wrote a piece besides on Giant Bunker; but I was not happily +inspired, and it is condemned. Perhaps I’ll try +again; he was a horrid fellow, Giant Bunker! and some of my +happiest hours were passed in pursuit of him. You were a +capital fellow to play: how few there were who could! None +better than yourself. I shall never forget some of the days +at Bridge of Allan; they were one golden dream. See +‘A Good Boy’ in the <i>Penny Whistles</i>, much of +the sentiment of which is taken direct from one evening at B. of +A. when we had had a great play with the little Glasgow +girl. Hallowed be that fat book of fairy tales! Do +you remember acting the Fair One with Golden Locks? What a +romantic drama! Generally speaking, whenever I think of +play, it is pretty certain that you will come into my head. +I wrote a paper called ‘Child’s Play’ once, +where, I believe, you or Willie would recognise things. . . .</p> +<p>Surely Willie is just the man to marry; and if his wife +wasn’t a happy woman, I think I could tell her who was to +blame. Is there no word of it? Well, these things are +beyond arrangement; and the wind bloweth where it +listeth—which, I observe, is generally towards the west in +Scotland. Here it prefers a south-easterly course, and is +called the Mistral—usually with an adjective in +front. But if you will remember my yesterday’s +toothache and this morning’s crick, you will be in a +position to choose an adjective for yourself. Not that the +wind is unhealthy; only when it comes strong, it is both very +high and very cold, which makes it the d-v-l. But as I am +writing to a lady, I had better avoid this topic; winds requiring +a great scope of language.</p> +<p><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +299</span>Please remember me to all at home; give Ramsay a +pennyworth of acidulated drops for his good taste.—And +believe me, your affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>November</i> 22, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MISS FERRIER</span>,—Many +thanks for the photograph. It is—well, it is like +most photographs. The sun is an artist of too much renown; +and, at any rate, we who knew Walter ‘in the brave days of +old’ will be difficult to please.</p> +<p>I was inexpressibly touched to get a letter from some lawyers +as to some money. I have never had any account with my +friends; some have gained and some lost; and I should feel there +was something dishonest in a partial liquidation even if I could +recollect the facts, <i>which I cannot</i>. But the fact of +his having put aside this memorandum touched me greatly.</p> +<p>The mystery of his life is great. Our chemist in this +place, who had been at Malvern, recognised the picture. You +may remember Walter had a romantic affection for all pharmacies? +and the bottles in the window were for him a poem? He said +once that he knew no pleasure like driving through a lamplit +city, waiting for the chemists to go by.</p> +<p>All these things return now.</p> +<p>He had a pretty full translation of Schiller’s +<i>Æsthetic Letters</i>, which we read together, as well as +the second part of <i>Faust</i>, in Gladstone Terrace, he helping +me with the German. There is no keepsake I should more +value than the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. of that +translation. They were the best days I ever had with him, +little dreaming all would so soon be over. It needs a blow +like this to convict a man of mortality and its burthen. I +always thought I should go by myself; not to survive. But +now I feel as if the earth <a name="page300"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 300</span>were undermined, and all my friends +have lost one thickness of reality since that one passed. +Those are happy who can take it otherwise; with that I found +things all beginning to dislimn. Here we have no abiding +city, and one felt as though he had—and O too much +acted.</p> +<p>But if you tell me, he did not feel my silence. However, +he must have done so; and my guilt is irreparable now. I +thank God at least heartily that he did not resent it.</p> +<p>Please remember me to Sir Alexander and Lady Grant, to whose +care I will address this. When next I am in Edinburgh I +will take flowers, alas! to the West Kirk. Many a long hour +we passed in graveyards, the man who has gone and I—or +rather not that man—but the beautiful, genial, witty youth +who so betrayed him.—Dear Miss Ferrier, I am yours most +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, 13<i>th</i> <i>December</i> +1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—. . . I was +much pleased with what you send about my work. Ill-health +is a great handicapper in the race. I have never at command +that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a thing +red-hot. <i>Silverado</i> is an example of stuff worried +and pawed about, God knows how often, in poor health, and you can +see for yourself the result: good pages, an imperfect fusion, a +certain languor of the whole. Not, in short, art. I +have told Roberts to send you a copy of the book when it appears, +where there are some fair passages that will be new to you. +My brief romance, <i>Prince Otto</i>—far my most difficult +adventure up to now—is near an end. I have still one +chapter to write <i>de fond en comble</i>, and three or four to +strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I do not know +if I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; <a +name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>but I am +tempted to hope the first. If the present bargain hold, it +will not see the light of day for some thirteen months. +Then I shall be glad to know how it strikes you. There is a +good deal of stuff in it, both dramatic and, I think, poetic; and +the story is not like these purposeless fables of to-day, but is, +at least, intended to stand <i>firm</i> upon a base of +philosophy—or morals—as you please. It has been +long gestated, and is wrought with care. <i>Enfin</i>, +<i>nous verrons</i>. My labours have this year for the +first time been rewarded with upwards of £350; that of +itself, so base we are! encourages me; and the better tenor of my +health yet more.—Remember me to Mrs. Low, and believe me, +yours most sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>December</i> +20, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I do not +know which of us is to blame; I suspect it is you this +time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I was +pleased to see; I am, on the whole, very well—suffering a +little still from my fever and liver complications, but +better.</p> +<p>I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you +above all things <i>not</i> to read, as it has made me very ill, +and would make you worse—Lockhart’s +<i>Scott</i>. It is worth reading, as all things are from +time to time that keep us nose to nose with fact; though I think +such reading may be abused, and that a great deal of life is +better spent in reading of a light and yet chivalrous +strain. Thus, no Waverley novel approaches in power, +blackness, bitterness, and moral elevation to the diary and +Lockhart’s narrative of the end; and yet the Waverley +novels are better reading for every day than the Life. You +may take a tonic daily, but not phlebotomy.</p> +<p>The great double danger of taking life too easily, and taking +it too hard, how difficult it is to balance that! But <a +name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>we are all +too little inclined to faith; we are all, in our serious moments, +too much inclined to forget that all are sinners, and fall justly +by their faults, and therefore that we have no more to do with +that than with the thunder-cloud; only to trust, and do our best, +and wear as smiling a face as may be for others and +ourselves. But there is no royal road among this +complicated business. Hegel the German got the best word of +all philosophy with his antinomies: the contrary of everything is +its postulate. That is, of course, grossly expressed, but +gives a hint of the idea, which contains a great deal of the +mysteries of religion, and a vast amount of the practical wisdom +of life. For your part, there is no doubt as to your +duty—to take things easy and be as happy as you can, for +your sake, and my mother’s, and that of many besides. +Excuse this sermon.—Ever your loving son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>December</i> +25, 1883.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER AND +MOTHER</span>,—This it is supposed will reach you about +Christmas, and I believe I should include Lloyd in the +greeting. But I want to lecture my father; he is not +grateful enough; he is like Fanny; his resignation is not the +‘true blue.’ A man who has gained a stone; +whose son is better, and, after so many fears to the contrary, I +dare to say, a credit to him; whose business is arranged; whose +marriage is a picture—what I should call resignation in +such a case as his would be to ‘take down his fiddle and +play as lood as ever he could.’ That and nought +else. And now, you dear old pious ingrate, on this +Christmas morning, think what your mercies have been; and do not +walk too far before your breakfast—as far as to the top of +India Street, then to the top of Dundas Street, and then to your +ain stair heid; and do not forget that even as <i>laborare</i>, +so <i>joculari</i>, <i>est orare</i>; and to be happy the first +step to being pious.</p> +<p><a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>I +have as good as finished my novel, and a hard job it has +been—but now practically over, <i>laus deo</i>! My +financial prospects better than ever before; my excellent wife a +touch dolorous, like Mr. Tommy; my Bogue quite converted, and +myself in good spirits. O, send Curry Powder per +Baxter.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>], <i>last Sunday of</i> ’83.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—I give my +father up. I give him a parable: that the Waverley novels +are better reading for every day than the tragic Life. And +he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his head, and is +gloomier than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I +don’t want no such a parent. This is not the man for +my money. I do not call that by the name of religion which +fills a man with bile. I write him a whole letter, bidding +him beware of extremes, and telling him that his gloom is +gallows-worthy; and I get back an answer—Perish the thought +of it.</p> +<p>Here am I on the threshold of another year, when, according to +all human foresight, I should long ago have been resolved into my +elements; here am I, who you were persuaded was born to disgrace +you—and, I will do you the justice to add, on no such +insufficient grounds—no very burning discredit when all is +done; here am I married, and the marriage recognised to be a +blessing of the first order, A1 at Lloyd’s. There is +he, at his not first youth, able to take more exercise than I at +thirty-three, and gaining a stone’s weight, a thing of +which I am incapable. There are you; has the man no +gratitude? There is Smeoroch <a name="citation303"></a><a +href="#footnote303" class="citation">[303]</a>: is he +blind? Tell him from me that all this is</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">NOT THE TRUE +BLUE</span>!</p> +<p><a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>I +will think more of his prayers when I see in him a spirit of +<i>praise</i>. Piety is a more childlike and happy attitude +than he admits. Martha, Martha, do you hear the knocking at +the door? But Mary was happy. Even the Shorter +Catechism, not the merriest epitome of religion, and a work +exactly as pious although not quite so true as the multiplication +table—even that dry-as-dust epitome begins with a heroic +note. What is man’s chief end? Let him study +that; and ask himself if to refuse to enjoy God’s kindest +gifts is in the spirit indicated. Up, Dullard! It is +better service to enjoy a novel than to mump.</p> +<p>I have been most unjust to the Shorter Catechism, I +perceive. I wish to say that I keenly admire its merits as +a performance; and that all that was in my mind was its +peculiarly unreligious and unmoral texture; from which defect it +can never, of course, exercise the least influence on the minds +of children. But they learn fine style and some austere +thinking unconsciously.—Ever your loving son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>January</i> 1 +(1884).</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—A Good New +Year to you. The year closes, leaving me with £50 in +the bank, owing no man nothing, £100 more due to me in a +week or so, and £150 more in the course of the month; and I +can look back on a total receipt of £465, 0s. 6d. for the +last twelve months!</p> +<p>And yet I am not happy!</p> +<p>Yet I beg! Here is my beggary:—</p> +<p class="gutindent">1. Sellar’s Trial.</p> +<p class="gutindent">2. George Borrow’s Book about +Wales.</p> +<p class="gutindent">3. My Grandfather’s Trip to +Holland.</p> +<p class="gutindent">4. And (but this is, I fear, impossible) the +Bell Rock Book.</p> +<p><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>When +I think of how last year began, after four months of sickness and +idleness, all my plans gone to water, myself starting alone, a +kind of spectre, for Nice—should I not be grateful? +Come, let us sing unto the Lord!</p> +<p>Nor should I forget the expected visit, but I will not believe +in that till it befall; I am no cultivator of disappointments, +’tis a herb that does not grow in my garden; but I get some +good crops both of remorse and gratitude. The last I can +recommend to all gardeners; it grows best in shiny weather, but +once well grown, is very hardy; it does not require much labour; +only that the husbandman should smoke his pipe about the +flower-plots and admire God’s pleasant wonders. +Winter green (otherwise known as Resignation, or the ‘false +gratitude plant’) springs in much the same soil; is little +hardier, if at all; and requires to be so dug about and dunged, +that there is little margin left for profit. The variety +known as the Black Winter green (H. V. Stevensoniana) is rather +for ornament than profit.</p> +<p>‘John, do you see that bed of +resignation?’—‘It’s doin’ bravely, +sir.’—‘John, I will not have it in my garden; +it flatters not the eye and comforts not the stomach; root it +out.’—‘Sir, I ha’e seen o’ them +that rase as high as nettles; gran’ +plants!’—‘What then? Were they as tall as +alps, if still unsavoury and bleak, what matters it? Out +with it, then; and in its place put Laughter and a Good Conceit +(that capital home evergreen), and a bush of Flowering +Piety—but see it be the flowering sort—the other +species is no ornament to any gentleman’s Back +Garden.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Jno</span>. +<span class="smcap">Bunyan</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page306"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 306</span><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, 9<i>th</i> +<i>March</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR S. C.</span>,—You will +already have received a not very sane note from me; so your +patience was rewarded—may I say, your patient +silence? However, now comes a letter, which on receipt, I +thus acknowledge.</p> +<p>I have already expressed myself as to the political +aspect. About Grahame, I feel happier; it does seem to have +been really a good, neat, honest piece of work. We do not +seem to be so badly off for commanders: Wolseley and Roberts, and +this pile of Woods, Stewarts, Alisons, Grahames, and the +like. Had we but <span class="GutSmall">ONE</span> +statesman on any side of the house!</p> +<p>Two chapters of <i>Otto</i> do remain: one to rewrite, one to +create; and I am not yet able to tackle them. For me it is +my chief o’ works; hence probably not so for others, since +it only means that I have here attacked the greatest +difficulties. But some chapters towards the end: three in +particular—I do think come off. I find them stirring, +dramatic, and not unpoetical. We shall see, however; as +like as not, the effort will be more obvious than the +success. For, of course, I strung myself hard to carry it +out. The next will come easier, and possibly be more +popular. I believe in the covering of much paper, each time +with a definite and not too difficult artistic purpose; and then, +from time to time, drawing oneself up and trying, in a superior +effort, to combine the facilities thus acquired or +improved. Thus one progresses. But, mind, it is very +likely that the big effort, instead of being the masterpiece, may +be the blotted copy, the gymnastic exercise. This no man +can tell; only the brutal and licentious public, snouting in +Mudie’s wash-trough, can return a dubious answer.</p> +<p>I am to-day, thanks to a pure heaven and a beneficent, +loud-talking, antiseptic mistral, on the high places as to <a +name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>health and +spirits. Money holds out wonderfully. Fanny has gone +for a drive to certain meadows which are now one sheet of +jonquils: sea-bound meadows, the thought of which may freshen you +in Bloomsbury. ‘Ye have been fresh and fair, Ye have +been filled with flowers’—I fear I misquote. +Why do people babble? Surely Herrick, in his true vein, is +superior to Martial himself, though Martial is a very pretty +poet.</p> +<p>Did you ever read St. Augustine? The first chapters of +the <i>Confessions</i> are marked by a commanding genius. +Shakespearian in depth. I was struck dumb, but, alas! when +you begin to wander into controversy, the poet drops out. +His description of infancy is most seizing. And how is +this: ‘Sed majorum nugae negotia vocantur; puerorum autem +talia cum sint puniuntur a majoribus.’ Which is quite +after the heart of R. L. S. See also his splendid passage +about the ‘luminosus limes amicitiae’ and the +‘nebulae de limosa concupiscentia carnis’; going on +‘<i>Utrumque</i> in confuso aestuabat et rapiebat +imbecillam aetatem per abrupta cupiditatum.’ That +‘Utrumque’ is a real contribution to life’s +science. Lust <i>alone</i> is but a pigmy; but it never, or +rarely, attacks us single-handed.</p> +<p>Do you ever read (to go miles off, indeed) the incredible +Barbey d’Aurevilly? A psychological Poe—to be +for a moment Henley. I own with pleasure I prefer him with +all his folly, rot, sentiment, and mixed metaphors, to the whole +modern school in France. It makes me laugh when it’s +nonsense; and when he gets an effect (though it’s still +nonsense and mere Poëry, not poesy) it wakens me. +<i>Ce qui ne meurt pas</i> nearly killed me with laughing, and +left me—well, it left me very nearly admiring the old +ass. At least, it’s the kind of thing one feels one +couldn’t do. The dreadful moonlight, when they all +three sit silent in the room—by George, sir, it’s +imagined—and the brief scene between the husband and wife +is all there. <i>Quant au fond</i>, the whole thing, of +course, is a fever <a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +308</span>dream, and worthy of eternal laughter. Had the +young man broken stones, and the two women been hard-working +honest prostitutes, there had been an end of the whole immoral +and baseless business: you could at least have respected them in +that case.</p> +<p>I also read <i>Petronius Arbiter</i>, which is a rum work, not +so immoral as most modern works, but singularly silly. I +tackled some Tacitus too. I got them with a dreadful French +crib on the same page with the text, which helps me along and +drives me mad. The French do not even try to +translate. They try to be much more classical than the +classics, with astounding results of barrenness and tedium. +Tacitus, I fear, was too solid for me. I liked the war +part; but the dreary intriguing at Rome was too much.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. Dick</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, <i>Var</i>, 12<i>th</i> <i>March</i> +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. DICK</span>,—I have +been a great while owing you a letter; but I am not without +excuses, as you have heard. I overworked to get a piece of +work finished before I had my holiday, thinking to enjoy it more; +and instead of that, the machinery near hand came sundry in my +hands! like Murdie’s uniform. However, I am now, I +think, in a fair way of recovery; I think I was made, what there +is of me, of whipcord and thorn-switches; surely I am +tough! But I fancy I shall not overdrive again, or not so +long. It is my theory that work is highly beneficial, but +that it should, if possible, and certainly for such partially +broken-down instruments as the thing I call my body, be taken in +batches, with a clear break and breathing space between. I +always do vary my work, laying one thing aside to take up +another, not <a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +309</span>merely because I believe it rests the brain, but +because I have found it most beneficial to the result. +Reading, Bacon says, makes a full man, but what makes me full on +any subject is to banish it for a time from all my +thoughts. However, what I now propose is, out of every +quarter, to work two months’ and rest the third. I +believe I shall get more done, as I generally manage, on my +present scheme, to have four months’ impotent illness and +two of imperfect health—one before, one after, I break +down. This, at least, is not an economical division of the +year.</p> +<p>I re-read the other day that heartbreaking book, the <i>Life +of Scott</i>. One should read such works now and then, but +O, not often. As I live, I feel more and more that +literature should be cheerful and brave-spirited, even if it +cannot be made beautiful and pious and heroic. We wish it +to be a green place; the <i>Waverley Novels</i> are better to +re-read than the over-true life, fine as dear Sir Walter +was. The Bible, in most parts, is a cheerful book; it is +our little piping theologies, tracts, and sermons that are dull +and dowie; and even the Shorter Catechism, which is scarcely a +work of consolation, opens with the best and shortest and +completest sermon ever written—upon Man’s chief +end.—Believe me, my dear Mr. Dick, very sincerely +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—You see I have changed my hand. I was +threatened apparently with scrivener’s cramp, and at any +rate had got to write so small, that the revisal of my <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. tried my eyes, hence my signature +alone remains upon the old model; for it appears that if I +changed that, I should be cut off from my +‘vivers.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +310</span><span class="smcap">to Cosmo Monkhouse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>March</i> 16, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MONKHOUSE</span>,—You see +with what promptitude I plunge into correspondence; but the truth +is, I am condemned to a complete inaction, stagnate dismally, and +love a letter. Yours, which would have been welcome at any +time, was thus doubly precious.</p> +<p>Dover sounds somewhat shiveringly in my ears. You should +see the weather <i>I</i> have—cloudless, clear as crystal, +with just a punkah-draft of the most aromatic air, all pine and +gum tree. You would be ashamed of Dover; you would scruple +to refer, sir, to a spot so paltry. To be idle at Dover is +a strange pretension; pray, how do you warm yourself? If I +were there I should grind knives or write blank verse, +or— But at least you do not bathe? It is idle +to deny it: I have—I may say I nourish—a growing +jealousy of the robust, large-legged, healthy Britain-dwellers, +patient of grog, scorners of the timid umbrella, innocuously +breathing fog: all which I once was, and I am ashamed to say +liked it. How ignorant is youth! grossly rolling among +unselected pleasures; and how nobler, purer, sweeter, and +lighter, to sip the choice tonic, to recline in the luxurious +invalid chair, and to tread, well-shawled, the little round of +the constitutional. Seriously, do you like to repose? +Ye gods, I hate it. I never rest with any acceptation; I do +not know what people mean who say they like sleep and that damned +bedtime which, since long ere I was breeched, has rung a knell to +all my day’s doings and beings. And when a man, +seemingly sane, tells me he has ‘fallen in love with +stagnation,’ I can only say to him, ‘You will never +be a Pirate!’ This may not cause any regret to Mrs. +Monkhouse; but in your own soul it will <a +name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 311</span>clang +hollow—think of it! Never! After all +boyhood’s aspirations and youth’s immoral day-dreams, +you are condemned to sit down, grossly draw in your chair to the +fat board, and be a beastly Burgess till you die. Can it +be? Is there not some escape, some furlough from the Moral +Law, some holiday jaunt contrivable into a Better Land? +Shall we never shed blood? This prospect is too grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Here lies a man who never did<br /> +Anything but what he was bid;<br /> +Who lived his life in paltry ease,<br /> +And died of commonplace disease.’</p> +<p>To confess plainly, I had intended to spend my life (or any +leisure I might have from Piracy upon the high seas) as the +leader of a great horde of irregular cavalry, devastating whole +valleys. I can still, looking back, see myself in many +favourite attitudes; signalling for a boat from my pirate ship +with a pocket-handkerchief, I at the jetty end, and one or two of +my bold blades keeping the crowd at bay; or else turning in the +saddle to look back at my whole command (some five thousand +strong) following me at the hand-gallop up the road out of the +burning valley: this last by moonlight.</p> +<p><i>Et point du tout</i>. I am a poor scribe, and have +scarce broken a commandment to mention, and have recently dined +upon cold veal! As for you (who probably had some +ambitions), I hear of you living at Dover, in lodgings, like the +beasts of the field. But in heaven, when we get there, we +shall have a good time, and see some real carnage. For +heaven is—must be—that great Kingdom of Antinomia, +which Lamb saw dimly adumbrated in the <i>Country Wife</i>, where +the worm which never dies (the conscience) peacefully expires, +and the sinner lies down beside the Ten Commandments. Till +then, here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, with neither +health nor vice for anything more spirited than procrastination, +<a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>which I +may well call the Consolation Stakes of Wickedness; and by whose +diligent practice, without the least amusement to ourselves, we +can rob the orphan and bring down grey hairs with sorrow to the +dust.</p> +<p>This astonishing gush of nonsense I now hasten to close, +envelope, and expedite to Shakespeare’s Cliff. +Remember me to Shakespeare, and believe me, yours very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, <i>March</i> 17, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Your +office—office is profanely said—your bower upon the +leads is divine. Have you, like Pepys, ‘the right to +fiddle’ there? I see you mount the companion, +barbiton in hand, and, fluttered about by city sparrows, pour +forth your spirit in a voluntary. Now when the spring +begins, you must lay in your flowers: how do you say about a +potted hawthorn? Would it bloom? Wallflower is a +choice pot-herb; lily-of-the-valley, too, and carnation, and +Indian cress trailed about the window, is not only beautiful by +colour, but the leaves are good to eat. I recommend thyme +and rosemary for the aroma, which should not be left upon one +side; they are good quiet growths.</p> +<p>On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is +still better—it takes one further—the havens with +their little anchors, the rocks, banks, and soundings, are +adorably marine; and such furniture will suit your ship-shape +habitation. I wish I could see those cabins; they smile +upon me with the most intimate charm. From your leads, do +you behold St. Paul’s? I always like to see the +Foolscap; it is London <i>per se</i> and no spot from <a +name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>which it is +visible is without romance. Then it is good company for the +man of letters, whose veritable nursing Pater-Noster is so near +at hand.</p> +<p>I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not +so pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in +the writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a +few days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that +structure. I have worked very hard at it, and so do not +expect any great public favour. <i>In moments of +effort</i>, <i>one learns to do the easy things that people +like</i>. There is the golden maxim; thus one should strain +and then play, strain again and play again. The strain is +for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and +pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened +by two contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my +forefathers would have called ‘rank conformity,’ and +to pour forth cheap replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, +and still more insidiously present, to forget that art is a +diversion and a decoration, that no triumph or effort is of +value, nor anything worth reaching except charm.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, [<i>March</i> 22, +1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS FERRIER</span>,—Are +you really going to fall us? This seems a dreadful +thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for friends on +this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have been +promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has +failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know +how delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a +visit. Look at the names: ‘The +Solitude’—is that romantic? The +palm-trees?—how is that for the gorgeous East? +‘Var’? the name of a river—‘the quiet +waters by’! ’Tis true, they are in another +department, <a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +314</span>and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a +music, what a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have +hills; we have skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet +sparsely; the meadows by the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the +birds sing as in an English May—for, considering we are in +France and serve up our song-birds, I am ashamed to say, on a +little field of toast and with a sprig of thyme (my own receipt) +in their most innocent and now unvocal bellies—considering +all this, we have a wonderfully fair wood-music round this +Solitude of ours. What can I say more?—All this +awaits you. <i>Kennst du das Land</i>, in short.—Your +sincere friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères-les-Palmiers</i>, <i>Var</i>, [<i>April</i> +1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—The blind man +in these sprawled lines sends greeting. I have been ill, as +perhaps the papers told you. The news—‘great +news—glorious news—sec-ond +ed-ition!’—went the round in England.</p> +<p>Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly +the Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing +me) much liked.</p> +<p>Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to +send to press. Then I thought of the <i>Manhattan</i>, +towards whom I have guilty and compunctious feelings. Last, +I had the best thought of all—to send them to you in case +you might think them suitable for illustration. It seemed +to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if not, hand them on +to <i>Manhattan</i>, <i>Century</i>, or <i>Lippincott</i>, at +your pleasure, as all three desire my work or pretend to. +But I trust the lines will not go unattended. <a +name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>Some +riverside will haunt you; and O! be tender to my bathing +girls. The lines are copied in my wife’s hand, as I +cannot see to write otherwise than with the pen of Cormoran, +Gargantua, or Nimrod. Love to your wife.—Yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Copied it myself.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>April</i> 19, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Yesterday +I very powerfully stated the <i>Heresis Stevensoniana</i>, or the +complete body of divinity of the family theologian, to Miss +Ferrier. She was much impressed; so was I. You are a +great heresiarch; and I know no better. Whaur the devil did +ye get thon about the soap? Is it altogether your +own? I never heard it elsewhere; and yet I suspect it must +have been held at some time or other, and if you were to look up +you would probably find yourself condemned by some Council.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear you are so well. The hear is +excellent. The <i>Cornhills</i> came; I made Miss Ferrier +read us ‘Thrawn Janet,’ and was quite bowled over by +my own works. The ‘Merry Men’ I mean to make +much longer, with a whole new denouement, not yet quite clear to +me. ‘The Story of a Lie,’ I must rewrite +entirely also, as it is too weak and ragged, yet is worth saving +for the Admiral. Did I ever tell you that the Admiral was +recognised in America?</p> +<p>When they are all on their legs this will make an excellent +collection.</p> +<p>Has Davie never read <i>Guy Mannering</i>, <i>Rob Roy</i>, or +<i>The Antiquary</i>? All of which are worth three +<i>Waverleys</i>. I think <i>Kenilworth</i> better than +<i>Waverley</i>; <i>Nigel</i>, too; and <i>Quentin Durward</i> +about as good. But it shows a true piece of insight to +prefer <i>Waverley</i>, for it <i>is</i> different; and <a +name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>though not +quite coherent, better worked in parts than almost any other: +surely more carefully. It is undeniable that the love of +the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with success. +Perhaps it does on many of us, which may be the granite on which +D.’s opinion stands. However, I hold it, in Patrick +Walker’s phrase, for an ‘old, condemned, damnable +error.’ Dr. Simson was condemned by P. W. as being +‘a bagful of’ such. One of Patrick’s +amenities!</p> +<p>Another ground there may be to D.’s opinion; those who +avoid (or seek to avoid) Scott’s facility are apt to be +continually straining and torturing their style to get in more of +life. And to many the extra significance does not redeem +the strain.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Doctor +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Cosmo Monkhouse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>La Solitude</i>, +<i>Hyères</i>, [<i>April</i> 24, 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MONKHOUSE</span>,—If you are +in love with repose, here is your occasion: change with me. +I am too blind to read, hence no reading; I am too weak to walk, +hence no walking; I am not allowed to speak, hence no talking; +but the great simplification has yet to be named; for, if this +goes on, I shall soon have nothing to eat—and hence, O +Hallelujah! hence no eating. The offer is a fair one: I +have not sold myself to the devil, for I could never find +him. I am married, but so are you. I sometimes write +verses, but so do you. Come! <i>Hic quies</i>! +As for the commandments, I have broken them so small that they +are the dust of my chambers; you walk upon them, triturate and +toothless; and with the Golosh of Philosophy, they shall not bite +your heel. True, the tenement is falling. Ay, friend, +but yours also. Take a larger view; what is a year or two? +dust in the balance! ’Tis done, behold you Cosmo +Stevenson, and me R. L. Monkhouse; you at Hyères, I in +London; you rejoicing in the <a name="page317"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 317</span>clammiest repose, me proceeding to +tear your tabernacle into rags, as I have already so admirably +torn my own.</p> +<p>My place to which I now introduce you—it is +yours—is like a London house, high and very narrow; upon +the lungs I will not linger; the heart is large enough for a +ballroom; the belly greedy and inefficient; the brain stocked +with the most damnable explosives, like a dynamiter’s +den. The whole place is well furnished, though not in a +very pure taste; Corinthian much of it; showy and not strong.</p> +<p>About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an +interesting exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, +falling over a blood-stained remorse; opening that cupboard in +the cerebellum and being welcomed by the spirit of your murdered +uncle. I should probably not like your remorses; I wonder +if you will like mine; I have a spirited assortment; they whistle +in my ear o’ nights like a north-easter. I trust +yours don’t dine with the family; mine are better mannered; +you will hear nought of them till, 2 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span>, except one, to be sure, that I have +made a pet of, but he is small; I keep him in buttons, so as to +avoid commentaries; you will like him much—if you like what +is genuine.</p> +<p>Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good +article, with a trick of stopping; cathedral bell note; +ornamental dial; supported by Venus and the Graces; quite a +summer-parlour piety. Of yours, since your last, I fear +there is little to be said.</p> +<p>There is one article I wish to take away with me: my +spirits. They suit me. I don’t want yours; I +like my own; I have had them a long while in bottle. It is +my only reservation.—Yours (as you decide),</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Monkhouse</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +318</span><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hyères</i>, <i>May</i> +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOY</span>,—<i>Old +Mortality</i> <a name="citation318"></a><a href="#footnote318" +class="citation">[318]</a> is out, and I am glad to say Coggie +likes it. We like her immensely.</p> +<p>I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot +work—cannot: that is flat, not even verses: as for prose, +that more active place is shut on me long since.</p> +<p>My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically +comic. <i>As you Like It</i> is to me the most bird-haunted +spot in letters; <i>Tempest</i> and <i>Twelfth Night</i> +follow. These are what I mean by poetry and nature. I +make an effort of my mind to be quite one with Molière, +except upon the stage, where his inimitable <i>jeux de +scène</i> beggar belief; but you will observe they are +stage-plays—things <i>ad hoc</i>; not great Olympian +debauches of the heart and fancy; hence more perfect, and not so +great. Then I come, after great wanderings, to Carmosine +and to Fantasio; to one part of La Dernière Aldini (which, +by the by, we might dramatise in a week), to the notes that +Meredith has found, Evan and the postillion, Evan and Rose, Harry +in Germany. And to me these things are the good; beauty, +touched with sex and laughter; beauty with God’s earth for +the background. Tragedy does not seem to me to come off; +and when it does, it does so by the heroic illusion; the +anti-masque has been omitted; laughter, which attends on all our +steps in life, and sits by the deathbed, and certainly redacts +the epitaph, laughter has been lost from these great-hearted +lies. But the comedy which keeps the beauty and touches the +terrors of our life (laughter and tragedy-in-a-good-humour having +kissed), that is the last word of moved representation; embracing +the greatest number of elements of fate and character; and +telling its story, not with the one eye of pity, but with the two +of pity and mirth.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +319</span><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>From my Bed</i>, <i>May</i> 29, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR GOSSE</span>,—The news of +the Professorate found me in the article of—well, of heads +or tails; I am still in bed, and a very poor person. You +must thus excuse my damned delay; but, I assure you, I was +delighted. You will believe me the more, if I confess to +you that my first sentiment was envy; yes, sir, on my +blood-boltered couch I envied the professor. However, it +was not of long duration; the double thought that you deserved +and that you would thoroughly enjoy your success fell like balsam +on my wounds. How came it that you never communicated my +rejection of Gilder’s offer for the Rhone? But it +matters not. Such earthly vanities are over for the +present. This has been a fine well-conducted illness. +A month in bed; a month of silence; a fortnight of not stirring +my right hand; a month of not moving without being lifted. +Come! <i>Ça y est</i>: devilish like being +dead.—Yours, dear Professor, academically,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with +me! I got him cheap—second-hand.</p> +<p>In turning over my late friend Ferrier’s commonplace +book, I find three poems from <i>Viol and Flute</i> copied out in +his hand: ‘When Flower-time,’ ‘Love in +Winter,’ and ‘Mistrust.’ They are capital +too. But I thought the fact would interest you. He +was no poetist either; so it means the more. ‘Love in +W.!’ I like the best.</p> +<h3><a name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +320</span><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Chabassière</i>, +<i>Royat</i>, [<i>July</i> 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—The +weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff of cold, and was +finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day, however, it has +cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to</p> +<p style="text-align: right">(<i>Several days after</i>.)</p> +<p>I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am +better, and keep better, but the weather is a mere +injustice. The imitation of Edinburgh is, at times, +deceptive; there is a note among the chimney pots that suggests +Howe Street; though I think the shrillest spot in Christendom was +not upon the Howe Street side, but in front, just under the Miss +Graemes’ big chimney stack. It had a fine alto +character—a sort of bleat that used to divide the marrow in +my joints—say in the wee, slack hours. That music is +now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, not +regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; +a knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I +mind it above all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was +blue and spotted with rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold +evening was seen blue all over, with the lamps of Queen’s +and Frederick’s Street dotting it with yellow, and flaring +east-ward in the squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I have been +in such circumstances—I, who have now positively forgotten +the colour of unhappiness; who am full like a fed ox, and dull +like a fresh turf, and have no more spiritual life, for good or +evil, than a French bagman.</p> +<p>We are at Chabassière’s, for of course it was +nonsense to go up the hill when we could not walk.</p> +<p>The child’s poems in a far extended form are likely soon +to be heard of—which Cummy I dare say will be glad to +know. They will make a book of about one hundred +pages.—Ever your affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page321"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +321</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Royat</i>, <i>July</i> +1884.]</p> +<p>. . . <span class="smcap">Here</span> is a quaint thing, I +have read <i>Robinson</i>, <i>Colonel Jack</i>, <i>Moll +Flanders</i>, <i>Memoirs of a Cavalier</i>, <i>History of the +Plague</i>, <i>History of the Great Storm</i>, <i>Scotch Church +and Union</i>. And there my knowledge of Defoe +ends—except a book, the name of which I forget, about +Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not write, and +could not have written if he wanted. To which of these does +B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish +Church. I jest; for, of course, I <i>know</i> it must be a +book I have never read, and which this makes me keen to +read—I mean <i>Captain Singleton</i>. Can it be got +and sent to me? If <i>Treasure Island</i> is at all like +it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day +wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing +<i>T. I.</i>, as a mine for pirate tips. <i>T. I.</i> came +out of Kingsley’s <i>At Last</i>, where I got the Dead +Man’s Chest—and that was the seed—and out of +the great Captain Johnson’s <i>History of Notorious</i> +<i>Pirates</i>. The scenery is Californian in part, and in +part <i>chic.</i></p> +<p>I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made +man—till the next time.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>If it was <i>Captain Singleton</i>, send it to me, won’t +you?</p> +<p><i>Later</i>.—My life dwindles into a kind of valley of +the shadow picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as +to-day) I must not speak above my breath, that to play patience, +or to see my wife play it, is become the be-all and the end-all +of my dim career. To add to my gaiety, I may write letters, +but there are few to answer. <a name="page322"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 322</span>Patience and Poesy are thus my rod +and staff; with these I not unpleasantly support my days.</p> +<p>I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be +silenced; and if to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to +understand them cannot be my wife’s. Do not think me +unhappy; I have not been so for years; but I am blurred, inhabit +the debatable frontier of sleep, and have but dim designs upon +activity. All is at a standstill; books closed, paper put +aside, the voice, the eternal voice of R. L. S., well +silenced. Hence this plaint reaches you with no very great +meaning, no very great purpose, and written part in slumber by a +heavy, dull, somnolent, superannuated son of a bedpost.</p> +<h2><a name="page323"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +323</span>VII<br /> +LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SEPTEMBER 1884–DECEMBER +1885</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page328"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +328</span><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, 28<i>th</i> <i>September</i> +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—I keep +better, and am to-day downstairs for the first time. I find +the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the front. Will +you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale, and +has blown for nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping +wind, lashing rain; the sea is a fine colour, and wind-bound +ships lie at anchor under the Old Harry rocks, to make one glad +to be ashore.</p> +<p>The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I +hope they may produce some of the ready.—I am, ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 1884?]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOY</span>,—I trust this +finds you well; it leaves me so-so. The weather is so cold +that I must stick to bed, which is rotten and tedious, but +can’t be helped.</p> +<p>I find in the blotting book the enclosed, which I wrote to you +the eve of my blood. Is it not strange? That night, +when I naturally thought I was coopered, the thought of it was +much in my mind; I thought it had gone; and I thought what a +strange prophecy I had made in jest, and how it was indeed like +to be the end of many letters. But I have written a good +few since, and the spell is broken. I am just as pleased, +for I earnestly desire to live. This pleasant middle age +into whose port we are steering is quite to my fancy. I +would cast anchor here, and go ashore for twenty years, and see +the manners of the place. Youth was a great time, but +somewhat fussy. Now in middle age (bar lucre) <a +name="page329"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 329</span>all seems +mighty placid. It likes me; I spy a little bright +café in one corner of the port, in front of which I now +propose we should sit down. There is just enough of the +bustle of the harbour and no more; and the ships are close in, +regarding us with stern-windows—the ships that bring deals +from Norway and parrots from the Indies. Let us sit down +here for twenty years, with a packet of tobacco and a drink, and +talk of art and women. By-and-by, the whole city will sink, +and the ships too, and the table, and we also; but we shall have +sat for twenty years and had a fine talk; and by that time, who +knows? exhausted the subject.</p> +<p>I send you a book which (or I am mistook) will please you; it +pleased me. But I do desire a book of adventure—a +romance—and no man will get or write me one. Dumas I +have read and re-read too often; Scott, too, and I am +short. I want to hear swords clash. I want a book to +begin in a good way; a book, I guess, like <i>Treasure +Island</i>, alas! which I have never read, and cannot though I +live to ninety. I would God that some one else had written +it! By all that I can learn, it is the very book for my +complaint. I like the way I hear it opens; and they tell me +John Silver is good fun. And to me it is, and must ever be, +a dream unrealised, a book unwritten. O my sighings after +romance, or even Skeltery, and O! the weary age which will +produce me neither!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">CHAPTER I</p> +<p class="gutindent">The night was damp and cloudy, the ways +foul. The single horseman, cloaked and booted, who pursued +his way across Willesden Common, had not met a traveller, when +the sound of wheels—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">CHAPTER I</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘Yes, sir,’ said the old pilot, +‘she must have dropped into the bay a little afore +dawn. A queer craft she looks.’</p> +<p class="gutindent"><a name="page330"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 330</span>‘She shows no colours,’ +returned the young gentleman musingly.</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘They’re a-lowering of a +quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,’ resumed the old salt. +‘We shall soon know more of her.’</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘Ay,’ replied the young +gentleman called Mark, ‘and here, Mr. Seadrift, comes your +sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.’</p> +<p class="gutindent">‘God bless her kind heart, sir,’ +ejaculated old Seadrift.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutindent">CHAPTER I</p> +<p class="gutindent">The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been +summoned to the top of a great house in the Isle St. Louis to +make a will; and now, his duties finished, wrapped in a warm +roquelaure and with a lantern swinging from one hand, he issued +from the mansion on his homeward way. Little did he think +what strange adventures were to befall him!—</p> +<p>That is how stories should begin. And I am offered <span +class="GutSmall">HUSKS</span> instead.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">What should be:</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center">What is:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Filibuster’s Cache.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Aunt Anne’s Tea Cosy.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Jerry Abershaw.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mrs. Brierly’s Niece.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Blood Money: A Tale.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Society: A Novel</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to the Rev. Professor Lewis +Campbell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1884.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CAMPBELL</span>,—The +books came duly to hand. My wife has occupied the +translation <a name="citation330"></a><a href="#footnote330" +class="citation">[330]</a> ever since, nor have I yet been able +to dislodge her. As for the primer, I have read it with a +very strange result: that I find no fault. If you knew how, +dogmatic and pugnacious, I stand warden on the literary art, you +would the more appreciate your success and my—well, I will +own it—disappointment. For I love to put people right +(or <a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +331</span>wrong) about the arts. But what you say of +Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply satisfies me; it is well felt +and well said; a little less technically than it is my weakness +to desire to see it put, but clear and adequate. You are +very right to express your admiration for the resource displayed +in Œdipus King; it is a miracle. Would it not have +been well to mention Voltaire’s interesting onslaught, a +thing which gives the best lesson of the difference of neighbour +arts?—since all his criticisms, which had been fatal to a +narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw in this +masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though +such a fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, +so imperfect, so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required +of these conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts.</p> +<p>I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by +hoping for better luck next time. My wife begs to be +remembered to both of you.—Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Andrew Chatto</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 3, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. CHATTO</span>,—I have an +offer of £25 for <i>Otto</i> from America. I do not +know if you mean to have the American rights; from the nature of +the contract, I think not; but if you understood that you were to +sell the sheets, I will either hand over the bargain to you, or +finish it myself and hand you over the money if you are pleased +with the amount. You see, I leave this quite in your +hands. To parody an old Scotch story of servant and master: +if you don’t know that you have a good author, I know that +I have a good publisher. Your fair, open, and handsome +dealings are a good point in my life, and do more for my crazy +health than has yet been done by any doctor.—Very truly +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page332"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +332</span><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Hants</i>,<br /> +<i>England</i>, <i>First week in November</i>, <i>I guess</i>, +1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—Now, look +here, the above is my address for three months, I hope; continue, +on your part, if you please, to write to Edinburgh, which is +safe; but if Mrs. Low thinks of coming to England, she might take +a run down from London (four hours from Waterloo, main line) and +stay a day or two with us among the pines. If not, I hope +it will be only a pleasure deferred till you can join her.</p> +<p>My Children’s Verses will be published here in a volume +called <i>A Child’s Garden</i>. The sheets are in +hand; I will see if I cannot send you the lot, so that you might +have a bit of a start. In that case I would do nothing to +publish in the States, and you might try an illustrated edition +there; which, if the book went fairly over here, might, when +ready, be imported. But of this more fully ere long. +You will see some verses of mine in the last <i>Magazine of +Art</i>, with pictures by a young lady; rather pretty, I +think. If we find a market for <i>Phasellulus loquitur</i>, +we can try another. I hope it isn’t necessary to put +the verse into that rustic printing. I am Philistine enough +to prefer clean printer’s type; indeed, I can form no idea +of the verses thus transcribed by the incult and tottering hand +of the draughtsman, nor gather any impression beyond one of +weariness to the eyes. Yet the other day, in the +<i>Century</i>, I saw it imputed as a crime to Vedder that he had +not thus travestied Omar Khayyàm. We live in a rum +age of music without airs, stories without incident, pictures +without beauty, American wood <a name="page333"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 333</span>engravings that should have been +etchings, and dry-point etchings that ought to have been +mezzo-tints. I think of giving ’em literature without +words; and I believe if you were to try invisible illustration, +it would enjoy a considerable vogue. So long as an artist +is on his head, is painting with a flute, or writes with an +etcher’s needle, or conducts the orchestra with a meat-axe, +all is well; and plaudits shower along with roses. But any +plain man who tries to follow the obtrusive canons of his art, is +but a commonplace figure. To hell with him is the motto, or +at least not that; for he will have his reward, but he will never +be thought a person of parts.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>January</i> 3, 1885.</p> +<p>And here has this been lying near two months. I have +failed to get together a preliminary copy of the Child’s +Verses for you, in spite of doughty efforts; but yesterday I sent +you the first sheet of the definitive edition, and shall continue +to send the others as they come. If you can, and care to, +work them—why so, well. If not, I send you +fodder. But the time presses; for though I will delay a +little over the proofs, and though—it is even possible they +may delay the English issue until Easter, it will certainly not +be later. Therefore perpend, and do not get caught +out. Of course, if you can do pictures, it will be a great +pleasure to me to see our names joined; and more than that, a +great advantage, as I daresay you may be able to make a bargain +for some share a little less spectral than the common for the +poor author. But this is all as you shall choose; I give +you <i>carte blanche</i> to do or not to do.—Yours most +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>O, Sargent has been and painted my portrait; a very nice +fellow he is, and is supposed to have done well; it is a poetical +but very chicken-boned figure-head, as thus represented.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S. Go on.</p> +<p><a name="page334"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +334</span><i>P.P.S.</i>—Your picture came; and let me thank +you for it very much. I am so hunted I had near +forgotten. I find it very graceful; and I mean to have it +framed.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I have no +hesitation in recommending you to let your name go up; please +yourself about an address; though I think, if we could meet, we +could arrange something suitable. What you propose would be +well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest a whine. +From that point of view it would be better to change a little; +but this, whether we meet or not, we must discuss. Tait, +Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, all think you amply deserve +this honour and far more; it is not the True Blue to call this +serious compliment a ‘trial’; you should be glad of +this recognition. As for resigning, that is easy enough if +found necessary; but to refuse would be husky and +unsatisfactory. <i>Sic subs.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well. Fanny +is very very much out of sorts, principally through perpetual +misery with me. I fear I have been a little in the dumps, +which, <i>as you know</i>, <i>sir</i>, is a very great sin. +I must try to be more cheerful; but my cough is so severe that I +have sometimes most exhausting nights and very peevish +wakenings. However, this shall be remedied, and last night +I was distinctly better than the night before. There is, my +dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise blandly as we sit together on +the devil’s garden-wall), no more <a +name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>abominable +sin than this gloom, this plaguey peevishness; why (say I) what +matters it if we be a little uncomfortable—that is no +reason for mangling our unhappy wives. And then I turn and +<i>girn</i> on the unfortunate Cassandra.—Your fellow +culprit,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Wensleydale</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENLEY</span>,—We are all to +pieces in health, and heavily handicapped with Arabs. I +have a dreadful cough, whose attacks leave me <i>ætat.</i> +90. I never let up on the Arabs, all the same, and rarely +get less than eight pages out of hand, though hardly able to come +downstairs for twittering knees.</p> +<p>I shall put in —’s letter. He says so little +of his circumstances that I am in an impossibility to give him +advice more specific than a copybook. Give him my love, +however, and tell him it is the mark of the parochial gentleman +who has never travelled to find all wrong in a foreign +land. Let him hold on, and he will find one country as good +as another; and in the meanwhile let him resist the fatal British +tendency to communicate his dissatisfaction with a country to its +inhabitants. ’Tis a good idea, but it somehow fails +to please. In a fortnight, if I can keep my spirit in the +box at all, I should be nearly through this Arabian desert; so +can tackle something fresh.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page336"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +336</span><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i><br /> +(<i>The three B’s</i>) [<i>November</i> 5, 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Allow me +to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, that you are a silly +fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I be +offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you +had the same impression of the <i>Deacon</i>; and yet, when you +saw it played, were less revolted than you looked for; and I will +still hope that the <i>Admiral</i> also is not so bad as you +suppose. There is one point, however, where I differ from +you very frankly. Religion is in the world; I do not think +you are the man to deny the importance of its rôle; and I +have long decided not to leave it on one side in art. The +opposition of the Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, either +horrible or irreverent; but it may be, and it probably is, very +ill done: what then? This is a failure; better luck next +time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, more wisdom in +the design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the new +victory. Concern yourself about no failure; they do not +cost lives, as in engineering; they are the <i>pierres +perdues</i> of successes. Fame is (truly) a vapour; do not +think of it; if the writer means well and tries hard, no failure +will injure him, whether with God or man.</p> +<p>I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am +inclined to acquit the <i>Admiral</i> of having a share in the +responsibility. My very heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; +and the change to this charming house in the forest will, I hope, +complete my re-establishment.—With love to all, believe me, +your ever affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page337"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +337</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>,<br /> +<i>November</i> 11, [1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I am in +my new house, thus proudly styled, as you perceive; but the +deevil a tower ava’ can be perceived (except out of +window); this is not as it should be; one might have hoped, at +least, a turret. We are all vilely unwell. I put in +the dark watches imitating a donkey with some success, but little +pleasure; and in the afternoon I indulge in a smart fever, +accompanied by aches and shivers. There is thus little +monotony to be deplored. I at least am a <i>regular</i> +invalid; I would scorn to bray in the afternoon; I would +indignantly refuse the proposal to fever in the night. What +is bred in the bone will come out, sir, in the flesh; and the +same spirit that prompted me to date my letter regulates the hour +and character of my attacks.—I am, sir, yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Thomson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Postmark</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, +13<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +THOMSON</span>,—It’s a maist remarkable fac’, +but nae shüner had I written yon braggin’, +blawin’ letter aboot ma business habits, when bang! that +very day, ma hoast <a name="citation337"></a><a +href="#footnote337" class="citation">[337]</a> begude in the +aifternune. It is really remaurkable; it’s +providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae fair dry, the words +werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got the lee. The +mair ye think o’t, Thomson, the less ye’ll like the +looks o’t. Proavidence (I’m no’ +sayin’) is all verra weel <i>in its place</i>; but if +Proavidence has nae mainners, wha’s to learn’t? +Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo would you like Proavidence +to keep your till for ye? The richt <a +name="page338"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 338</span>place for +Proavidence is in the kirk; it has naething to do wi’ +private correspondence between twa gentlemen, nor freendly +cracks, nor a wee bit word of sculduddery <a +name="citation338"></a><a href="#footnote338" +class="citation">[338]</a> ahint the door, nor, in shoart, +wi’ ony <i>hole-and-corner wark</i>, what I would +call. I’m pairfec’ly willin’ to meet in +wi’ Proavidence, I’ll be prood to meet in wi’ +him, when my time’s come and I cannae dae nae better; but +if he’s to come skinking aboot my stair-fit, damned, I +micht as weel be deid for a’ the comfort I’ll can get +in life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it’s +beneath him? Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae +steir my heid for a plain, auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he +taks himsel,’ ‘s just aboot as honest as he can weel +afford, an’ but for a wheen auld scandals, near forgotten +noo, is a pairfec’ly respectable and thoroughly decent +man. Or if I fashed wi’ him ava’, it wad be +kind o’ handsome like; a pun’-note under his stair +door, or a bottle o’ auld, blended malt to his bit +marnin’, as a teshtymonial like yon ye ken sae weel aboot, +but mair successfu’.</p> +<p>Dear Thomson, have I ony money? If I have, <i>send +it</i>, for the loard’s sake.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Johnson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 12, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COGGIE</span>,—Many +thanks for the two photos which now decorate my room. I was +particularly glad to have the Bell Rock. I wonder if you +saw me plunge, lance in rest, into a controversy +thereanent? It was a very one-sided affair. I slept +upon the field of battle, paraded, sang Te Deum, and came home +after a review rather than a campaign.</p> +<p>Please tell Campbell I got his letter. The Wild Woman of +the West has been much amiss and complaining sorely. I hope +nothing more serious is wrong with <a name="page339"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 339</span>her than just my ill-health, and +consequent anxiety and labour; but the deuce of it is, that the +cause continues. I am about knocked out of time now: a +miserable, snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, +nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting shadow and +remains of man. But we’ll no gie ower jist yet a +bittie. We’ve seen waur; and dod, mem, it’s my +belief that we’ll see better. I dinna ken ‘at +I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but +jist here’s guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale +o’ guid fortune to your bonny sel’; and my respecs to +the Perfessor and his wife, and the Prinshiple, an’ the +Bell Rock, an’ ony ither public chara’ters that +I’m acquaunt wi’.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Nov.</i> 15, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—This Mr. +Morley <a name="citation339"></a><a href="#footnote339" +class="citation">[339]</a> of yours is a most desperate +fellow. He has sent me (for my opinion) the most truculent +advertisement I ever saw, in which the white hairs of Gladstone +are dragged round Troy behind my chariot wheels. What can I +say? I say nothing to <a name="page340"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 340</span>him; and to you, I content myself +with remarking that he seems a desperate fellow.</p> +<p>All luck to you on your American adventure; may you find +health, wealth, and entertainment! If you see, as you +likely will, Frank R. Stockton, pray greet him from me in words +to this effect:—</p> +<p class="poetry">My Stockton if I failed to like,<br /> + It were a sheer depravity,<br /> +For I went down with the <i>Thomas Hyke</i><br /> + And up with the <i>Negative Gravity</i>!</p> +<p>I adore these tales.</p> +<p>I hear flourishing accounts of your success at Cambridge, so +you leave with a good omen. Remember me to <i>green +corn</i> if it is in season; if not, you had better hang yourself +on a sour apple tree, for your voyage has been lost.—Yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Austin Dobson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i> [<i>December</i> 1884?].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR DOBSON</span>,—Set down my +delay to your own fault; I wished to acknowledge such a gift from +you in some of my inapt and slovenly rhymes; but you should have +sent me your pen and not your desk. The verses stand up to +the axles in a miry cross-road, whence the coursers of the sun +shall never draw them; hence I am constrained to this +uncourtliness, that I must appear before one of the kings of that +country of rhyme without my singing robes. For less than +this, if we may trust the book of Esther, favourites have tasted +death; but I conceive the kingdom of the Muses mildlier mannered; +and in particular that county which you administer and which I +seem to see as a half-suburban land; a land of holly-hocks and +country houses; a land where at night, in thorny and sequestered +bypaths, you will meet masqueraders going to a ball in their +sedans, and the rector steering homeward by the light of his +lantern; a land of <a name="page341"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +341</span>the windmill, and the west wind, and the flowering +hawthorn with a little scented letter in the hollow of its trunk, +and the kites flying over all in the season of kites, and the far +away blue spires of a cathedral city.</p> +<p>Will you forgive me, then, for my delay and accept my thanks +not only for your present, but for the letter which followed it, +and which perhaps I more particularly value, and believe me to +be, with much admiration, yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>,<br /> +<i>December</i> 8, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—This +is a very brave hearing from more points than one. The +first point is that there is a hope of a sequel. For this I +laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of information and +thoughtful interest in the art of literature, those who try to +practise it with any deliberate purpose run the risk of finding +no fit audience. People suppose it is ‘the +stuff’ that interests them; they think, for instance, that +the prodigious fine thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare +impress by their own weight, not understanding that the +unpolished diamond is but a stone. They think that striking +situations, or good dialogue, are got by studying life; they will +not rise to understand that they are prepared by deliberate +artifice and set off by painful suppressions. Now, I want +the whole thing well ventilated, for my own education and the +public’s; and I beg you to look as quick as you can, to +follow me up with every circumstance of defeat where we differ, +and (to prevent the flouting of <a name="page342"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 342</span>the laity) to emphasise the points +where we agree. I trust your paper will show me the way to +a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I shall hope to make with so much +art as to woo or drive you from your threatened silence. I +would not ask better than to pass my life in beating out this +quarter of corn with such a seconder as yourself.</p> +<p>Point the second—I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak +so kindly of my work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to +myself a very rude, left-handed countryman; not fit to be read, +far less complimented, by a man so accomplished, so adroit, so +craftsmanlike as you. You will happily never have cause to +understand the despair with which a writer like myself considers +(say) the park scene in Lady Barberina. Every touch +surprises me by its intangible precision; and the effect when +done, as light as syllabub, as distinct as a picture, fills me +with envy. Each man among us prefers his own aim, and I +prefer mine; but when we come to speak of performance, I +recognise myself, compared with you, to be a lout and slouch of +the first water.</p> +<p>Where we differ, both as to the design of stories and the +delineation of character, I begin to lament. Of course, I +am not so dull as to ask you to desert your walk; but could you +not, in one novel, to oblige a sincere admirer, and to enrich his +shelves with a beloved volume, could you not, and might you not, +cast your characters in a mould a little more abstract and +academic (dear Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your other work, +a taste of what I mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not say in +any stronger, but in a slightly more emphatic key—as it +were an episode from one of the old (so-called) novels of +adventure? I fear you will not; and I suppose I must +sighingly admit you to be right. And yet, when I see, as it +were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite precision +and shot through with those side-lights of reflection in which +you excel, I relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think +upon it.</p> +<p><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 343</span>As +you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid: +this puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is +possible that some day you may feel that a day near the sea and +among pinewoods would be a pleasant change from town. If +so, please let us know; and my wife and I will be delighted to +put you up, and give you what we can to eat and drink (I have a +fair bottle of claret).—On the back of which, believe me, +yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I reopen this to say that I have re-read my +paper, and cannot think I have at all succeeded in being either +veracious or polite. I knew, of course, that I took your +paper merely as a pin to hang my own remarks upon; but, alas! +what a thing is any paper! What fine remarks can you not +hang on mine! How I have sinned against proportion, and +with every effort to the contrary, against the merest rudiments +of courtesy to you! You are indeed a very acute reader to +have divined the real attitude of my mind; and I can only +conclude, not without closed eyes and shrinking shoulders, in the +well-worn words</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Lay on, Macduff!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>December</i> 9, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—The +dreadful tragedy of the <i>Pall Mall</i> has come to a happy but +ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale writ for them +is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to flash out +before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, ‘The Body +Snatcher.’ When you come, please to bring—</p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) My <i>Montaigne</i>, or, at least, the +two last volumes.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) My <i>Milton</i> in the three vols. in +green.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) The <i>Shakespeare</i> that Babington +sent me for a wedding-gift.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) Hazlitt’s <i>Table Talk and Plain +Speaker</i>.</p> +<p><a name="page344"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 344</span>If +you care to get a box of books from Douglas and Foulis, let them +be <i>solid</i>. <i>Croker Papers</i>, <i>Correspondence of +Napoleon</i>, <i>History of Henry IV.</i>, Lang’s <i>Folk +Lore</i>, would be my desires.</p> +<p>I had a charming letter from Henry James about my +<i>Longman</i> paper. I did not understand queries about +the verses; the pictures to the Seagull I thought charming; those +to the second have left me with a pain in my poor belly and a +swimming in the head.</p> +<p>About money, I am afloat and no more, and I warn you, unless I +have great luck, I shall have to fall upon you at the New Year +like a hundredweight of bricks. Doctor, rent, chemist, are +all threatening; sickness has bitterly delayed my work; and +unless, as I say, I have the mischief’s luck, I shall +completely break down. <i>Verbum sapientibus</i>. I +do not live cheaply, and I question if I ever shall; but if only +I had a halfpenny worth of health, I could now easily +suffice. The last breakdown of my head is what makes this +bankruptcy probable.</p> +<p>Fanny is still out of sorts; Bogue better; self fair, but a +stranger to the blessings of sleep.—Ever affectionate +son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, [<i>December</i> 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—I have made up +my mind about the P. M. G., and send you a copy, which please +keep or return. As for not giving a reduction, what are +we? Are we artists or city men? Why do we sneer at +stock-brokers? O nary; I will not take the £40. +I took that as a fair price for my best work; I was not able to +produce my best; and I will be damned if I steal with my eyes +open. <i>Sufficit</i>. This is my lookout. As +for the paper being rich, certainly it is; but I am +honourable. It is no more above me in money than the poor +slaveys <a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +345</span>and cads from whom I look for honesty are below +me. Am I Pepys, that because I can find the countenance of +‘some of our ablest merchants,’ that +because—and—pour forth languid twaddle and get paid +for it, I, too, should ‘cheerfully continue to +steal’? I am not Pepys. I do not live much to +God and honour; but I will not wilfully turn my back on +both. I am, like all the rest of us, falling ever lower +from the bright ideas I began with, falling into greed, into +idleness, into middle-aged and slippered fireside cowardice; but +is it you, my bold blade, that I hear crying this sordid and rank +twaddle in my ear? Preaching the dankest Grundyism and +upholding the rank customs of our trade—you, who are so +cruel hard upon the customs of the publishers? O man, look +at the Beam in our own Eyes; and whatever else you do, do not +plead Satan’s cause, or plead it for all; either embrace +the bad, or respect the good when you see a poor devil trying for +it. If this is the honesty of authors—to take what +you can get and console yourself because publishers are +rich—take my name from the rolls of that association. +’Tis a caucus of weaker thieves, jealous of the +stronger.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">The +Roaring</span> R. L. S.</p> +<p>You will see from the enclosed that I have stuck to what I +think my dues pretty tightly in spite of this flourish: these are +my words for a poor ten-pound note!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, [<i>Winter</i>, 1884].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—Here was I in +bed; not writing, not hearing, and finding myself gently and +agreeably ill used; and behold I learn you are bad +yourself. Get your wife to send us a word how you +are. I am better decidedly. Bogue got his Christmas +card, and behaved well for three days after. It may +interest the cynical to learn that I started my last +hæmorrhage by too sedulous attentions to my dear +Bogue. The stick was broken; and that night <a +name="page346"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 346</span>Bogue, who +was attracted by the extraordinary aching of his bones, and is +always inclined to a serious view of his own ailments, announced +with his customary pomp that he was dying. In this case, +however, it was not the dog that died. (He had tried to +bite his mother’s ankles.) I have written a long and +peculiarly solemn paper on the technical elements of style. +It is path-breaking and epoch-making; but I do not think the +public will be readily convoked to its perusal. Did I tell +you that S. C. had risen to the paper on James? At +last! O but I was pleased; he’s (like Johnnie) been +lang, lang o’ comin’, but here he is. He will +not object to my future manœuvres in the same field, as he +has to my former. All the family are here; my father better +than I have seen him these two years; my mother the same as +ever. I do trust you are better, and I am yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to H. A. Jones</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>,<br /> +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 30, 1884.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—I am so +accustomed to hear nonsense spoken about all the arts, and the +drama in particular, that I cannot refrain from saying +‘Thank you,’ for your paper. In my answer to +Mr. James, in the December <i>Longman</i>, you may see that I +have merely touched, I think in a parenthesis, on the drama; but +I believe enough was said to indicate our agreement in +essentials.</p> +<p>Wishing you power and health to further enunciate and to act +upon these principles, believe me, dear sir, yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, <i>Branksome +Park</i>, <i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Jan.</i> 4, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR S. C.</span>,—I am on my +feet again, and getting on my boots to do the <i>Iron +Duke</i>. Conceive my glee: I <a name="page347"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 347</span>have refused the £100, and am +to get some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. +’Tis for Longman’s <i>English Worthies</i>, edited by +A. Lang. Aw haw, haw!</p> +<p>Now, look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or +is that a dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and +certainly note pages on the fly. If you think it a dream, +will Bain get me a second-hand copy, or who would? The +sooner, and cheaper, I can get it the better. If there is +anything in your weird library that bears on either the man or +the period, put it in a mortar and fire it here instanter; I +shall catch. I shall want, of course, an infinity of books: +among which, any lives there may be; a life of the Marquis +Marmont (the Maréchal), <i>Marmont’s Memoirs</i>, +<i>Grevillè’s Memoirs</i>, <i>Peel’s +Memoirs</i>, <i>Napier</i>, that blind man’s history of +England you once lent me, Hamley’s <i>Waterloo</i>; can you +get me any of these? Thiers, idle Thiers also. Can +you help a man getting into his boots for such a huge +campaign? How are you? A Good New Year to you. +I mean to have a good one, but on whose funds I cannot fancy: not +mine leastways, as I am a mere derelict and drift beam-on to +bankruptcy.</p> +<p>For God’s sake, remember the man who set out for to +conquer Arthur Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty +pocket.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>,] 14<i>th</i> <i>January</i> 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—I am glad +you like the changes. I own I was pleased with my +hand’s darg; you may observe, I have corrected several +errors which (you may tell Mr. Dick) he had allowed to pass his +eagle eye; I <a name="page348"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +348</span>wish there may be none in mine; at least, the order is +better. The second title, ‘Some new Engineering +Questions involved in the M. S. C. Scheme of last Session of +P.’, likes me the best. I think it a very good paper; +and I am vain enough to think I have materially helped to polish +the diamond. I ended by feeling quite proud of the paper, +as if it had been mine; the next time you have as good a one, I +will overhaul it for the wages of feeling as clever as I did when +I had managed to understand and helped to set it clear. I +wonder if I anywhere misapprehended you? I rather think not +at the last; at the first shot I know I missed a point or +two. Some of what may appear to you to be wanton changes, a +little study will show to be necessary.</p> +<p>Yes, Carlyle was ashamed of himself as few men have been; and +let all carpers look at what he did. He prepared all these +papers for publication with his own hand; all his wife’s +complaints, all the evidence of his own misconduct: who else +would have done so much? Is repentance, which God accepts, +to have no avail with men? nor even with the dead? I have +heard too much against the thrawn, discomfortable dog: dead he +is, and we may be glad of it; but he was a better man than most +of us, no less patently than he was a worse. To fill the +world with whining is against all my views: I do not like +impiety. But—but—there are two sides to all +things, and the old scalded baby had his noble side.—Ever +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>January</i> 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR S. C.</span>,—I have +addressed a letter to the G. O. M., <i>à propos</i> of +Wellington; and I became aware, you will be interested to hear, +of an overwhelming respect for the old gentleman. I can +<i>blaguer</i> his failures; but when you actually address him, +and bring the two statures and <a name="page349"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 349</span>records to confrontation, dismay is +the result. By mere continuance of years, he must impose; +the man who helped to rule England before I was conceived, +strikes me with a new sense of greatness and antiquity, when I +must actually beard him with the cold forms of +correspondence. I shied at the necessity of calling him +plain ‘Sir’! Had he been ‘My lord,’ +I had been happier; no, I am no equalitarian. Honour to +whom honour is due; and if to none, why, then, honour to the +old!</p> +<p>These, O Slade Professor, are my unvarnished sentiments: I was +a little surprised to find them so extreme, and therefore I +communicate the fact.</p> +<p>Belabour thy brains, as to whom it would be well to +question. I have a small space; I wish to make a popular +book, nowhere obscure, nowhere, if it can be helped, +unhuman. It seems to me the most hopeful plan to tell the +tale, so far as may be, by anecdote. He did not die till so +recently, there must be hundreds who remember him, and thousands +who have still ungarnered stories. Dear man, to the +breach! Up, soldier of the iron dook, up, Slades, and at +’em! (which, conclusively, he did not say: the at +’em-ic theory is to be dismissed). You know piles of +fellows who must reek with matter; help! help!—Yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>February</i> 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—You are +indeed a backward correspondent, and much may be said against +you. But in this <a name="page350"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 350</span>weather, and O dear! in this +political scene of degradation, much must be forgiven. I +fear England is dead of Burgessry, and only walks about +galvanised. I do not love to think of my countrymen these +days; nor to remember myself. Why was I silent? I +feel I have no right to blame any one; but I won’t write to +the G. O. M. I do really not see my way to any form of +signature, unless ‘your fellow criminal in the eyes of +God,’ which might disquiet the proprieties.</p> +<p>About your book, I have always said: go on. The drawing +of character is a different thing from publishing the details of +a private career. No one objects to the first, or should +object, if his name be not put upon it; at the other, I draw the +line. In a preface, if you chose, you might distinguish; it +is, besides, a thing for which you are eminently well equipped, +and which you would do with taste and incision. I long to +see the book. People like themselves (to explain a little +more); no one likes his life, which is a misbegotten issue, and a +tale of failure. To see these failures either touched upon, +or <i>coasted</i>, to get the idea of a spying eye and blabbing +tongue about the house, is to lose all privacy in life. To +see that thing, which we do love, our character, set forth, is +ever gratifying. See how my <i>Talk and Talkers</i> went; +every one liked his own portrait, and shrieked about other +people’s; so it will be with yours. If you are the +least true to the essential, the sitter will be pleased; very +likely not his friends, and that from <i>various motives</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>When will your holiday be? I sent your letter to my +wife, and forget. Keep us in mind, and I hope we shall he +able to receive you.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. A. Symonds</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>February</i> +1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SYMONDS</span>,—Yes, we +have both been very neglectful. I had horrid luck, catching +two thundering <a name="page351"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +351</span>influenzas in August and November. I recovered +from the last with difficulty, but have come through this +blustering winter with some general success; in the house, up and +down. My wife, however, has been painfully upset by my +health. Last year, of course, was cruelly trying to her +nerves; Nice and Hyères are bad experiences; and though +she is not ill, the doctor tells me that prolonged anxiety may do +her a real mischief.</p> +<p>I feel a little old and fagged, and chary of speech, and not +very sure of spirit in my work; but considering what a year I +have passed, and how I have twice sat on Charon’s pierhead, +I am surprising.</p> +<p>My father has presented us with a very pretty home in this +place, into which we hope to move by May. My +<i>Child’s Verses</i> come out next week. <i>Otto</i> +begins to appear in April; <i>More New Arabian Nights</i> as soon +as possible. Moreover, I am neck deep in Wellington; also a +story on the stocks, <i>Great North Road</i>. O, I am busy! +Lloyd is at college in Edinburgh. That is, I think, all +that can be said by way of news.</p> +<p>Have you read <i>Huckleberry Finn</i>? It contains many +excellent things; above all, the whole story of a healthy +boy’s dealings with his conscience, incredibly well +done.</p> +<p>My own conscience is badly seared; a want of piety; yet I pray +for it, tacitly, every day; believing it, after courage, the only +gift worth having; and its want, in a man of any claims to +honour, quite unpardonable. The tone of your letter seemed +to me very sound. In these dark days of public dishonour, I +do not know that one can do better than carry our private trials +piously. What a picture is this of a nation! No man +that I can see, on any side or party, seems to have the least +sense of our ineffable shame: the desertion of the +garrisons. I tell my little parable that Germany took +England, and then there was an Indian Mutiny, and Bismarck said: +‘Quite right: let Delhi and Calcutta and Bombay fall; and +let the women and children be treated Sepoy fashion,’ and +<a name="page352"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 352</span>people +say, ‘O, but that is very different!’ And then +I wish I were dead. Millais (I hear) was painting Gladstone +when the news came of Gordon’s death; Millais was much +affected, and Gladstone said, ‘Why? <i>It is the +man’s own temerity</i>!’ Voilà le +Bourgeois! le voilà nu! But why should I blame +Gladstone, when I too am a Bourgeois? when I have held my +peace? Why did I hold my peace? Because I am a +sceptic: <i>i.e.</i> a Bourgeois. We believe in nothing, +Symonds; you don’t, and I don’t; and these are two +reasons, out of a handful of millions, why England stands before +the world dripping with blood and daubed with dishonour. I +will first try to take the beam out of my own eye, trusting that +even private effort somehow betters and braces the general +atmosphere. See, for example, if England has shown (I put +it hypothetically) one spark of manly sensibility, they have been +shamed into it by the spectacle of Gordon. Police-Officer +Cole is the only man that I see to admire. I dedicate my +<i>New Arabs</i> to him and Cox, in default of other great public +characters.—Yours ever most affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 12, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I was +indeed much exercised how I could be worked into Gray; and lo! +when I saw it, the passage seemed to have been written with a +single eye to elucidate the—worst?—well, not a very +good poem of Gray’s. Your little life is excellent, +clean, neat, efficient. I have read many of your notes, +too, with pleasure. Your connection with Gray was a happy +circumstance; it was a suitable conjunction.</p> +<p><a name="page353"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 353</span>I did +not answer your letter from the States, for what was I to +say? I liked getting it and reading it; I was rather +flattered that you wrote it to me; and then I’ll tell you +what I did—I put it in the fire. Why? Well, +just because it was very natural and expansive; and thinks I to +myself, if I die one of these fine nights, this is just the +letter that Gosse would not wish to go into the hands of third +parties. Was I well inspired? And I did not answer it +because you were in your high places, sailing with supreme +dominion, and seeing life in a particular glory; and I was +peddling in a corner, confined to the house, overwhelmed with +necessary work, which I was not always doing well, and, in the +very mild form in which the disease approaches me, touched with a +sort of bustling cynicism. Why throw cold water? How +ape your agreeable frame of mind? In short, I held my +tongue.</p> +<p>I have now published on 101 small pages <i>The Complete Proof +of Mr. R. L. Stevenson’s Incapacity to Write Verse</i>, in +a series of graduated examples with table of contents. I +think I shall issue a companion volume of exercises: +‘Analyse this poem. Collect and comminate the ugly +words. Distinguish and condemn the <i>chevilles</i>. +State Mr. Stevenson’s faults of taste in regard to the +measure. What reasons can you gather from this example for +your belief that Mr. S. is unable to write any other +measure?’</p> +<p>They look ghastly in the cold light of print; but there is +something nice in the little ragged regiment for all; the +blackguards seem to me to smile, to have a kind of childish +treble note that sounds in my ears freshly; not song, if you +will, but a child’s voice.</p> +<p>I was glad you enjoyed your visit to the States. Most +Englishmen go there with a confirmed design of patronage, as they +go to France for that matter; and patronage will not pay. +Besides, in this year of—grace, said I?—of disgrace, +who should creep so low as an Englishman? ‘It is not +to be thought of that the flood’—ah, <a +name="page354"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 354</span>Wordsworth, +you would change your note were you alive to-day!</p> +<p>I am now a beastly householder, but have not yet entered on my +domain. When I do, the social revolution will probably cast +me back upon my dung heap. There is a person called Hyndman +whose eye is on me; his step is beHynd me as I go. I shall +call my house Skerryvore when I get it: <span +class="GutSmall">SKERRYVORE</span>: <i>c’est bon pour la +poéshie</i>. I will conclude with my favourite +sentiment: ‘The world is too much with me.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>,<br /> +<i>The Hermit of Skerryvore</i>.</p> +<p>Author of ‘John Vane Tempest: a Romance,’ +‘Herbert and Henrietta: or the Nemesis of Sentiment,’ +‘The Life and Adventures of Colonel Bludyer +Fortescue,’ ‘Happy Homes and Hairy Faces,’ +‘A Pound of Feathers and a Pound of Lead,’ part +author of ‘Minn’s Complete Capricious Correspondent: +a Manual of Natty, Natural, and Knowing Letters,’ and +editor of the ‘Poetical Remains of Samuel Burt Crabbe, +known as the melodious Bottle-Holder.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Uniform with the above:</p> +<p>‘The Life and Remains of the Reverend Jacob Degray +Squah,’ author of ‘Heave-yo for the New +Jerusalem.’ ‘A Box of Candles; or the Patent +Spiritual Safety Match,’ and ‘A Day with the Heavenly +Harriers.’</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bonallie Towers</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 13, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—Your success +has been immense. I wish your letter had come two days ago: +<i>Otto</i>, alas! has been disposed of a good while ago; but it +was only <a name="page355"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +355</span>day before yesterday that I settled the new volume of +Arabs. However, for the future, you and the sons of the +deified Scribner are the men for me. Really they have +behaved most handsomely. I cannot lay my hand on the +papers, or I would tell you exactly how it compares with my +English bargain; but it compares well. Ah, if we had that +copyright, I do believe it would go far to make me solvent, +ill-health and all.</p> +<p>I wrote you a letter to the Rembrandt, in which I stated my +views about the dedication in a very brief form. It will +give me sincere pleasure, and will make the second dedication I +have received, the other being from John Addington Symonds. +It is a compliment I value much; I don’t know any that I +should prefer.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear you have windows to do; that is a fine +business, I think; but, alas! the glass is so bad nowadays; +realism invading even that, as well as the huge inferiority of +our technical resource corrupting every tint. Still, +anything that keeps a man to decoration is, in this age, good for +the artist’s spirit.</p> +<p>By the way, have you seen James and me on the novel? +James, I think in the August or September—R. L. S. in the +December <i>Longman</i>. I own I think the <i>école +bête</i>, of which I am the champion, has the whip hand of +the argument; but as James is to make a rejoinder, I must not +boast. Anyway the controversy is amusing to see. I +was terribly tied down to space, which has made the end congested +and dull. I shall see if I can afford to send you the April +<i>Contemporary</i>—but I dare say you see it +anyway—as it will contain a paper of mine on style, a sort +of continuation of old arguments on art in which you have wagged +a most effective tongue. It is a sort of start upon my +Treatise on the Art of Literature: a small, arid book that shall +some day appear.</p> +<p>With every good wish from me and mine (should I not say +‘she and hers’?) to you and yours, believe me yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page356"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +356</span><span class="smcap">to P. G. Hamerton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 16, +1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HAMERTON</span>,—Various +things have been reminding me of my misconduct: First, +Swan’s application for your address; second, a sight of the +sheets of your <i>Landscape</i> book; and last, your note to +Swan, which he was so kind as to forward. I trust you will +never suppose me to be guilty of anything more serious than an +idleness, partially excusable. My ill-health makes my rate +of life heavier than I can well meet, and yet stops me from +earning more. My conscience, sometimes perhaps too easily +stifled, but still (for my time of life and the public manners of +the age) fairly well alive, forces me to perpetual and almost +endless transcriptions. On the back of all this, my +correspondence hangs like a thundercloud; and just when I think I +am getting through my troubles, crack, down goes my health, I +have a long, costly sickness, and begin the world again. It +is fortunate for me I have a father, or I should long ago have +died; but the opportunity of the aid makes the necessity none the +more welcome. My father has presented me with a beautiful +house here—or so I believe, for I have not yet seen it, +being a cage bird but for nocturnal sorties in the garden. +I hope we shall soon move into it, and I tell myself that some +day perhaps we may have the pleasure of seeing you as our +guest. I trust at least that you will take me as I am, a +thoroughly bad correspondent, and a man, a hater, indeed, of +rudeness in others, but too often rude in all unconsciousness +himself; and that you will never cease to believe the sincere +sympathy and admiration that I feel for you and for your +work.</p> +<p>About the <i>Landscape</i>, which I had a glimpse of while <a +name="page357"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 357</span>a friend of +mine was preparing a review, I was greatly interested, and could +write and wrangle for a year on every page; one passage +particularly delighted me, the part about +Ulysses—jolly. Then, you know, that is just what I +fear I have come to think landscape ought to be in literature; so +there we should be at odds. Or perhaps not so much as I +suppose, as Montaigne says it is a pot with two handles, and I +own I am wedded to the technical handle, which (I likewise own +and freely) you do well to keep for a mistress. I should +much like to talk with you about some other points; it is only in +talk that one gets to understand. Your delightful +Wordsworth trap I have tried on two hardened Wordsworthians, not +that I am not one myself. By covering up the context, and +asking them to guess what the passage was, both (and both are +very clever people, one a writer, one a painter) pronounced it a +guide-book. ‘Do you think it an unusually good +guide-book?’ I asked, and both said, ‘No, not at +all!’ Their grimace was a picture when I showed the +original.</p> +<p>I trust your health and that of Mrs. Hamerton keep better; +your last account was a poor one. I was unable to make out +the visit I had hoped, as (I do not know if you heard of it) I +had a very violent and dangerous hæmorrhage last +spring. I am almost glad to have seen death so close with +all my wits about me, and not in the customary lassitude and +disenchantment of disease. Even thus clearly beheld I find +him not so terrible as we suppose. But, indeed, with the +passing of years, the decay of strength, the loss of all my old +active and pleasant habits, there grows more and more upon me +that belief in the kindness of this scheme of things, and the +goodness of our veiled God, which is an excellent and pacifying +compensation. I trust, if your health continues to trouble +you, you may find some of the same belief. But perhaps my +fine discovery is a piece of art, and belongs to a character +cowardly, intolerant of certain feelings, and apt to +self-deception. I don’t think so, however; <a +name="page358"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 358</span>and when I +feel what a weak and fallible vessel I was thrust into this +hurly-burly, and with what marvellous kindness the wind has been +tempered to my frailties, I think I should be a strange kind of +ass to feel anything but gratitude.</p> +<p>I do not know why I should inflict this talk upon you; but +when I summon the rebellous pen, he must go his own way; I am no +Michael Scott, to rule the fiend of correspondence. Most +days he will none of me; and when he comes, it is to rape me +where he will.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 29, +1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>,—Yes, I +have heard of you and read some of your work; but I am bound in +particular to thank you for the notice of my verses. +‘There,’ I said, throwing it over to the friend who +was staying with me, ‘it’s worth writing a book to +draw an article like that.’ Had you been as hard upon +me as you were amiable, I try to tell myself I should have been +no blinder to the merits of your notice. For I saw there, +to admire and to be very grateful for, a most sober, agile pen; +an enviable touch; the marks of a reader, such as one imagines +for one’s self in dreams, thoughtful, critical, and kind; +and to put the top on this memorial column, a greater readiness +to describe the author criticised than to display the talents of +his censor.</p> +<p>I am a man <i>blasé</i> to injudicious praise (though I +hope some of it may be judicious too), but I have to thank you +for <span class="GutSmall">THE BEST CRITICISM I EVER HAD</span>; +and am therefore, <a name="page359"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +359</span>dear Mr. Archer, the most grateful critickee now +extant.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I congratulate you on living in the corner +of all London that I like best. <i>À propos</i>, you +are very right about my voluntary aversion from the painful sides +of life. My childhood was in reality a very mixed +experience, full of fever, nightmare, insomnia, painful days and +interminable nights; and I can speak with less authority of +gardens than of that other ‘land of +counterpane.’ But to what end should we renew these +sorrows? The sufferings of life may be handled by the very +greatest in their hours of insight; it is of its pleasures that +our common poems should be formed; these are the experiences that +we should seek to recall or to provoke; and I say with Thoreau, +‘What right have I to complain, who have not ceased to +wonder?’ and, to add a rider of my own, who have no remedy +to offer.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>June</i> 1885.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—You +know how much and for how long I have loved, respected, and +admired him; I am only able to feel a little with you. But +I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never knew a +better man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel the +loss more greatly as time goes on. It scarce seems life to +me; what must it be to you? Yet one of the last things that +he said to me was, that from all these sad bereavements of yours +he had learned only more than ever to feel the goodness and what +we, in our feebleness, call the support of God; he had been +ripening so much—to other eyes <a name="page360"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 360</span>than ours, we must suppose he was +ripe, and try to feel it. I feel it is better not to say +much more. It will be to me a great pride to write a notice +of him: the last I can now do. What more in any way I can +do for you, please to think and let me know. For his sake +and for your own, I would not be a useless friend: I know, you +know me a most warm one; please command me or my wife, in any +way. Do not trouble to write to me; Austin, I have no +doubt, will do so, if you are, as I fear you will be, unfit.</p> +<p>My heart is sore for you. At least you know what you +have been to him; how he cherished and admired you; how he was +never so pleased as when he spoke of you; with what a boy’s +love, up to the last, he loved you. This surely is a +consolation. Yours is the cruel part—to survive; you +must try and not grudge to him his better fortune, to go +first. It is the sad part of such relations that one must +remain and suffer; I cannot see my poor Jenkin without you. +Nor you indeed without him; but you may try to rejoice that he is +spared that extremity. Perhaps I (as I was so much his +confidant) know even better than you can do what your loss would +have been to him; he never spoke of you but his face changed; it +was—you were—his religion.</p> +<p>I write by this post to Austin and to the +<i>Academy</i>.—Yours most sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>,</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>June</i> 1885.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—I +should have written sooner, but we are in a bustle, and I have +been very tired, though still well. Your very kind note was +most welcome to me. I shall be very much pleased to have +you call me Louis, as he has now done for so many years. +Sixteen, you say? is it so long? It seems too short now; +but of that we cannot judge, and must not complain.</p> +<p><a name="page361"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>I +wish that either I or my wife could do anything for you; when we +can, you will, I am sure, command us.</p> +<p>I trust that my notice gave you as little pain as was +possible. I found I had so much to say, that I preferred to +keep it for another place and make but a note in the +<i>Academy</i>. To try to draw my friend at greater length, +and say what he was to me and his intimates, what a good +influence in life and what an example, is a desire that grows +upon me. It was strange, as I wrote the note, how his old +tests and criticisms haunted me; and it reminded me afresh with +every few words how much I owe to him.</p> +<p>I had a note from Henley, very brief and very sad. We +none of us yet feel the loss; but we know what he would have said +and wished.</p> +<p>Do you know that Dew Smith has two photographs of him, neither +very bad? and one giving a lively, though not flattering air of +him in conversation? If you have not got them, would you +like me to write to Dew and ask him to give you proofs?</p> +<p>I was so pleased that he and my wife made friends; that is a +great pleasure. We found and have preserved one fragment +(the head) of the drawing he made and tore up when he was last +here. He had promised to come and stay with us this +summer. May we not hope, at least, some time soon to have +one from you?—Believe me, my dear Mrs. Jenkin, with the +most real sympathy, your sincere friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Dear me, what happiness I owe to both of you!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page362"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 362</span><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 22, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—I trust you +are not annoyed with me beyond forgiveness; for indeed my silence +has been devilish prolonged. I can only tell you that I +have been nearly six months (more than six) in a strange +condition of collapse, when it was impossible to do any work, and +difficult (more difficult than you would suppose) to write the +merest note. I am now better, but not yet my own man in the +way of brains, and in health only so-so. I suppose I shall +learn (I begin to think I am learning) to fight this vast, vague +feather-bed of an obsession that now overlies and smothers me; +but in the beginnings of these conflicts, the inexperienced +wrestler is always worsted, and I own I have been quite +extinct. I wish you to know, though it can be no excuse, +that you are not the only one of my friends by many whom I have +thus neglected; and even now, having come so very late into the +possession of myself, with a substantial capital of debts, and my +work still moving with a desperate slowness—as a child +might fill a sandbag with its little handfuls—and my future +deeply pledged, there is almost a touch of virtue in my borrowing +these hours to write to you. Why I said ‘hours’ +I know not; it would look blue for both of us if I made good the +word.</p> +<p>I was writing your address the other day, ordering a copy of +my next, <i>Prince Otto</i>, to go your way. I hope you +have not seen it in parts; it was not meant to be so read; and +only my poverty (dishonourably) consented to the serial +evolution.</p> +<p>I will send you with this a copy of the English edition of the +<i>Child’s Garden</i>. I have heard there is some +vile rule of the post-office in the States against inscriptions; +so I send herewith a piece of doggerel which Mr. Bunner may, if +he thinks fit, copy off the fly leaf.</p> +<p>Sargent was down again and painted a portrait of me walking +about in my own dining-room, in my own velveteen jacket, and +twisting as I go my own moustache; at <a name="page363"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 363</span>one corner a glimpse of my wife, in +an Indian dress, and seated in a chair that was once my +grandfather’s; but since some months goes by the name of +Henry James’s, for it was there the novelist loved to +sit—adds a touch of poesy and comicality. It is, I +think, excellent, but is too eccentric to be exhibited. I +am at one extreme corner; my wife, in this wild dress, and +looking like a ghost, is at the extreme other end; between us an +open door exhibits my palatial entrance hall and a part of my +respected staircase. All this is touched in lovely, with +that witty touch of Sargent’s; but, of course, it looks dam +queer as a whole.</p> +<p>Pray let me hear from you, and give me good news of yourself +and your wife, to whom please remember me.—Yours most +sincerely, my dear Low,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Autumn</i> 1885.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—If there was any +more praise in what you wrote, I think [the editor] has done us +both a service; some of it stops my throat. What, it would +not have been the same if Dumas or Musset had done it, would it +not? Well, no, I do not think it would, do you know, now; I +am really of opinion it would not; and a dam good job too. +Why, think what Musset would have made of Otto! Think how +gallantly Dumas would have carried his crowd through! And +whatever you do, don’t quarrel with —. It gives +me much pleasure to see your work there; I think <a +name="page364"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 364</span>you do +yourself great justice in that field; and I would let no +annoyance, petty or justifiable, debar me from such a +market. I think you do good there. Whether +(considering our intimate relations) you would not do better to +refrain from reviewing me, I will leave to yourself: were it all +on my side, you could foresee my answer; but there is your side +also, where you must be the judge.</p> +<p>As for the <i>Saturday</i>. Otto is no +‘fool,’ the reader is left in no doubt as to whether +or not Seraphina was a Messalina (though much it would matter, if +you come to that); and therefore on both these points the +reviewer has been unjust. Secondly, the romance lies +precisely in the freeing of two spirits from these court +intrigues; and here I think the reviewer showed himself +dull. Lastly, if Otto’s speech is offensive to him, +he is one of the large class of unmanly and ungenerous dogs who +arrogate and defile the name of manly. As for the passages +quoted, I do confess that some of them reek Gongorically; they +are excessive, but they are not inelegant after all. +However, had he attacked me only there, he would have scored.</p> +<p>Your criticism on Gondremark is, I fancy, right. I +thought all your criticisms were indeed; only your +praise—chokes me.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 28, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>,—I have +read your paper with my customary admiration; it is very witty, +very adroit; it contains a great deal that is excellently true +(particularly the parts about my stories and the description of +me as an artist in life); but you will not be surprised if I do +not think it altogether just. It seems to me, in +particular, <a name="page365"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +365</span>that you have wilfully read all my works in terms of my +earliest; my aim, even in style, has quite changed in the last +six or seven years; and this I should have thought you would have +noticed. Again, your first remark upon the affectation of +the italic names; a practice only followed in my two affected +little books of travel, where a typographical <i>minauderie</i> +of the sort appeared to me in character; and what you say of it, +then, is quite just. But why should you forget yourself and +use these same italics as an index to my theology some pages +further on? This is lightness of touch indeed; may I say, +it is almost sharpness of practice?</p> +<p>Excuse these remarks. I have been on the whole much +interested, and sometimes amused. Are you aware that the +praiser of this ‘brave gymnasium’ has not seen a +canoe nor taken a long walk since ’79? that he is rarely +out of the house nowadays, and carries his arm in a sling? +Can you imagine that he is a backslidden communist, and is sure +he will go to hell (if there be such an excellent institution) +for the luxury in which he lives? And can you believe that, +though it is gaily expressed, the thought is hag and skeleton in +every moment of vacuity or depression? Can you conceive how +profoundly I am irritated by the opposite affectation to my own, +when I see strong men and rich men bleating about their sorrows +and the burthen of life, in a world full of ‘cancerous +paupers,’ and poor sick children, and the fatally bereaved, +ay, and down even to such happy creatures as myself, who has yet +been obliged to strip himself, one after another, of all the +pleasures that he had chosen except smoking (and the days of that +I know in my heart ought to be over), I forgot eating, which I +still enjoy, and who sees the circle of impotence closing very +slowly but quite steadily around him? In my view, one dank, +dispirited word is harmful, a crime of +<i>lèse-humanité</i>, a piece of acquired evil; +every gay, every bright word or picture, like every pleasant air +of music, is a piece of pleasure set <a name="page366"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 366</span>afloat; the reader catches it, and, +if he be healthy, goes on his way rejoicing; and it is the +business of art so to send him, as often as possible.</p> +<p>For what you say, so kindly, so prettily, so precisely, of my +style, I must in particular thank you; though even here, I am +vexed you should not have remarked on my attempted change of +manner: seemingly this attempt is still quite unsuccessful! +Well, we shall fight it out on this line if it takes all +summer.</p> +<p>And now for my last word: Mrs. Stevenson is very anxious that +you should see me, and that she should see you, in the +flesh. If you at all share in these views, I am a +fixture. Write or telegraph (giving us time, however, to +telegraph in reply, lest the day be impossible), and come down +here to a bed and a dinner. What do you say, my dear +critic? I shall be truly pleased to see you; and to explain +at greater length what I meant by saying narrative was the most +characteristic mood of literature, on which point I have great +hopes I shall persuade you.—Yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—My opinion about Thoreau, and the passage in +<i>The Week</i>, is perhaps a fad, but it is sincere and +stable. I am still of the same mind five years later; did +you observe that I had said ‘modern’ authors? and +will you observe again that this passage touches the very joint +of our division? It is one that appeals to me, deals with +that part of life that I think the most important, and you, if I +gather rightly, so much less so? You believe in the extreme +moment of the facts that humanity has acquired and is acquiring; +I think them of moment, but still or much less than those +inherent or inherited brute principles and laws that sit upon us +(in the character of conscience) as heavy as a shirt of mail, and +that (in the character of the affections and the airy spirit of +pleasure) make all the light of our lives. The house is, +indeed, a great thing, <a name="page367"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 367</span>and should be rearranged on sanitary +principles; but my heart and all my interest are with the +dweller, that ancient of days and day-old infant man.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>An excellent touch is p. 584. ‘By instinct or +design he eschews what demands constructive +patience.’ I believe it is both; my theory is that +literature must always be most at home in treating movement and +change; hence I look for them.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>,] <i>October</i> 28, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST FATHER</span>,—Get the +November number of <i>Time</i>, and you will see a review of me +by a very clever fellow, who is quite furious at bottom because I +am too orthodox, just as Purcell was savage because I am not +orthodox enough. I fall between two stools. It is +odd, too, to see how this man thinks me a full-blooded +fox-hunter, and tells me my philosophy would fail if I lost my +health or had to give up exercise!</p> +<p>An illustrated <i>Treasure Island</i> will be out next +month. I have had an early copy, and the French pictures +are admirable. The artist has got his types up in Hogarth; +he is full of fire and spirit, can draw and can compose, and has +understood the book as I meant it, all but one or two little +accidents, such as making the <i>Hispaniola</i> a brig. I +would send you my copy, <i>but I cannot</i>; it is my new toy, +and I cannot divorce myself from this enjoyment.</p> +<p>I am keeping really better, and have been out about every +second day, though the weather is cold and very wild.</p> +<p>I was delighted to hear you were keeping better; you and +Archer would agree, more shame to you! (Archer is my +pessimist critic.) Good-bye to all of you, with my best +love. We had a dreadful overhauling of my conduct <a +name="page368"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 368</span>as a son +the other night; and my wife stripped me of my illusions and made +me admit I had been a detestable bad one. Of one thing in +particular she convicted me in my own eyes: I mean, a most unkind +reticence, which hung on me then, and I confess still hangs on me +now, when I try to assure you that I do love you.—Ever your +bad son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>October</i> 28, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—At +last, my wife being at a concert, and a story being done, I am at +some liberty to write and give you of my views. And first, +many thanks for the works that came to my sickbed. And +second, and more important, as to the <i>Princess</i>. <a +name="citation368"></a><a href="#footnote368" +class="citation">[368]</a> Well, I think you are going to +do it this time; I cannot, of course, foresee, but these two +first numbers seem to me picturesque and sound and full of +lineament, and very much a new departure. As for your young +lady, she is all there; yes, sir, you can do low life, I +believe. The prison was excellent; it was of that nature of +touch that I sometimes achingly miss from your former work; with +some of the grime, that is, and some of the emphasis of skeleton +there is in nature. I pray you to take grime in a good +sense; it need not be ignoble: dirt may have dignity; in nature +it usually has; and your prison was imposing.</p> +<p>And now to the main point: why do we not see you? Do not +fail us. Make an alarming sacrifice, and let us see +‘Henry James’s chair’ properly occupied. +I never sit in it myself (though it was my grandfather’s); +it has been consecrated to guests by your approval, and now +stands at my elbow gaping. We have a new room, too, to +introduce to you—our last baby, the drawing-room; it <a +name="page369"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 369</span>never +cries, and has cut its teeth. Likewise, there is a cat +now. It promises to be a monster of laziness and +self-sufficiency.</p> +<p>Pray see, in the November <i>Time</i> (a dread name for a +magazine of light reading), a very clever fellow, W. Archer, +stating his views of me; the rosy-gilled +‘athletico-æsthete’; and warning me, in a +fatherly manner, that a rheumatic fever would try my philosophy +(as indeed it would), and that my gospel would not do for +‘those who are shut out from the exercise of any manly +virtue save renunciation.’ To those who know that +rickety and cloistered spectre, the real R. L. S., the paper, +besides being clever in itself, presents rare elements of +sport. The critical parts are in particular very bright and +neat, and often excellently true. Get it by all manner of +means.</p> +<p>I hear on all sides I am to be attacked as an immoral writer; +this is painful. Have I at last got, like you, to the pitch +of being attacked? ’Tis the consecration I +lack—and could do without. Not that Archer’s +paper is an attack, or what either he or I, I believe, would call +one; ’tis the attacks on my morality (which I had thought a +gem of the first water) I referred to.</p> +<p>Now, my dear James, come—come—come. The +spirit (that is me) says, Come; and the bride (and that is my +wife) says, Come; and the best thing you can do for us and +yourself and your work is to get up and do so right +away,—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>,] <i>October</i> 30, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>.—It is +possible my father may be soon down with me; he is an old man and +in bad health and spirits; and I could neither leave him alone, +nor could we talk freely before him. If he should be here +<a name="page370"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 370</span>when you +offer your visit, you will understand if I have to say no, and +put you off.</p> +<p>I quite understand your not caring to refer to things of +private knowledge. What still puzzles me is how you +(‘in the witness box’—ha! I like the +phrase) should have made your argument actually hinge on a +contention which the facts answered.</p> +<p>I am pleased to hear of the correctness of my guess. It +is then as I supposed; you are of the school of the generous and +not the sullen pessimists; and I can feel with you. I used +myself to rage when I saw sick folk going by in their +Bath-chairs; since I have been sick myself (and always when I was +sick myself), I found life, even in its rough places, to have a +property of easiness. That which we suffer ourselves has no +longer the same air of monstrous injustice and wanton cruelty +that suffering wears when we see it in the case of others. +So we begin gradually to see that things are not black, but have +their strange compensations; and when they draw towards their +worst, the idea of death is like a bed to lie on. I should +bear false witness if I did not declare life happy. And +your wonderful statement that happiness tends to die out and +misery to continue, which was what put me on the track of your +frame of mind, is diagnostic of the happy man raging over the +misery of others; it could never be written by the man who had +tried what unhappiness was like. And at any rate, it was a +slip of the pen: the ugliest word that science has to declare is +a reserved indifference to happiness and misery in the +individual; it declares no leaning toward the black, no iniquity +on the large scale in fate’s doings, rather a marble +equality, dread not cruel, giving and taking away and +reconciling.</p> +<p>Why have I not written my <i>Timon</i>? Well, here is my +worst quarrel with you. You take my young books as my last +word. The tendency to try to say more has passed +unperceived (my fault, that). And you make no <a +name="page371"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 371</span>allowance +for the slowness with which a man finds and tries to learn his +tools. I began with a neat brisk little style, and a sharp +little knack of partial observation; I have tried to expand my +means, but still I can only utter a part of what I wish to say, +and am bound to feel; and much of it will die unspoken. But +if I had the pen of Shakespeare, I have no <i>Timon</i> to give +forth. I feel kindly to the powers that be; I marvel they +should use me so well; and when I think of the case of others, I +wonder too, but in another vein, whether they may not, whether +they must not, be like me, still with some compensation, some +delight. To have suffered, nay, to suffer, sets a keen edge +on what remains of the agreeable. This is a great truth, +and has to be learned in the fire.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>We expect you, remember that.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>November</i> 1, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ARCHER</span>,—You will +see that I had already had a sight of your article and what were +my thoughts.</p> +<p>One thing in your letter puzzles me. Are you, too, not +in the witness-box? And if you are, why take a wilfully +false hypothesis? If you knew I was a chronic invalid, why +say that my philosophy was unsuitable to such a case? My +call for facts is not so general as yours, but an essential fact +should not be put the other way about.</p> +<p>The fact is, consciously or not, you doubt my honesty; you +think I am making faces, and at heart disbelieve my +utterances. And this I am disposed to think must spring +from your not having had enough of pain, sorrow, and trouble in +your existence. It is easy to have too much; easy also or +possible to have too little; enough is required <a +name="page372"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 372</span>that a man +may appreciate what elements of consolation and joy there are in +everything but absolutely over-powering physical pain or +disgrace, and how in almost all circumstances the human soul can +play a fair part. You fear life, I fancy, on the principle +of the hand of little employment. But perhaps my hypothesis +is as unlike the truth as the one you chose. Well, if it be +so, if you have had trials, sickness, the approach of death, the +alienation of friends, poverty at the heels, and have not felt +your soul turn round upon these things and spurn them +under—you must be very differently made from me, and I +earnestly believe from the majority of men. But at least +you are in the right to wonder and complain.</p> +<p>To ‘say all’? Stay here. All at +once? That would require a word from the pen of +Gargantua. We say each particular thing as it comes up, and +‘with that sort of emphasis that for the time there seems +to be no other.’ Words will not otherwise serve us; +no, nor even Shakespeare, who could not have put <i>As You Like +It</i> and <i>Timon</i> into one without ruinous loss both of +emphasis and substance. Is it quite fair then to keep your +face so steadily on my most light-hearted works, and then say I +recognise no evil? Yet in the paper on Burns, for instance, +I show myself alive to some sorts of evil. But then, +perhaps, they are not your sorts.</p> +<p>And again: ‘to say all’? All: yes. +Everything: no. The task were endless, the effect +nil. But my all, in such a vast field as this of life, is +what interests me, what stands out, what takes on itself a +presence for my imagination or makes a figure in that little +tricky abbreviation which is the best that my reason can +conceive. That I must treat, or I shall be fooling with my +readers. That, and not the all of some one else.</p> +<p>And here we come to the division: not only do I believe that +literature should give joy, but I see a universe, I suppose, +eternally different from yours; a solemn, a terrible, but a very +joyous and noble universe, where <a name="page373"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 373</span>suffering is not at least wantonly +inflicted, though it falls with dispassionate partiality, but +where it may be and generally is nobly borne; where, above all +(this I believe; probably you don’t: I think he may, with +cancer), <i>any brave man may make</i> out a life which shall be +happy for himself, and, by so being, beneficent to those about +him. And if he fails, why should I hear him weeping? +I mean if I fail, why should I weep? Why should <i>you</i> +hear <i>me</i>? Then to me morals, the conscience, the +affections, and the passions are, I will own frankly and +sweepingly, so infinitely more important than the other parts of +life, that I conceive men rather triflers who become immersed in +the latter; and I will always think the man who keeps his lip +stiff, and makes ‘a happy fireside clime,’ and +carries a pleasant face about to friends and neighbours, +infinitely greater (in the abstract) than an atrabilious +Shakespeare or a backbiting Kant or Darwin. No offence to +any of these gentlemen, two of whom probably (one for certain) +came up to my standard.</p> +<p>And now enough said; it were hard if a poor man could not +criticise another without having so much ink shed against +him. But I shall still regret you should have written on an +hypothesis you knew to be untenable, and that you should thus +have made your paper, for those who do not know me, essentially +unfair. The rich, fox-hunting squire speaks with one voice; +the sick man of letters with another.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span><br /> +(<span class="GutSmall"><i>Prometheus-Heine in +minimis</i></span>).</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Here I go again. To me, the medicine +bottles on my chimney and the blood on my handkerchief are +accidents; they do not colour my view of life, as you would know, +I think, if you had experience of sickness; they do not exist in +my prospect; I would as soon drag them under the eyes of my +readers as I would mention a pimple I might chance to have +(saving your presence) <a name="page374"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 374</span>on my posteriors. What does it +prove? what does it change? it has not hurt, it has not changed +me in any essential part; and I should think myself a trifler and +in bad taste if I introduced the world to these unimportant +privacies.</p> +<p>But, again, there is this mountain-range between +us—<i>that you do not believe me</i>. It is not +flattering, but the fault is probably in my literary art.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>December</i> 26, 1885.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—<i>Lamia</i> +has not yet turned up, but your letter came to me this evening +with a scent of the Boulevard Montparnasse that was +irresistible. The sand of Lavenue’s crumbled under my +heel; and the bouquet of the old Fleury came back to me, and I +remembered the day when I found a twenty franc piece under my +fetish. Have you that fetish still? and has it brought you +luck? I remembered, too, my first sight of you in a frock +coat and a smoking-cap, when we passed the evening at the +Café de Medicis; and my last when we sat and talked in the +Parc Monceau; and all these things made me feel a little young +again, which, to one who has been mostly in bed for a month, was +a vivifying change.</p> +<p>Yes, you are lucky to have a bag that holds you +comfortably. Mine is a strange contrivance; I don’t +die, damme, and I can’t get along on both feet to save my +soul; I am a chronic sickist; and my work cripples along between +bed and the parlour, between the medicine bottle and the cupping +glass. Well, I like my life all the same; and should like +it none the worse if I could have another talk with you, though +even my talks now are measured <a name="page375"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 375</span>out to me by the minute hand like +poisons in a minim glass.</p> +<p>A photograph will be taken of my ugly mug and sent to you for +ulterior purposes: I have another thing coming out, which I did +not put in the way of the Scribners, I can scarce tell how; but I +was sick and penniless and rather back on the world, and +mismanaged it. I trust they will forgive me.</p> +<p>I am sorry to hear of Mrs. Low’s illness, and glad to +hear of her recovery. I will announce the coming +<i>Lamia</i> to Bob: he steams away at literature like +smoke. I have a beautiful Bob on my walls, and a good +Sargent, and a delightful Lemon; and your etching now hangs +framed in the dining-room. So the arts surround +me.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnotexv"></a><a href="#citationxv" +class="footnote">[xv]</a> <i>Vailima Letters</i>: Methuen +and Co., 1895.</p> +<p><a name="footnotexxi"></a><a href="#citationxxi" +class="footnote">[xxi]</a> Compare <i>Virginibus +Puerisque</i>: the essay on ‘The English +Admirals.’</p> +<p><a name="footnotexxx"></a><a href="#citationxxx" +class="footnote">[xxx]</a> The fragment called <i>Lay +Morals</i>, at present only printed in the Edinburgh edition +(<i>Miscellanies</i>, vol. iv.), contains the pith of his mental +history on these subjects.</p> +<p><a name="footnote17"></a><a href="#citation17" +class="footnote">[17]</a> Aikman’s <i>Annals of the +Persecution in Scotland</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote24"></a><a href="#citation24" +class="footnote">[24]</a> Thomas Stevenson.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56"></a><a href="#citation56" +class="footnote">[56]</a> See Scott himself in the preface +to the Author’s edition.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67"></a><a href="#citation67" +class="footnote">[67]</a> Compare the paragraph in +‘Ordered South’ describing the state of mind of the +invalid doubtful of recovery, and ending: ‘He will pray for +Medea; when she comes, let here either rejuvenate or +slay.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote144"></a><a href="#citation144" +class="footnote">[144]</a> ‘The Story of a +Lie.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote149"></a><a href="#citation149" +class="footnote">[149]</a> Engraisser, grow fat.</p> +<p><a name="footnote161"></a><a href="#citation161" +class="footnote">[161]</a> Here follows a long calculation +of ways and means.</p> +<p><a name="footnote185"></a><a href="#citation185" +class="footnote">[185]</a> ‘The whole front of the +house was lighted, and there were pipes and fiddles, and as much +dancing and deray within as used to be in Sir Robert’s +house at Pace and Yule, and such high seasons.’—See +‘Wandering Willie’s Tale’ in +<i>Redgauntlet</i>, borrowed perhaps from <i>Christ’s Kirk +of the Green</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote186"></a><a href="#citation186" +class="footnote">[186]</a> In architecture, a series of +piles to defend the pier of a bridge.</p> +<p><a name="footnote191"></a><a href="#citation191" +class="footnote">[191]</a> Gentleman’s library.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209"></a><a href="#citation209" +class="footnote">[209]</a> The reference is of course to +Wordsworth’s <i>Song at the Feast of Brougham +Castle</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210"></a><a href="#citation210" +class="footnote">[210]</a> At Davos-Platz.</p> +<p><a name="footnote223"></a><a href="#citation223" +class="footnote">[223]</a> From Landor’s +<i>Gebir</i>: the line refers to Napoleon Bonaparte.</p> +<p><a name="footnote263"></a><a href="#citation263" +class="footnote">[263]</a> Fair copy of some of the +<i>Child’s Garden</i> verses.</p> +<p><a name="footnote269"></a><a href="#citation269" +class="footnote">[269]</a> <i>Silverado Squatters</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote289"></a><a href="#citation289" +class="footnote">[289]</a> The well-known Scottish +landscape painter, who had been a friend of Stevenson’s in +youth.</p> +<p><a name="footnote290"></a><a href="#citation290" +class="footnote">[290]</a> <i>Croûtes</i>: crude +studies or daubs from nature.</p> +<p><a name="footnote303"></a><a href="#citation303" +class="footnote">[303]</a> A favourite Skye terrier. +Mr. Stevenson was a great lover of dogs.</p> +<p><a name="footnote318"></a><a href="#citation318" +class="footnote">[318]</a> The essay so called. See +<i>Memories and Portraits</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote330"></a><a href="#citation330" +class="footnote">[330]</a> Of Sophocles.</p> +<p><a name="footnote337"></a><a href="#citation337" +class="footnote">[337]</a> Cough.</p> +<p><a name="footnote338"></a><a href="#citation338" +class="footnote">[338]</a> Loose talk.</p> +<p><a name="footnote339"></a><a href="#citation339" +class="footnote">[339]</a> Mr. Charles Morley, at this time +manager or assistant-manager of the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote368"></a><a href="#citation368" +class="footnote">[368]</a> <i>Princess Casamassina</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** +</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 622-h.htm or 622-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/9/9/9/622 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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