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diff --git a/637-0.txt b/637-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77e84da --- /dev/null +++ b/637-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12367 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his +Family and Friends - Volume 2 [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 2 [of 2] + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: August 27, 2019 [eBook #637] +[This file was first posted on July 11, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** + + +Transcribed from the 1906 Methuen and Co edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Robert Louis Stevenson] + + + + + + THE LETTERS OF + ROBERT LOUIS + STEVENSON + + + TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS + + SELECTED AND EDITED WITH + NOTES AND INTRODUCTION BY + + SIDNEY COLVIN + + VOLUME II + + * * * * * + + LONDON + METHUEN AND CO. + 36 ESSEX STREET + + _Seventh Edition_ + +_First Published_ _November 1899_ +_Second Edition_ _November 1899_ +_Third Edition_ _April 1900_ +_Fourth Edition_ _November 1900_ +_Fifth Edition_ _January 1901_ +_Sixth Edition_ _October 1902_ +_Seventh Edition_ _December 1906_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + VIII 6 + LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH—_Continued_ + IX 59 + THE UNITED STATES AGAIN + WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS + X 114 + PACIFIC VOYAGES + XI 209 + LIFE IN SAMOA + XII 285 + LIFE IN SAMOA—_continued_ + + + + +VIII +LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH, +_Continued_, +JANUARY 1886-JULY 1887. + + +TO MRS. DE MATTOS + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _January_ 1_st_, 1886. + +DEAREST KATHARINE,—Here, on a very little book and accompanied with lame +verses, I have put your name. Our kindness is now getting well on in +years; it must be nearly of age; and it gets more valuable to me with +every time I see you. It is not possible to express any sentiment, and +it is not necessary to try, at least between us. You know very well that +I love you dearly, and that I always will. I only wish the verses were +better, but at least you like the story; and it is sent to you by the one +that loves you—Jekyll, and not Hyde. + + R. L. S. + + _Ave_! + + Bells upon the city are ringing in the night; + High above the gardens are the houses full of light; + On the heathy Pentlands is the curlew flying free; + And the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie. + + We cannae break the bonds that God decreed to bind, + Still we’ll be the children of the heather and the wind; + Far away from home, O, it’s still for you and me + That the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], 1_st_, 1886. + +MY DEAR KINNICUM,—I am a very bad dog, but not for the first time. Your +book, which is very interesting, came duly; and I immediately got a very +bad cold indeed, and have been fit for nothing whatever. I am a bit +better now, and aye on the mend; so I write to tell you, I thought of you +on New Year’s Day; though, I own, it would have been more decent if I had +thought in time for you to get my letter then. Well, what can’t be cured +must be endured, Mr. Lawrie; and you must be content with what I give. +If I wrote all the letters I ought to write, and at the proper time, I +should be very good and very happy; but I doubt if I should do anything +else. + +I suppose you will be in town for the New Year; and I hope your health is +pretty good. What you want is diet; but it is as much use to tell you +that as it is to tell my father. And I quite admit a diet is a beastly +thing. I doubt, however, if it be as bad as not being allowed to speak, +which I have tried fully, and do not like. When, at the same time, I was +not allowed to read, it passed a joke. But these are troubles of the +past, and on this day, at least, it is proper to suppose they won’t +return. But we are not put here to enjoy ourselves: it was not God’s +purpose; and I am prepared to argue, it is not our sincere wish. As for +our deserts, the less said of them the better, for somebody might hear, +and nobody cares to be laughed at. A good man is a very noble thing to +see, but not to himself; what he seems to God is, fortunately, not our +business; that is the domain of faith; and whether on the first of +January or the thirty-first of December, faith is a good word to end on. + +My dear Cummy, many happy returns to you and my best love.—The worst +correspondent in the world, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _January_ 1_st_, 1886. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—Many happy returns of the day to you all; I am fairly +well and in good spirits; and much and hopefully occupied with dear +Jenkin’s life. The inquiry in every detail, every letter that I read, +makes me think of him more nobly. I cannot imagine how I got his +friendship; I did not deserve it. I believe the notice will be +interesting and useful. + +My father’s last letter, owing to the use of a quill pen and the neglect +of blotting-paper, was hopelessly illegible. Every one tried, and every +one failed to decipher an important word on which the interest of one +whole clause (and the letter consisted of two) depended. + +I find I can make little more of this; but I’ll spare the blots.—Dear +people, ever your loving son, + + R. L. S. + +I will try again, being a giant refreshed by the house being empty. The +presence of people is the great obstacle to letter-writing. I deny 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. When the house is empty, the mind is seized +with a desire—no, that is too strong—a willingness to pour forth +unmitigated rot, which constitutes (in me) the true spirit of +correspondence. When I have no remarks to offer (and nobody to offer +them to), my pen flies, and you see the remarkable consequence of a page +literally covered with words and genuinely devoid of sense. I can always +do that, if quite alone, and I like doing it; but I have yet to learn +that it is beloved by correspondents. The deuce of it is, that there is +no end possible but the end of the paper; and as there is very little +left of that—if I cannot stop writing—suppose you give up reading. It +would all come to the same thing; and I think we should all be happier . . . + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _Jan._ 2_nd_, 1886. + +MY DEAR LOW,—_Lamia_ has come, and I do not know how to thank you, not +only for the beautiful art of the designs, but for the handsome and apt +words of the dedication. My favourite is ‘Bathes unseen,’ which is a +masterpiece; and the next, ‘Into the green recessed woods,’ is perhaps +more remarkable, though it does not take my fancy so imperiously. The +night scene at Corinth pleases me also. The second part offers fewer +opportunities. I own I should like to see both _Isabella_ and the _Eve_ +thus illustrated; and then there’s _Hyperion_—O, yes, and _Endymion_! I +should like to see the lot: beautiful pictures dance before me by +hundreds: I believe _Endymion_ would suit you best. It also is in +faery-land; and I see a hundred opportunities, cloudy and flowery +glories, things as delicate as the cobweb in the bush; actions, not in +themselves of any mighty purport, but made for the pencil: the feast of +Pan, Peona’s isle, the ‘slabbed margin of a well,’ the chase of the +butterfly, the nymph, Glaucus, Cybele, Sleep on his couch, a farrago of +unconnected beauties. But I divagate; and all this sits in the bosom of +the publisher. + +What is more important, I accept the terms of the dedication with a frank +heart, and the terms of your Latin legend fairly. The sight of your +pictures has once more awakened me to my right mind; something may come +of it; yet one more bold push to get free of this prisonyard of the +abominably ugly, where I take my daily exercise with my contemporaries. +I do not know, I have a feeling in my bones, a sentiment which may take +on the forms of imagination, or may not. If it does, I shall owe it to +you; and the thing will thus descend from Keats even if on the wrong side +of the blanket. If it can be done in prose—that is the puzzle—I divagate +again. Thank you again: you can draw and yet you do not love the ugly: +what are you doing in this age? Flee, while it is yet time; they will +have your four limbs pinned upon a stable door to scare witches. The +ugly, my unhappy friend, is _de rigueur_: it is the only wear! What a +chance you threw away with the serpent! Why had Apollonius no pimples? +Heavens, my dear Low, you do not know your business. . . . + +I send you herewith a Gothic gnome for your Greek nymph; but the gnome is +interesting, I think, and he came out of a deep mine, where he guards the +fountain of tears. It is not always the time to rejoice.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + +The gnome’s name is _Jekyll & Hyde_; I believe you will find he is +likewise quite willing to answer to the name of Low or Stevenson. + +_Same day_.—I have copied out on the other sheet some bad verses, which +somehow your picture suggested; as a kind of image of things that I +pursue and cannot reach, and that you seem—no, not to have reached—but to +have come a thought nearer to than I. This is the life we have chosen: +well, the choice was mad, but I should make it again. + +What occurs to me is this: perhaps they might be printed in (say) the +_Century_ for the sake of my name; and if that were possible, they might +advertise your book. It might be headed as sent in acknowledgment of +your _Lamia_. Or perhaps it might be introduced by the phrases I have +marked above. I dare say they would stick it in: I want no payment, +being well paid by _Lamia_. If they are not, keep them to yourself. + + + +TO WILL H. LOW + + + _Damned bad lines in return for a beautiful book_ + + Youth now flees on feathered foot. + Faint and fainter sounds the flute; + Rarer songs of Gods. + And still, + Somewhere on the sunny hill, + Or along the winding stream, + Through the willows, flits a dream; + Flits, but shows a smiling face, + Flees, but with so quaint a grace, + None can choose to stay at home, + All must follow—all must roam. + This is unborn beauty: she + Now in air floats high and free, + Takes the sun, and breaks the blue;— + Late, with stooping pinion flew + Raking hedgerow trees, and wet + Her wing in silver streams, and set + Shining foot on temple roof. + Now again she flies aloof, + Coasting mountain clouds, and kissed + By the evening’s amethyst. + In wet wood and miry lane + Still we pound and pant in vain; + Still with earthy foot we chase + Waning pinion, fainting face; + Still, with grey hair, we stumble on + Till—behold!—the vision gone! + Where has fleeting beauty led? + To the doorway of the dead! + qy. omit? [Life is gone, but life was gay: + We have come the primrose way!] {11} + + R. L. S. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _Jan._ 2_nd_, 1886. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—Thank you for your letter, so interesting to my vanity. +There is a review in the St. James’s, which, as it seems to hold somewhat +of your opinions, and is besides written with a pen and not a poker, we +think may possibly be yours. The _Prince_ {12} has done fairly well in +spite of the reviews, which have been bad: he was, as you doubtless saw, +well slated in the _Saturday_; one paper received it as a child’s story; +another (picture my agony) described it as a ‘Gilbert comedy.’ It was +amusing to see the race between me and Justin M’Carthy: the Milesian has +won by a length. + +That is the hard part of literature. You aim high, and you take longer +over your work, and it will not be so successful as if you had aimed low +and rushed it. What the public likes is work (of any kind) a little +loosely executed; so long as it is a little wordy, a little slack, a +little dim and knotless, the dear public likes it; it should (if +possible) be a little dull into the bargain. I know that good work +sometimes hits; but, with my hand on my heart, I think it is by an +accident. And I know also that good work must succeed at last; but that +is not the doing of the public; they are only shamed into silence or +affectation. I do not write for the public; I do write for money, a +nobler deity; and most of all for myself, not perhaps any more noble, but +both more intelligent and nearer home. + +Let us tell each other sad stories of the bestiality of the beast whom we +feed. What he likes is the newspaper; and to me the press is the mouth +of a sewer, where lying is professed as from an university chair, and +everything prurient, and ignoble, and essentially dull, finds its abode +and pulpit. I do not like mankind; but men, and not all of these—and +fewer women. As for respecting the race, and, above all, that fatuous +rabble of burgesses called ‘the public,’ God save me from such +irreligion!—that way lies disgrace and dishonour. There must be +something wrong in me, or I would not be popular. + +This is perhaps a trifle stronger than my sedate and permanent opinion. +Not much, I think. As for the art that we practise, I have never been +able to see why its professors should be respected. They chose the +primrose path; when they found it was not all primroses, but some of it +brambly, and much of it uphill, they began to think and to speak of +themselves as holy martyrs. But a man is never martyred in any honest +sense in the pursuit of his pleasure; and _delirium tremens_ has more of +the honour of the cross. We were full of the pride of life, and chose, +like prostitutes, to live by a pleasure. We should be paid if we give +the pleasure we pretend to give; but why should we be honoured? + +I hope some day you and Mrs. Gosse will come for a Sunday; but we must +wait till I am able to see people. I am very full of Jenkin’s life; it +is painful, yet very pleasant, to dig into the past of a dead friend, and +find him, at every spadeful, shine brighter. I own, as I read, I wonder +more and more why he should have taken me to be a friend. He had many +and obvious faults upon the face of him; the heart was pure gold. I feel +it little pain to have lost him, for it is a loss in which I cannot +believe; I take it, against reason, for an absence; if not to-day, then +to-morrow, I still fancy I shall see him in the door; and then, now when +I know him better, how glad a meeting! Yes, if I could believe in the +immortality business, the world would indeed be too good to be true; but +we were put here to do what service we can, for honour and not for hire: +the sods cover us, and the worm that never dies, the conscience, sleeps +well at last; these are the wages, besides what we receive so lavishly +day by day; and they are enough for a man who knows his own frailty and +sees all things in the proportion of reality. The soul of piety was +killed long ago by that idea of reward. Nor is happiness, whether +eternal or temporal, the reward that mankind seeks. Happinesses are but +his wayside campings; his soul is in the journey; he was born for the +struggle, and only tastes his life in effort and on the condition that he +is opposed. How, then, is such a creature, so fiery, so pugnacious, so +made up of discontent and aspiration, and such noble and uneasy +passions—how can he be rewarded but by rest? I would not say it aloud; +for man’s cherished belief is that he loves that happiness which he +continually spurns and passes by; and this belief in some ulterior +happiness exactly fits him. He does not require to stop and taste it; he +can be about the rugged and bitter business where his heart lies; and yet +he can tell himself this fairy tale of an eternal tea-party, and enjoy +the notion that he is both himself and something else; and that his +friends will yet meet him, all ironed out and emasculate, and still be +lovable,—as if love did not live in the faults of the beloved only, and +draw its breath in an unbroken round of forgiveness! But the truth is, +we must fight until we die; and when we die there can be no quiet for +mankind but complete resumption into—what?—God, let us say—when all these +desperate tricks will lie spellbound at last. + +Here came my dinner and cut this sermon short—_excusez_. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO JAMES PAYN + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _Jan._ 2_nd_, 1886. + +DEAR JAMES PAYN,—Your very kind letter came very welcome; and still more +welcome the news that you see —’s tale. I will now tell you (and it was +very good and very wise of me not to tell it before) that he is one of +the most unlucky men I know, having put all his money into a pharmacy at +Hyères, when the cholera (certainly not his fault) swept away his +customers in a body. Thus you can imagine the pleasure I have to +announce to him a spark of hope, for he sits to-day in his pharmacy, +doing nothing and taking nothing, and watching his debts inexorably mount +up. + +To pass to other matters: your hand, you are perhaps aware, is not one of +those that can be read running; and the name of your daughter remains for +me undecipherable. I call her, then, your daughter—and a very good name +too—and I beg to explain how it came about that I took her house. The +hospital was a point in my tale; but there is a house on each side. Now +the true house is the one before the hospital: is that No. 11? If not, +what do you complain of? If it is, how can I help what is true? +Everything in the _Dynamiter_ is not true; but the story of the Brown Box +is, in almost every particular; I lay my hand on my heart and swear to +it. It took place in that house in 1884; and if your daughter was in +that house at the time, all I can say is she must have kept very bad +society. + +But I see you coming. Perhaps your daughter’s house has not a balcony at +the back? I cannot answer for that; I only know that side of Queen +Square from the pavement and the back windows of Brunswick Row. Thence I +saw plenty of balconies (terraces rather); and if there is none to the +particular house in question, it must have been so arranged to spite me. + +I now come to the conclusion of this matter. I address three questions +to your daughter:— + + 1st. Has her house the proper terrace? + + 2nd. Is it on the proper side of the hospital? + + 3rd. Was she there in the summer of 1884? + +You see, I begin to fear that Mrs. Desborough may have deceived me on +some trifling points, for she is not a lady of peddling exactitude. If +this should prove to be so, I will give your daughter a proper +certificate, and her house property will return to its original value. + +Can man say more?—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +I saw the other day that the Eternal had plagiarised from _Lost Sir +Massingberd_: good again, sir! I wish he would plagiarise the death of +Zero. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _Jan. Somethingorother-th_, 1886. + +MY DEAR LOW,—I send you two photographs: they are both done by Sir Percy +Shelley, the poet’s son, which may interest. The sitting down one is, I +think, the best; but if they choose that, see that the little reflected +light on the nose does not give me a turn-up; that would be tragic. +Don’t forget ‘Baronet’ to Sir Percy’s name. + +We all think a heap of your book; and I am well pleased with my +dedication.—Yours ever, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—_Apropos_ of the odd controversy about Shelley’s nose: I have +before me four photographs of myself, done by Shelley’s son: my nose is +hooked, not like the eagle, indeed, but like the accipitrine family in +man: well, out of these four, only one marks the bend, one makes it +straight, and one suggests a turn-up. This throws a flood of light on +calumnious man—and the scandal-mongering sun. For personally I cling to +my curve. To continue the Shelley controversy: I have a look of him, all +his sisters had noses like mine; Sir Percy has a marked hook; all the +family had high cheek-bones like mine; what doubt, then, but that this +turn-up (of which Jeaffreson accuses the poet, along with much other +_fatras_) is the result of some accident similar to what has happened in +my photographs by his son? + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _January_ 25, 1886.] + +MY DEAR FATHER,—Many thanks for a letter quite like yourself. I quite +agree with you, and had already planned a scene of religion in _Balfour_; +the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge furnishes me with +a catechist whom I shall try to make the man. I have another catechist, +the blind, pistol-carrying highway robber, whom I have transferred from +the Long Island to Mull. I find it a most picturesque period, and wonder +Scott let it escape. The _Covenant_ is lost on one of the Tarrans, and +David is cast on Earraid, where (being from inland) he is nearly starved +before he finds out the island is tidal; then he crosses Mull to +Toronsay, meeting the blind catechist by the way; then crosses Morven +from Kinlochaline to Kingairloch, where he stays the night with the good +catechist; that is where I am; next day he is to be put ashore in Appin, +and be present at Colin Campbell’s death. To-day I rest, being a little +run down. Strange how liable we are to brain fag in this scooty family! +But as far as I have got, all but the last chapter, I think David is on +his feet, and (to my mind) a far better story and far sounder at heart +than _Treasure Island_. + +I have no earthly news, living entirely in my story, and only coming out +of it to play patience. The Shelleys are gone; the Taylors kinder than +can be imagined. The other day, Lady Taylor drove over and called on me; +she is a delightful old lady, and great fun. I mentioned a story about +the Duchess of Wellington which I had heard Sir Henry tell; and though he +was very tired, he looked it up and copied it out for me in his own +hand.—Your most affectionate son, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO C. W. STODDARD + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _Feb._ 13_th_, 1886. + +MY DEAR STODDARD,—I am a dreadful character; but, you see, I have at last +taken pen in hand; how long I may hold it, God knows. This is already my +sixth letter to-day, and I have many more waiting; and my wrist gives me +a jog on the subject of scrivener’s cramp, which is not encouraging. + +I gather you were a little down in the jaw when you wrote your last. I +am as usual pretty cheerful, but not very strong. I stay in the house +all winter, which is base; but, as you continue to see, the pen goes from +time to time, though neither fast enough nor constantly enough to please +me. + +My wife is at Bath with my father and mother, and the interval of +widowery explains my writing. Another person writing for you when you +have done work is a great enemy to correspondence. To-day I feel out of +health, and shan’t work; and hence this so much overdue reply. + +I was re-reading some of your South Sea Idyls the other day: some of the +chapters are very good indeed; some pages as good as they can be. + +How does your class get along? If you like to touch on _Otto_, any day +in a by-hour, you may tell them—as the author’s last dying +confession—that it is a strange example of the difficulty of being ideal +in an age of realism; that the unpleasant giddy-mindedness, which spoils +the book and often gives it a wanton air of unreality and juggling with +air-bells, comes from unsteadiness of key; from the too great realism of +some chapters and passages—some of which I have now spotted, others I +dare say I shall never spot—which disprepares the imagination for the +cast of the remainder. + +Any story can be made _true_ in its own key; any story can be made +_false_ by the choice of a wrong key of detail or style: Otto is made to +reel like a drunken—I was going to say man, but let us substitute +cipher—by the variations of the key. Have you observed that the famous +problem of realism and idealism is one purely of detail? Have you seen +my ‘Note on Realism’ in Cassell’s _Magazine of Art_; and ‘Elements of +Style’ in the _Contemporary_; and ‘Romance’ and ‘Humble Apology’ in +_Longman’s_? They are all in your line of business; let me know what you +have not seen and I’ll send ’em. + +I am glad I brought the old house up to you. It was a pleasant old spot, +and I remember you there, though still more dearly in your own strange +den upon a hill in San Francisco; and one of the most San Francisco-y +parts of San Francisco. + +Good-bye, my dear fellow, and believe me your friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO J. A. SYMONDS + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_ [_Spring_ 1886]. + +MY DEAR SYMONDS,—If we have lost touch, it is (I think) only in a +material sense; a question of letters, not hearts. You will find a warm +welcome at Skerryvore from both the lightkeepers; and, indeed, we never +tell ourselves one of our financial fairy tales, but a run to Davos is a +prime feature. I am not changeable in friendship; and I think I can +promise you you have a pair of trusty well-wishers and friends in +Bournemouth: whether they write or not is but a small thing; the flag may +not be waved, but it is there. + +Jekyll is a dreadful thing, I own; but the only thing I feel dreadful +about is that damned old business of the war in the members. This time +it came out; I hope it will stay in, in future. + +Raskolnikoff {20} is easily the greatest book I have read in ten years; I +am glad you took to it. Many find it dull: Henry James could not finish +it: all I can say is, it nearly finished me. It was like having an +illness. James did not care for it because the character of Raskolnikoff +was not objective; and at that I divined a great gulf between us, and, on +further reflection, the existence of a certain impotence in many minds of +to-day, which prevents them from living _in_ a book or a character, and +keeps them standing afar off, spectators of a puppet show. To such I +suppose the book may seem empty in the centre; to the others it is a +room, a house of life, into which they themselves enter, and are tortured +and purified. The Juge d’Instruction I thought a wonderful, weird, +touching, ingenious creation: the drunken father, and Sonia, and the +student friend, and the uncircumscribed, protaplasmic humanity of +Raskolnikoff, all upon a level that filled me with wonder: the execution +also, superb in places. Another has been translated—_Humiliés et +Offensés_. It is even more incoherent than _Le Crime et le Châtiment_, +but breathes much of the same lovely goodness, and has passages of power. +Dostoieffsky is a devil of a swell, to be sure. Have you heard that he +became a stout, imperialist conservative? It is interesting to know. To +something of that side, the balance leans with me also in view of the +incoherency and incapacity of all. The old boyish idea of the march on +Paradise being now out of season, and all plans and ideas that I hear +debated being built on a superb indifference to the first principles of +human character, a helpless desire to acquiesce in anything of which I +know the worst assails me. Fundamental errors in human nature of two +sorts stand on the skyline of all this modern world of aspirations. +First, that it is happiness that men want; and second, that happiness +consists of anything but an internal harmony. Men do not want, and I do +not think they would accept, happiness; what they live for is rivalry, +effort, success—the elements our friends wish to eliminate. And, on the +other hand, happiness is a question of morality—or of immorality, there +is no difference—and conviction. Gordon was happy in Khartoum, in his +worst hours of danger and fatigue; Marat was happy, I suppose, in his +ugliest frenzy; Marcus Aurelius was happy in the detested camp; Pepys was +pretty happy, and I am pretty happy on the whole, because we both +somewhat crowingly accepted a _via media_, both liked to attend to our +affairs, and both had some success in managing the same. It is quite an +open question whether Pepys and I ought to be happy; on the other hand, +there is no doubt that Marat had better be unhappy. He was right (if he +said it) that he was _la misère humaine_, cureless misery—unless perhaps +by the gallows. Death is a great and gentle solvent; it has never had +justice done it, no, not by Whitman. As for those crockery chimney-piece +ornaments, the bourgeois (_quorum pars_), and their cowardly dislike of +dying and killing, it is merely one symptom of a thousand how utterly +they have got out of touch of life. Their dislike of capital punishment +and their treatment of their domestic servants are for me the two +flaunting emblems of their hollowness. + +God knows where I am driving to. But here comes my lunch. + +Which interruption, happily for you, seems to have stayed the issue. I +have now nothing to say, that had formerly such a pressure of twaddle. +Pray don’t fail to come this summer. It will be a great disappointment, +now it has been spoken of, if you do.—Yours ever, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _March_ 1886.] + +MY DEAR LOW,—This is the most enchanting picture. Now understand my +state: I am really an invalid, but of a mysterious order. I might be a +_malade imaginaire_, but for one too tangible symptom, my tendency to +bleed from the lungs. If we could go, (1_st_) We must have money enough +to travel with _leisure and comfort_—especially the first. (_2nd_) You +must be prepared for a comrade who would go to bed some part of every day +and often stay silent (3_rd_) You would have to play the part of a +thoughtful courier, sparing me fatigue, looking out that my bed was +warmed, etc. (4_th_) If you are very nervous, you must recollect a bad +hæmorrhage is always on the cards, with its concomitants of anxiety and +horror for those who are beside me. + +Do you blench? If so, let us say no more about it. + +If you are still unafraid, and the money were forthcoming, I believe the +trip might do me good, and I feel sure that, working together, we might +produce a fine book. The Rhone is the river of Angels. I adore it: have +adored it since I was twelve, and first saw it from the train. + +Lastly, it would depend on how I keep from now on. I have stood the +winter hitherto with some credit, but the dreadful weather still +continues, and I cannot holloa till I am through the wood. + +Subject to these numerous and gloomy provisos, I embrace the prospect +with glorious feelings. + +I write this from bed, snow pouring without, and no circumstance of +pleasure except your letter. That, however, counts for much. I am glad +you liked the doggerel: I have already had a liberal cheque, over which I +licked my fingers with a sound conscience. I had not meant to make money +by these stumbling feet, but if it comes, it is only too welcome in my +handsome but impecunious house. + +Let me know soon what is to be expected—as far as it does not hang by +that inconstant quantity, my want of health. Remember me to Madam with +the best thanks and wishes; and believe me your friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _April_ 1886.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—I try to tell myself it is good nature, but I know +it is vanity that makes me write. + +I have drafted the first part of Chapter VI., Fleeming and his friends, +his influence on me, his views on religion and literature, his part at +the Savile; it should boil down to about ten pages, and I really do think +it admirably good. It has so much evoked Fleeming for myself that I +found my conscience stirred just as it used to be after a serious talk +with him: surely that means it is good? I had to write and tell you, +being alone. + +I have excellent news of Fanny, who is much better for the change. My +father is still very yellow, and very old, and very weak, but yesterday +he seemed happier, and smiled, and followed what was said; even laughed, +I think. When he came away, he said to me, ‘Take care of yourself, my +dearie,’ which had a strange sound of childish days, and will not leave +my mind. + +You must get Litolf’s _Gavottes Célèbres_: I have made another trover +there: a musette of Lully’s. The second part of it I have not yet got +the hang of; but the first—only a few bars! The gavotte is beautiful and +pretty hard, I think, and very much of the period; and at the end of it, +this musette enters with the most really thrilling effect of simple +beauty. O—it’s first-rate. I am quite mad over it. If you find other +books containing Lully, Rameau, Martini, please let me know; also you +might tell me, you who know Bach, where the easiest is to be found. I +write all morning, come down, and never leave the piano till about five; +write letters, dine, get down again about eight, and never leave the +piano till I go to bed. This is a fine life.—Yours most sincerely, + + R. L. S. + +If you get the musette (Lully’s), please tell me if I am right, and it +was probably written for strings. Anyway, it is as neat as—as neat as +Bach—on the piano; or seems so to my ignorance. + +I play much of the Rigadoon but it is strange, it don’t come off _quite_ +so well with me! + + [Picture: Music store] + +There is the first part of the musette copied (from memory, so I hope +there’s nothing wrong). Is it not angelic? But it ought, of course, to +have the gavotte before. The gavotte is in G, and ends on the keynote +thus (if I remember):— + + [Picture: Music store] + +staccato, I think. Then you sail into the musette. + +_N.B._—Where I have put an ‘A,’ is that a dominant eleventh, or what? or +just a seventh on the D? and if the latter, is that allowed? It sounds +very funny. Never mind all my questions; if I begin about music (which +is my leading ignorance and curiosity), I have always to babble +questions: all my friends know me now, and take no notice whatever. The +whole piece is marked allegro; but surely could easily be played too +fast? The dignity must not be lost; the periwig feeling. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _March_ 1886.] + +MY DEAR FATHER,—The David problem has to-day been decided. I am to leave +the door open for a sequel if the public take to it, and this will save +me from butchering a lot of good material to no purpose. Your letter +from Carlisle was pretty like yourself, sir, as I was pleased to see; the +hand of Jekyll, not the hand of Hyde. I am for action quite unfit, and +even a letter is beyond me; so pray take these scraps at a vast deal more +than their intrinsic worth. I am in great spirits about David, Colvin +agreeing with Henley, Fanny, and myself in thinking it far the most human +of my labours hitherto. As to whether the long-eared British public may +take to it, all think it more than doubtful; I wish they would, for I +could do a second volume with ease and pleasure, and Colvin thinks it sin +and folly to throw away David and Alan Breck upon so small a field as +this one.—Ever your affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _April_ 15 _or_ 16 (_the hour not being + known_), 1886. + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—It is I know not what hour of the night; but I +cannot sleep, have lit the gas, and here goes. + +First, all your packet arrived: I have dipped into the Schumann already +with great pleasure. Surely, in what concerns us there is a sweet little +chirrup; the _Good Words_ arrived in the morning just when I needed it, +and the famous notes that I had lost were recovered also in the nick of +time. + +And now I am going to bother you with my affairs: premising, first, that +this is _private_; second, that whatever I do the _Life_ shall be done +first, and I am getting on with it well; and third, that I do not quite +know why I consult you, but something tells me you will hear with +fairness. + +Here is my problem. The Curtin women are still miserable prisoners; no +one dare buy their farm of them, all the manhood of England and the world +stands aghast before a threat of murder. (1) Now, my work can be done +anywhere; hence I can take up without loss a back-going Irish farm, and +live on, though not (as I had originally written) in it: First Reason. +(2) If I should be killed, there are a good many who would feel it: +writers are so much in the public eye, that a writer being murdered would +attract attention, throw a bull’s-eye light upon this cowardly business: +Second Reason. (3) I am not unknown in the States, from which the funds +come that pay for these brutalities: to some faint extent, my death (if I +should be killed) would tell there: Third Reason. (4) _Nobody else is +taking up this obvious and crying duly_: Fourth Reason. (5) I have a +crazy health and may die at any moment, my life is of no purchase in an +insurance office, it is the less account to husband it, and the business +of husbanding a life is dreary and demoralising: Fifth Reason. + +I state these in no order, but as they occur to me. And I shall do the +like with the objections. + +First Objection: It will do no good; you have seen Gordon die and nobody +minded; nobody will mind if you die. This is plainly of the devil. +Second Objection: You will not even be murdered, the climate will +miserably kill you, you will strangle out in a rotten damp heat, in +congestion, etc. Well, what then? It changes nothing: the purpose is to +brave crime; let me brave it, for such time and to such an extent as God +allows. Third Objection: The Curtin women are probably highly +uninteresting females. I haven’t a doubt of it. But the Government +cannot, men will not, protect them. If I am the only one to see this +public duty, it is to the public and the Right I should perform it—not to +Mesdames Curtin. Fourth Objection: I am married. ‘I have married a +wife!’ I seem to have heard it before. It smells ancient! what was the +context? Fifth Objection: My wife has had a mean life (1), loves me (2), +could not bear to lose me (3). (1) I admit: I am sorry. (2) But what +does she love me for? and (3) she must lose me soon or late. And after +all, because we run this risk, it does not follow we should fail. Sixth +Objection: My wife wouldn’t like it. No, she wouldn’t. Who would? But +the Curtins don’t like it. And all those who are to suffer if this goes +on, won’t like it. And if there is a great wrong, somebody must suffer. +Seventh Objection: I won’t like it. No, I will not; I have thought it +through, and I will not. But what of that? And both she and I may like +it more than we suppose. We shall lose friends, all comforts, all +society: so has everybody who has ever done anything; but we shall have +some excitement, and that’s a fine thing; and we shall be trying to do +the right, and that’s not to be despised. Eighth Objection: I am an +author with my work before me. See Second Reason. Ninth Objection: But +am I not taken with the hope of excitement? I was at first. I am not +much now. I see what a dreary, friendless, miserable, God-forgotten +business it will be. And anyway, is not excitement the proper reward of +doing anything both right and a little dangerous? Tenth Objection: But +am I not taken with a notion of glory? I dare say I am. Yet I see quite +clearly how all points to nothing coming, to a quite inglorious death by +disease and from the lack of attendance; or even if I should be knocked +on the head, as these poor Irish promise, how little any one will care. +It will be a smile at a thousand breakfast-tables. I am nearly forty +now; I have not many illusions. And if I had? I do not love this +health-tending, housekeeping life of mine. I have a taste for danger, +which is human, like the fear of it. Here is a fair cause; a just cause; +no knight ever set lance in rest for a juster. Yet it needs not the +strength I have not, only the passive courage that I hope I could muster, +and the watchfulness that I am sure I could learn. + +Here is a long midnight dissertation; with myself; with you. Please let +me hear. But I charge you this: if you see in this idea of mine the +finger of duty, do not dissuade me. I am nearing forty, I begin to love +my ease and my home and my habits, I never knew how much till this arose; +do not falsely counsel me to put my head under the bed-clothes. And I +will say this to you: my wife, who hates the idea, does not refuse. ‘It +is nonsense,’ says she, ‘but if you go, I will go.’ Poor girl, and her +home and her garden that she was so proud of! I feel her garden most of +all, because it is a pleasure (I suppose) that I do not feel myself to +share. + + 1. Here is a great wrong. + + 2. ,, growing wrong. + + 3. ,, wrong founded on crime. + + 4. ,, crime that the Government cannot prevent. + + 5. ,, crime that it occurs to no man to defy. + + 6. But it has occurred to me. + + 7. Being a known person, some will notice my defiance. + + 8. Being a writer, I can _make_ people notice it. + + 9. And, I think, _make_ people imitate me. + + 10. Which would destroy in time this whole scaffolding of oppression. + + 11. And if I fail, however ignominiously, that is not my concern. It + is, with an odd mixture of reverence and humorous remembrances of + Dickens, be it said—it is A-nother’s. + +And here, at I cannot think what hour of the morning, I shall dry up, and +remain,—Yours, really in want of a little help, + + R. L S. + +Sleepless at midnight’s dewy hour. + ,, ,, witching ,, + ,, ,, maudlin ,, + ,, ,, etc. + +_Next morning_.—Eleventh Objection: I have a father and mother. And who +has not? Macduff’s was a rare case; if we must wait for a Macduff. +Besides, my father will not perhaps be long here. Twelfth Objection: The +cause of England in Ireland is not worth supporting. _À qui le +dites-vous_? And I am not supporting that. Home Rule, if you like. +Cause of decency, the idea that populations should not be taught to gain +public ends by private crime, the idea that for all men to bow before a +threat of crime is to loosen and degrade beyond redemption the whole +fabric of man’s decency. + + + +TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _April_ 1886.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—The Book—It is all drafted: I hope soon to send you +for comments Chapters III., IV., and V. Chapter VII. is roughly but +satisfactorily drafted: a very little work should put that to rights. +But Chapter VI. is no joke; it is a _mare magnum_: I swim and drown and +come up again; and it is all broken ends and mystification: moreover, I +perceive I am in want of more matter. I must have, first of all, a +little letter from Mr. Ewing about the phonograph work: _If_ you think he +would understand it is quite a matter of chance whether I use a word or a +fact out of it. If you think he would not: I will go without. Also, +could I have a look at Ewing’s _précis_? And lastly, I perceive I must +interview you again about a few points; they are very few, and might come +to little; and I propose to go on getting things as well together as I +can in the meanwhile, and rather have a final time when all is ready and +only to be criticised. I do still think it will be good. I wonder if +Trélat would let me cut? But no, I think I wouldn’t after all; ’tis so +quaint and pretty and clever and simple and French, and gives such a good +sight of Fleeming: the plum of the book, I think. + +You misunderstood me in one point: I always hoped to found such a +society; that was the outside of my dream, and would mean entire success. +_But_—I cannot play Peter the Hermit. In these days of the Fleet Street +journalist, I cannot send out better men than myself, with wives or +mothers just as good as mine, and sisters (I may at least say) better, to +a danger and a long-drawn dreariness that I do not share. My wife says +it’s cowardice; what brave men are the leader-writers! Call it +cowardice; it is mine. Mind you, I may end by trying to do it by the pen +only: I shall not love myself if I do; and is it ever a good thing to do +a thing for which you despise yourself?—even in the doing? And if the +thing you do is to call upon others to do the thing you neglect? I have +never dared to say what I feel about men’s lives, because my own was in +the wrong: shall I dare to send them to death? The physician must heal +himself; he must honestly _try_ the path he recommends: if he does not +even try, should he not be silent? + +I thank you very heartily for your letter, and for the seriousness you +brought to it. You know, I think when a serious thing is your own, you +keep a saner man by laughing at it and yourself as you go. So I do not +write possibly with all the really somewhat sickened gravity I feel. And +indeed, what with the book, and this business to which I referred, and +Ireland, I am scarcely in an enviable state. Well, I ought to be glad, +after ten years of the worst training on earth—valetudinarianism—that I +can still be troubled by a duty. You shall hear more in time; so far, I +am at least decided: I will go and see Balfour when I get to London. + +We have all had a great pleasure: a Mrs. Rawlinson came and brought with +her a nineteen-year-old daughter, simple, human, as beautiful as—herself; +I never admired a girl before, you know it was my weakness: we are all +three dead in love with her. How nice to be able to do so much good to +harassed people by—yourself! Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MISS RAWLINSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _April_ 1886.] + + OF the many flowers you brought me, + Only some were meant to stay, + And the flower I thought the sweetest + Was the flower that went away. + + Of the many flowers you brought me, + All were fair and fresh and gay, + But the flower I thought the sweetest + Was the blossom of the May. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS MONROE + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _May_ 25_th_, 1886. + +DEAR MISS MONROE,—(I hope I have this rightly) I must lose no time in +thanking you for a letter singularly pleasant to receive. It may +interest you to know that I read to the signature without suspecting my +correspondent was a woman; though in one point (a reference to the +Countess) I might have found a hint of the truth. You are not pleased +with Otto; since I judge you do not like weakness; and no more do I. And +yet I have more than tolerance for Otto, whose faults are the faults of +weakness, but never of ignoble weakness, and who seeks before all to be +both kind and just. Seeks, not succeeds. But what is man? So much of +cynicism to recognise that nobody does right is the best equipment for +those who do not wish to be cynics in good earnest. Think better of +Otto, if my plea can influence you; and this I mean for your own sake—not +his, poor fellow, as he will never learn your opinion; but for yours, +because, as men go in this world (and women too), you will not go far +wrong if you light upon so fine a fellow; and to light upon one and not +perceive his merits is a calamity. In the flesh, of course, I mean; in +the book the fault, of course, is with my stumbling pen. Seraphina made +a mistake about her Otto; it begins to swim before me dimly that you may +have some traits of Seraphina? + +With true ingratitude you see me pitch upon your exception; but it is +easier to defend oneself gracefully than to acknowledge praise. I am +truly glad that you should like my books; for I think I see from what you +write that you are a reader worth convincing. Your name, if I have +properly deciphered it, suggests that you may be also something of my +countrywoman; for it is hard to see where Monroe came from, if not from +Scotland. I seem to have here a double claim on your good nature: being +myself pure Scotch and having appreciated your letter, make up two +undeniable merits which, perhaps, if it should be quite without trouble, +you might reward with your photograph.—Yours truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS MONROE + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _June_ 1886.] + +MY DEAR MISS MONROE,—I am ill in bed and stupid, incoherently stupid; yet +I have to answer your letter, and if the answer is incomprehensible you +must forgive me. You say my letter caused you pleasure; I am sure, as it +fell out, not near so much as yours has brought to me. The interest +taken in an author is fragile: his next book, or your next year of +culture, might see the interest frosted or outgrown; and himself, in +spite of all, you might probably find the most distasteful person upon +earth. My case is different. I have bad health, am often condemned to +silence for days together—was so once for six weeks, so that my voice was +awful to hear when I first used it, like the whisper of a shadow—have +outlived all my chief pleasures, which were active and adventurous, and +ran in the open air: and being a person who prefers life to art, and who +knows it is a far finer thing to be in love, or to risk a danger, than to +paint the finest picture or write the noblest book, I begin to regard +what remains to me of my life as very shadowy. From a variety of +reasons, I am ashamed to confess I was much in this humour when your +letter came. I had a good many troubles; was regretting a high average +of sins; had been recently reminded that I had outlived some friends, and +wondering if I had not outlived some friendships; and had just, while +boasting of better health, been struck down again by my haunting enemy, +an enemy who was exciting at first, but has now, by the iteration of his +strokes, become merely annoying and inexpressibly irksome. Can you fancy +that to a person drawing towards the elderly this sort of conjunction of +circumstances brings a rather aching sense of the past and the future? +Well, it was just then that your letter and your photograph were brought +to me in bed; and there came to me at once the most agreeable sense of +triumph. My books were still young; my words had their good health and +could go about the world and make themselves welcome; and even (in a +shadowy and distant sense) make something in the nature of friends for +the sheer hulk that stays at home and bites his pen over the manuscripts. +It amused me very much to remember that I had been in Chicago, not so +many years ago, in my proper person; where I had failed to awaken much +remark, except from the ticket collector; and to think how much more +gallant and persuasive were the fellows that I now send instead of me, +and how these are welcome in that quarter to the sitter of Herr Platz, +while their author was not very welcome even in the villainous restaurant +where he tried to eat a meal and rather failed. + +And this leads me directly to a confession. The photograph which shall +accompany this is not chosen as the most like, but the best-looking. Put +yourself in my place, and you will call this pardonable. Even as it is, +even putting forth a flattered presentment, I am a little pained; and +very glad it is a photograph and not myself that has to go; for in this +case, if it please you, you can tell yourself it is my image—and if it +displeased you, you can lay the blame on the photographer; but in that, +there were no help, and the poor author might belie his labours. + +_Kidnapped_ should soon appear; I am afraid you may not like it, as it is +very unlike _Prince Otto_ in every way; but I am myself a great admirer +of the two chief characters, Alan and David. _Virginibus Puerisque_ has +never been issued in the States. I do not think it is a book that has +much charm for publishers in any land; but I am to bring out a new +edition in England shortly, a copy of which I must try to remember to +send you. I say try to remember, because I have some superficial +acquaintance with myself: and I have determined, after a galling +discipline, to promise nothing more until the day of my death: at least, +in this way, I shall no more break my word, and I must now try being +churlish instead of being false. + +I do not believe you to be the least like Seraphina. Your photograph has +no trace of her, which somewhat relieves me, as I am a good deal afraid +of Seraphinas—they do not always go into the woods and see the sunrise, +and some are so well-mailed that even that experience would leave them +unaffected and unsoftened. The ‘hair and eyes of several complexions’ +was a trait taken from myself; and I do not bind myself to the opinions +of Sir John. In this case, perhaps—but no, if the peculiarity is shared +by two such pleasant persons as you and I (as you and me—the grammatical +nut is hard), it must be a very good thing indeed, and Sir John must be +an ass. + +The _Book Reader_ notice was a strange jumble of fact and fancy. I wish +you could have seen my father’s old assistant and present partner when he +heard my father described as an ‘inspector of lighthouses,’ for we are +all very proud of the family achievements, and the name of my house here +in Bournemouth is stolen from one of the sea-towers of the Hebrides which +are our pyramids and monuments. I was never at Cambridge, again; but +neglected a considerable succession of classes at Edinburgh. But to +correct that friendly blunderer were to write an autobiography.—And so +now, with many thanks, believe me yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _July_ 1886. + +SIR,—Your foolish letter was unduly received. There may be hidden +fifths, and if there are, it shows how dam spontaneous the thing was. I +could tinker and tic-tac-toe on a piece of paper, but scorned the act +with a Threnody, which was poured forth like blood and water on the +groaning organ. If your heart (which was what I addressed) remained +unmoved, let us refer to the affair no more: crystallised emotion, the +statement and the reconciliation of the sorrows of the race and the +individual, is obviously no more to you than supping sawdust. Well, +well. If ever I write another Threnody! My next op. will probably be a +Passepied and fugue in G (or D). + +The mind is in my case shrunk to the size and sp. gr. of an aged Spanish +filbert. O, I am so jolly silly. I now pickle with some freedom (1) the +refrain of _Martini’s Moutons_; (2) _Sul margine d’un rio_, arranged for +the infant school by the Aged Statesman; (3) the first phrase of Bach’s +musette (Sweet Englishwoman, No. 3), {37} the rest of the musette being +one prolonged cropper, which I take daily for the benefit of my health. +All my other works (of which there are many) are either arranged (by R. +L. Stevenson) for the manly and melodious forefinger, or else prolonged +and melancholy croppers. . . . I find one can get a notion of music very +nicely. I have been pickling deeply in the Magic Flute; and have +arranged _La dove prende_, almost to the end, for two melodious +forefingers. I am next going to score the really nobler _Colomba o +tortorella_ for the same instruments. + + This day is published + The works of Ludwig van Beethoven + arranged + and wiederdurchgearbeiteted + for two melodious forefingers + by, + Sir,—Your obedient servant, + + PIMPERLY STIPPLE. + +That’s a good idea? There’s a person called Lenz who actually does +it—beware his den; I lost eighteenpennies on him, and found the bleeding +corpses of pieces of music divorced from their keys, despoiled of their +graces, and even changed in time; I do not wish to regard music (nor to +be regarded) through that bony Lenz. You say you are ‘a spumfed idiot’; +but how about Lenz? And how about me, sir, me? + +I yesterday sent Lloyd by parcel post, at great expense, an empty +matchbox and empty cigarette-paper book, a bell from a cat’s collar, an +iron kitchen spoon, and a piece of coal more than half the superficies of +this sheet of paper. They are now (appropriately enough) speeding +towards the Silly Isles; I hope he will find them useful. By that, and +my telegram with prepaid answer to yourself, you may judge of my +spiritual state. The finances have much brightened; and if _Kidnapped_ +keeps on as it has begun, I may be solvent.—Yours, + + THRENODIÆ AVCTOR + (The authour of ane Threnodie). + +Op. 2: Scherzo (in G Major) expressive of the Sense of favours to come. + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _Skerryvore_ [_Bournemouth_, _July_ 1886]. + +DEAR BOB,—Herewith another shy; more melancholy than before, but I think +not so abjectly idiotic. The musical terms seem to be as good as in +Beethoven, and that, after all, is the great affair. Bar the dam +bareness of the base, it looks like a piece of real music from a +distance. I am proud to say it was not made one hand at a time; the base +was of synchronous birth with the treble; they are of the same age, sir, +and may God have mercy on their souls!—Yours, + + THE MAESTRO. + + + +TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _July_ 7_th_, 1886. + +MY DEAR PEOPLE,—It is probably my fault, and not yours, that I did not +understand. I think it would be well worth trying the winter in +Bournemouth; but I would only take the house by the month—this after +mature discussion. My leakage still pursues its course; if I were only +well, I have a notion to go north and get in (if I could) at the inn at +Kirkmichael, which has always smiled upon me much. If I did well there, +we might then meet and do what should most smile at the time. + +Meanwhile, of course, I must not move, and am in a rancid box here, +feeling the heat a great deal, and pretty tired of things. Alexander did +a good thing of me at last; it looks like a mixture of an aztec idol, a +lion, an Indian Rajah, and a woman; and certainly represents a mighty +comic figure. F. and Lloyd both think it is the best thing that has been +done of me up to now. + +You should hear Lloyd on the penny whistle, and me on the piano! Dear +powers, what a concerto! I now live entirely for the piano, he for the +whistle; the neighbours, in a radius of a furlong and a half, are packing +up in quest of brighter climes.—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + +_P.S._—Please say if you can afford to let us have money for this trip, +and if so, how much. I can see the year through without help, I believe, +and supposing my health to keep up; but can scarce make this change on my +own metal. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _July_ 1886]. + +DEAR CHARLES,—Doubtless, if all goes well, towards the 1st of August we +shall be begging at your door. Thanks for a sight of the papers, which I +return (you see) at once, fearing further responsibility. + +Glad you like Dauvit; but eh, man, yon’s terrible strange conduc’ o’ thon +man Rankeillor. Ca’ him a legal adviser! It would make a bonny +law-shuit, the Shaws case; and yon paper they signed, I’m thinking, +wouldnae be muckle thought o’ by Puggy Deas.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THOMAS STEVENSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _July_ 28, 1886. + +MY DEAR FATHER,—We have decided not to come to Scotland, but just to do +as Dobell wished, and take an outing. I believe this is wiser in all +ways; but I own it is a disappointment. I am weary of England; like +Alan, ‘I weary for the heather,’ if not for the deer. Lloyd has gone to +Scilly with Katharine and C., where and with whom he should have a good +time. David seems really to be going to succeed, which is a pleasant +prospect on all sides. I am, I believe, floated financially; a book that +sells will be a pleasant novelty. I enclose another review; mighty +complimentary, and calculated to sell the book too. + +Coolin’s tombstone has been got out, honest man! and it is to be +polished, for it has got scratched, and have a touch of gilding in the +letters, and be sunk in the front of the house. Worthy man, he, too, +will maybe weary for the heather, and the bents of Gullane, where (as I +dare say you remember) he gaed clean gyte, and jumped on to his crown +from a gig, in hot and hopeless chase of many thousand rabbits. I can +still hear the little cries of the honest fellow as he disappeared; and +my mother will correct me, but I believe it was two days before he turned +up again at North Berwick: to judge by his belly, he had caught not one +out of these thousands, but he had had some exercise. + +I keep well.—Ever your affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON + + + _British Museum_ [_August_ 10_th_, 1886]. + +MY DEAR MOTHER,—We are having a capital holiday, and I am much better, +and enjoying myself to the nines. Richmond is painting my portrait. +To-day I lunch with him, and meet Burne-Jones; to-night Browning dines +with us. That sounds rather lofty work, does it not? His path was paved +with celebrities. To-morrow we leave for Paris, and next week, I +suppose, or the week after, come home. Address here, as we may not reach +Paris. I am really very well.—Ever your affectionate son, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO T. WATTS-DUNTON + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_ [_September_ 1886]. + +DEAR MR. WATTS, The sight of the last _Athenæum_ reminds me of you, and +of my debt, now too long due. I wish to thank you for your notice of +_Kidnapped_; and that not because it was kind, though for that also I +valued it, but in the same sense as I have thanked you before now for a +hundred articles on a hundred different writers. A critic like you is +one who fights the good fight, contending with stupidity, and I would +fain hope not all in vain; in my own case, for instance, surely not in +vain. + +What you say of the two parts in _Kidnapped_ was felt by no one more +painfully than by myself. I began it partly as a lark, partly as a +pot-boiler; and suddenly it moved, David and Alan stepped out from the +canvas, and I found I was in another world. But there was the cursed +beginning, and a cursed end must be appended; and our old friend Byles +the butcher was plainly audible tapping at the back door. So it had to +go into the world, one part (as it does seem to me) alive, one part +merely galvanised: no work, only an essay. For a man of tentative +method, and weak health, and a scarcity of private means, and not too +much of that frugality which is the artist’s proper virtue, the days of +sinecures and patrons look very golden: the days of professional +literature very hard. Yet I do not so far deceive myself as to think I +should change my character by changing my epoch; the sum of virtue in our +books is in a relation of equality to the sum of virtues in ourselves; +and my _Kidnapped_ was doomed, while still in the womb and while I was +yet in the cradle, to be the thing it is. + +And now to the more genial business of defence. You attack my fight on +board the _Covenant_: I think it literal. David and Alan had every +advantage on their side—position, arms, training, a good conscience; a +handful of merchant sailors, not well led in the first attack, not led at +all in the second, could only by an accident have taken the round-house +by attack; and since the defenders had firearms and food, it is even +doubtful if they could have been starved out. The only doubtful point +with me is whether the seamen would have ever ventured on the second +onslaught; I half believe they would not; still the illusion of numbers +and the authority of Hoseason would perhaps stretch far enough to justify +the extremity.—I am, dear Mr. Watts, your very sincere admirer, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON + + + _Skerryvore_, _September_ 4, 1886. + + NOT roses to the rose, I trow, + The thistle sends, nor to the bee + Do wasps bring honey. Wherefore now + Should Locker ask a verse from me? + + Martial, perchance,—but he is dead, + And Herrick now must rhyme no more; + Still burning with the muse, they tread + (And arm in arm) the shadowy shore. + + They, if they lived, with dainty hand, + To music as of mountain brooks, + Might bring you worthy words to stand + Unshamed, dear Locker, in your books. + + But tho’ these fathers of your race + Be gone before, yourself a sire, + To-day you see before your face + Your stalwart youngsters touch the lyre— + + On these—on Lang, or Dobson—call, + Long leaders of the songful feast. + They lend a verse your laughing fall— + A verse they owe you at the least. + + + +TO FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON + + + [_Skerryvore_], _Bournemouth_, _September_ 1886. + +DEAR LOCKER,—You take my verses too kindly, but you will admit, for such +a bluebottle of a versifier to enter the house of Gertrude, where her +necklace hangs, was not a little brave. Your kind invitation, I fear, +must remain unaccented; and yet—if I am very well—perhaps next +spring—(for I mean to be very well)—my wife might. . . . But all that is +in the clouds with my better health. And now look here: you are a rich +man and know many people, therefore perhaps some of the Governors of +Christ’s Hospital. If you do, I know a most deserving case, in which I +would (if I could) do anything. To approach you, in this way, is not +decent; and you may therefore judge by my doing it, how near this matter +lies to my heart. I enclose you a list of the Governors, which I beg you +to return, whether or not you shall be able to do anything to help me. + +The boy’s name is —; he and his mother are very poor. It may interest +you in her cause if I tell you this: that when I was dangerously ill at +Hyères, this brave lady, who had then a sick husband of her own (since +dead) and a house to keep and a family of four to cook for, all with her +own hands, for they could afford no servant, yet took watch-about with my +wife, and contributed not only to my comfort, but to my recovery in a +degree that I am not able to limit. You can conceive how much I suffer +from my impotence to help her, and indeed I have already shown myself a +thankless friend. Let not my cry go up before you in vain!—Yours in +hope, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _September_ 1886. + +MY DEAR LOCKER,—That I should call myself a man of letters, and land +myself in such unfathomable ambiguities! No, my dear Locker, I did not +want a cheque; and in my ignorance of business, which is greater even +than my ignorance of literature, I have taken the liberty of drawing a +pen through the document and returning it; should this be against the +laws of God or man, forgive me. All that I meant by my excessively +disgusting reference to your material well-being was the vague notion +that a man who is well off was sure to know a Governor of Christ’s +Hospital; though how I quite arrived at this conclusion I do not see. A +man with a cold in the head does not necessarily know a ratcatcher; and +the connection is equally close—as it now appears to my awakened and +somewhat humbled spirit. For all that, let me thank you in the warmest +manner for your friendly readiness to contribute. You say you have hopes +of becoming a miser: I wish I had; but indeed I believe you deceive +yourself, and are as far from it as ever. I wish I had any excuse to +keep your cheque, for it is much more elegant to receive than to return; +but I have my way of making it up to you, and I do sincerely beg you to +write to the two Governors. This extraordinary outpouring of +correspondence would (if you knew my habits) convince you of my great +eagerness in this matter. I would promise gratitude; but I have made a +promise to myself to make no more promises to anybody else, having broken +such a host already, and come near breaking my heart in consequence; and +as for gratitude, I am by nature a thankless dog, and was spoiled from a +child up. But if you can help this lady in the matter of the Hospital, +you will have helped the worthy. Let me continue to hope that I shall +make out my visit in the spring, and believe me, yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +It may amuse you to know that a very long while ago, I broke my heart to +try to imitate your verses, and failed hopelessly. I saw some of the +evidences the other day among my papers, and blushed to the heels. + + R. L. S. + +I give up finding out your name in the meantime, and keep to that by +which you will be known—Frederick Locker. + + + +TO FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], 24_th_ _September_ 1886. + +MY DEAR LOCKER,—You are simply an angel of light, and your two letters +have gone to the post; I trust they will reach the hearts of the +recipients—at least, that could not be more handsomely expressed. About +the cheque: well now, I am going to keep it; but I assure you Mrs. — has +never asked me for money, and I would not dare to offer any till she did. +For all that I shall stick to the cheque now, and act to that amount as +your almoner. In this way I reward myself for the ambiguity of my +epistolary style. + +I suppose, if you please, you may say your verses are thin (would you so +describe an arrow, by the way, and one that struck the gold? It scarce +strikes me as exhaustively descriptive), and, thin or not, they are (and +I have found them) inimitably elegant. I thank you again very sincerely +for the generous trouble you have taken in this matter which was so near +my heart, and you may be very certain it will be the fault of my health +and not my inclination, if I do not see you before very long; for all +that has past has made me in more than the official sense sincerely +yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Skerryvore_, _Dec._ 14, 1886. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—This is first-rate of you, the Lord love you for it! I +am truly much obliged. He—my father—is very changeable; at times, he +seems only a slow quiet edition of himself; again, he will be very heavy +and blank; but never so violent as last spring; and therefore, to my +mind, better on the whole. + +Fanny is pretty peepy; I am splendid. I have been writing much +verse—quite the bard, in fact; and also a dam tale to order, which will +be what it will be: I don’t love it, but some of it is passable in its +mouldy way, _The Misadventures of John Nicholson_. All my bardly +exercises are in Scotch; I have struck my somewhat ponderous guitar in +that tongue to no small extent: with what success, I know not, but I +think it’s better than my English verse; more marrow and fatness, and +more ruggedness. + +How goes _Keats_? Pray remark, if he (Keats) hung back from Shelley, it +was not to be wondered at, _when so many of his friends were Shelley’s +pensioners_. I forget if you have made this point; it has been borne in +upon me reading Dowden and the _Shelley Papers_; and it will do no harm +if you have made it. I finished a poem to-day, and writ 3000 words of a +story, _tant bien que mal_; and have a right to be sleepy, and (what is +far nobler and rarer) am so.—My dear Colvin, ever yours, + + THE REAL MACKAY. + + + +TO FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON + + + _Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _February_ 5_th_, 1887. + +MY DEAR LOCKER,—Here I am in my bed as usual, and it is indeed a long +while since I went out to dinner. You do not know what a crazy fellow +this is. My winter has not so far been luckily passed, and all hope of +paying visits at Easter has vanished for twelve calendar months. But +because I am a beastly and indurated invalid, I am not dead to human +feelings; and I neither have forgotten you nor will forget you. Some day +the wind may round to the right quarter and we may meet; till then I am +still truly yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _February_ 1887.] + +MY DEAR JAMES,—My health has played me it in once more in the absurdest +fashion, and the creature who now addresses you is but a stringy and +white-faced _bouilli_ out of the pot of fever, with the devil to pay in +every corner of his economy. I suppose (to judge by your letter) I need +not send you these sheets, which came during my collapse by the rush. I +am on the start with three volumes, that one of tales, {48a} a second one +of essays, {48b} and one of—ahem—verse. {48c} This is a great order, is +it not? After that I shall have empty lockers. All new work stands +still; I was getting on well with Jenkin when this blessed malady +unhorsed me, and sent me back to the dung-collecting trade of the +republisher. I shall re-issue _Virg. Puer._ as Vol. I. of _Essays_, and +the new vol. as Vol. II. of ditto; to be sold, however, separately. This +is but a dry maundering; however, I am quite unfit—‘I am for action quite +unfit Either of exercise or wit.’ My father is in a variable state; many +sorrows and perplexities environ the house of Stevenson; my mother shoots +north at this hour on business of a distinctly rancid character; my +father (under my wife’s tutorage) proceeds to-morrow to Salisbury; I +remain here in my bed and whistle; in no quarter of heaven is anything +encouraging apparent, except that the good Colvin comes to the hotel here +on a visit. This dreary view of life is somewhat blackened by the fact +that my head aches, which I always regard as a liberty on the part of the +powers that be. This is also my first letter since my recovery. God +speed your laudatory pen! + +My wife joins in all warm messages.—Yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + (_April_ 1887.) + +MY DEAR LOW,—The fares to London may be found in any continental Bradshaw +or sich; from London to Bournemouth impoverished parties who can stoop to +the third class get their ticket for the matter of 10s., or, as my wife +loves to phrase it, ‘a half a pound.’ You will also be involved in a 3s. +fare to get to Skerryvore; but this, I dare say, friends could help you +in on your arrival; so that you may reserve your energies for the two +tickets—costing the matter of a pound—and the usual gratuities to +porters. This does not seem to me much: considering the intellectual +pleasures that await you here, I call it dirt cheap. I _believe_ the +third class from Paris to London (_viâ_ Dover) is _about_ forty francs, +but I cannot swear. Suppose it to be fifty. + +50 × 2=100 100 +The expense of spirit or spontaneous lapse of coin 10 +on the journey, at 5 frcs. a head, 5 × 2=10 +Victuals on ditto, at 5 frcs. a head, 5 × 2 = 10 10 +Gratuity to stewardess, in case of severe 3 +prostration, at 3 francs +One night in London, on a modest footing, say 20 20 +Two tickets to Bournemouth at 12.50, 12.50 × 2=25 25 +Porters and general devilment, say 5 5 +Cabs in London, say 2 shillings, and in 6.25 +Bournemouth, 3 shillings=5 shillings, 6 frcs. 25 +frcs. 179.25 +Or, the same in pounds, £7, 3s. 6½d. +Or, the same in dollars, $35.45 + +if there be any arithmetical virtue in me. I have left out dinner in +London in case you want to blow out, which would come extry, and with the +aid of _vangs fangs_ might easily double the whole amount—above all if +you have a few friends to meet you. + +In making this valuable project, or budget, I discovered for the first +time a reason (frequently overlooked) for the singular costliness of +travelling with your wife. Anybody would count the tickets double; but +how few would have remembered—or indeed has any one ever remembered?—to +count the spontaneous lapse of coin double also? Yet there are two of +you, each must do his daily leakage, and it must be done out of your +travelling fund. You will tell me, perhaps, that you carry the coin +yourself: my dear sir, do you think you can fool your Maker? Your wife +has to lose her quota; and by God she will—if you kept the coin in a +belt. One thing I have omitted: you will lose a certain amount on the +exchange, but this even I cannot foresee, as it is one of the few things +that vary with the way a man has.—I am, dear sir, yours financially, + + SAMUEL BUDGETT. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + _Skerryvore_, _April_ 16_th_, 1887. + +MY DEAREST CUMMY,—As usual, I have been a dreary bad fellow and not +written for ages; but you must just try to forgive me, to believe (what +is the truth) that the number of my letters is no measure of the number +of times I think of you, and to remember how much writing I have to do. +The weather is bright, but still cold; and my father, I’m afraid, feels +it sharply. He has had—still has, rather—a most obstinate jaundice, +which has reduced him cruelly in strength, and really upset him +altogether. I hope, or think, he is perhaps a little better; but he +suffers much, cannot sleep at night, and gives John and my mother a +severe life of it to wait upon him. My wife is, I think, a little +better, but no great shakes. I keep mightily respectable myself. + +Coolin’s Tombstone is now built into the front wall of Skerryvore, and +poor Bogie’s (with a Latin inscription also) is set just above it. Poor, +unhappy wee man, he died, as you must have heard, in fight, which was +what he would have chosen; for military glory was more in his line than +the domestic virtues. I believe this is about all my news, except that, +as I write, there is a blackbird singing in our garden trees, as it were +at Swanston. I would like fine to go up the burnside a bit, and sit by +the pool and be young again—or no, be what I am still, only there instead +of here, for just a little. Did you see that I had written about John +Todd? In this month’s _Longman_ it was; if you have not seen it, I will +try and send it you. Some day climb as high as Halkerside for me (I am +never likely to do it for myself), and sprinkle some of the well water on +the turf. I am afraid it is a pagan rite, but quite harmless, and _ye +can sain it wi’ a bit prayer_. Tell the Peewies that I mind their +forbears well. My heart is sometimes heavy, and sometimes glad to mind +it all. But for what we have received, the Lord make us truly thankful. +Don’t forget to sprinkle the water, and do it in my name; I feel a +childish eagerness in this. + +Remember me most kindly to James, and with all sorts of love to yourself, +believe me, your laddie, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—I suppose Mrs. Todd ought to see the paper about her man; judge of +that, and if you think she would not dislike it, buy her one from me, and +let me know. The article is called ‘Pastoral,’ in _Longman’s Magazine_ +for April. I will send you the money; I would to-day, but it’s the +Sabbie day, and I cannae. + + R. L. S. + +Remembrances from all here. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Edinburgh_, _June_ 1887.] + +MY DEAR S. C.,—At last I can write a word to you. Your little note in +the _P. M. G._ was charming. I have written four pages in the +_Contemporary_, which Bunting found room for: they are not very good, but +I shall do more for his memory in time. + +About the death, I have long hesitated, I was long before I could tell my +mind; and now I know it, and can but say that I am glad. If we could +have had my father, that would have been a different thing. But to keep +that changeling—suffering changeling—any longer, could better none and +nothing. Now he rests; it is more significant, it is more like himself. +He will begin to return to us in the course of time, as he was and as we +loved him. + +My favourite words in literature, my favourite scene—‘O let him pass,’ +Kent and Lear—was played for me here in the first moment of my return. I +believe Shakespeare saw it with his own father. I had no words; but it +was shocking to see. He died on his feet, you know; was on his feet the +last day, knowing nobody—still he would be up. This was his constant +wish; also that he might smoke a pipe on his last day. The funeral would +have pleased him; it was the largest private funeral in man’s memory +here. + +We have no plans, and it is possible we may go home without going through +town. I do not know; I have no views yet whatever; nor can have any at +this stage of my cold and my business.—Ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + + +IX +THE UNITED STATES AGAIN: +WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS +AUGUST 1887-OCTOBER 1888 + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _August_ 1887. + +DEAR LAD,—I write to inform you that Mr. Stevenson’s well-known work, +_Virginibus Puerisque_, is about to be reprinted. At the same time a +second volume called _Memories and Portraits_ will issue from the roaring +loom. Its interest will be largely autobiographical, Mr. S. having +sketched there the lineaments of many departed friends, and dwelt fondly, +and with a m’istened eye, upon byegone pleasures. The two will be issued +under the common title of _Familiar Essays_; but the volumes will be +vended separately to those who are mean enough not to hawk at both. + +The blood is at last stopped: only yesterday. I began to think I should +not get away. However, I hope—I hope—remark the word—no boasting—I hope +I may luff up a bit now. Dobell, whom I saw, gave as usual a good +account of my lungs, and expressed himself, like his neighbours, +hopefully about the trip. He says, my uncle says, Scott says, Brown +says—they all say—You ought not to be in such a state of health; you +should recover. Well, then, I mean to. My spirits are rising again +after three months of black depression: I almost begin to feel as if I +should care to live: I would, by God! And so I believe I shall.—Yours, + + BULLETIN M‘GURDER. + +How has the Deacon gone? + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], August 6_th_, 1887. + +MY DEAR LOW,—We—my mother, my wife, my stepson, my maidservant, and +myself, five souls—leave, if all is well, Aug. 20th, per Wilson line SS. +_Ludgate Hill_. Shall probably evade N. Y. at first, cutting straight to +a watering-place: Newport, I believe, its name. Afterwards we shall +steal incognito into _la bonne villa_, and see no one but you and the +Scribners, if it may be so managed. You must understand I have been very +seedy indeed, quite a dead body; and unless the voyage does miracles, I +shall have to draw it dam fine. Alas, ‘The Canoe Speaks’ is now out of +date; it will figure in my volume of verses now imminent. However, I may +find some inspiration some day.—Till very soon, yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + _Bournemouth_, _August_ 19_th_, 1887. + +MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—I promise you the paper-knife shall go to sea with +me; and if it were in my disposal, I should promise it should return with +me too. All that you say, I thank you for very much; I thank you for all +the pleasantness that you have brought about our house; and I hope the +day may come when I shall see you again in poor old Skerryvore, now left +to the natives of Canada, or to worse barbarians, if such exist. I am +afraid my attempt to jest is rather _à contre-cœur_. Good-bye—_au +revoir_—and do not forget your friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MESSRS. CHATTO AND WINDUS + + + _Bournemouth_ [_August_ 1887]. + +DEAR SIRS,—I here enclose the two titles. Had you not better send me the +bargains to sign? I shall be here till Saturday; and shall have an +address in London (which I shall send you) till Monday, when I shall +sail. Even if the proofs do not reach you till Monday morning, you could +send a clerk from Fenchurch Street Station at 10.23 A.M. for Galleons +Station, and he would find me embarking on board the _Ludgate Hill_, +Island Berth, Royal Albert Dock. Pray keep this in case it should be +necessary to catch this last chance. I am most anxious to have the +proofs with me on the voyage.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _H.M.S._ ‘_Vulgarium_,’ + + _Off Havre de Grace_, _this_ 22_nd_ _day of August_ [1887]. + +SIR,—The weather has been hitherto inimitable. Inimitable is the only +word that I can apply to our fellow-voyagers, whom a categorist, possibly +premature, has been already led to divide into two classes—the better +sort consisting of the baser kind of Bagman, and the worser of +undisguised Beasts of the Field. The berths are excellent, the pasture +swallowable, the champagne of H. James (to recur to my favourite +adjective) inimitable. As for the Commodore, he slept awhile in the +evening, tossed off a cup of Henry James with his plain meal, walked the +deck till eight, among sands and floating lights and buoys and wrecked +brigantines, came down (to his regret) a minute too soon to see Margate +lit up, turned in about nine, slept, with some interruptions, but on the +whole sweetly, until six, and has already walked a mile or so of deck, +among a fleet of other steamers waiting for the tide, within view of +Havre, and pleasantly entertained by passing fishing-boats, hovering +sea-gulls, and Vulgarians pairing on deck with endearments of primitive +simplicity. There, sir, can be viewed the sham quarrel, the sham desire +for information, and every device of these two poor ancient sexes (who +might, you might think, have learned in the course of the ages something +new) down to the exchange of head-gear.—I am, sir, yours, + + BOLD BOB BOLTSPRIT. + +B. B. B. (_alias_ the Commodore) will now turn to his proofs. Havre de +Grace is a city of some show. It is for-ti-fied; and, so far as I can +see, is a place of some trade. It is situ-ated in France, a country of +Europe. You always complain there are no facts in my letters. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Newport_, _R. I. U.S.A._ [_September_ 1887]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—So long it went excellent well, and I had a time I am +glad to have had; really enjoying my life. There is nothing like being +at sea, after all. And O, why have I allowed myself to rot so long on +land? But on the Banks I caught a cold, and I have not yet got over it. +My reception here was idiotic to the last degree. . . . It is very +silly, and not pleasant, except where humour enters; and I confess the +poor interviewer lads pleased me. They are too good for their trade; +avoided anything I asked them to avoid, and were no more vulgar in their +reports than they could help. I liked the lads. + +O, it was lovely on our stable-ship, chock full of stallions. She rolled +heartily, rolled some of the fittings out of our state-room, and I think +a more dangerous cruise (except that it was summer) it would be hard to +imagine. But we enjoyed it to the masthead, all but Fanny; and even she +perhaps a little. When we got in, we had run out of beer, stout, cocoa, +soda-water, water, fresh meat, and (almost) of biscuit. But it was a +thousandfold pleasanter than a great big Birmingham liner like a new +hotel; and we liked the officers, and made friends with the +quartermasters, and I (at least) made a friend of a baboon (for we +carried a cargo of apes), whose embraces have pretty near cost me a coat. +The passengers improved, and were a very good specimen lot, with no +drunkard, no gambling that I saw, and less grumbling and backbiting than +one would have asked of poor human nature. Apes, stallions, cows, +matches, hay, and poor men-folk, all, or almost all, came successfully to +land.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + [_Newport_, _U.S.A._, _September_ 1887.] + +MY DEAR JAMES,—Here we are at Newport in the house of the good +Fairchilds; and a sad burthen we have laid upon their shoulders. I have +been in bed practically ever since I came. I caught a cold on the Banks +after having had the finest time conceivable, and enjoyed myself more +than I could have hoped on board our strange floating menagerie: +stallions and monkeys and matches made our cargo; and the vast continent +of these incongruities rolled the while like a haystack; and the +stallions stood hypnotised by the motion, looking through the ports at +our dinner-table, and winked when the crockery was broken; and the little +monkeys stared at each other in their cages, and were thrown overboard +like little bluish babies; and the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the +ship and rested willingly in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing; and the +man of the stallions made a bower of the black tarpaulin, and sat therein +at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a picture on a box of chocolates; +and the other passengers, when they were not sick, looked on and laughed. +Take all this picture, and make it roll till the bell shall sound +unexpected notes and the fittings shall break lose in our state-room, and +you have the voyage of the _Ludgate Hill_. She arrived in the port of +New York, without beer, porter, soda-water, curaçoa, fresh meat, or fresh +water; and yet we lived, and we regret her. + +My wife is a good deal run down, and I am no great shakes. + +America is, as I remarked, a fine place to eat in, and a great place for +kindness; but, Lord, what a silly thing is popularity! I envy the cool +obscurity of Skerryvore. If it even paid, said Meanness! and was abashed +at himself.—Yours most sincerely, + + R. L S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_New York_: _end of September_ 1887.] + +MY DEAR S. C.,—Your delightful letter has just come, and finds me in a +New York hotel, waiting the arrival of a sculptor (St. Gaudens) who is +making a medallion of yours truly and who is (to boot) one of the +handsomest and nicest fellows I have seen. I caught a cold on the Banks; +fog is not for me; nearly died of interviewers and visitors, during +twenty-four hours in New York; cut for Newport with Lloyd and Valentine, +a journey like fairy-land for the most engaging beauties, one little +rocky and pine-shaded cove after another, each with a house and a boat at +anchor, so that I left my heart in each and marvelled why American +authors had been so unjust to their country; caught another cold on the +train; arrived at Newport to go to bed and to grow worse, and to stay in +bed until I left again; the Fairchilds proving during this time kindness +itself; Mr. Fairchild simply one of the most engaging men in the world, +and one of the children, Blair, _aet._ ten, a great joy and amusement in +his solemn adoring attitude to the author of _Treasure Island_. + +Here I was interrupted by the arrival of my sculptor. I have begged him +to make a medallion of himself and give me a copy. I will not take up +the sentence in which I was wandering so long, but begin fresh. I was +ten or twelve days at Newport; then came back convalescent to New York. +Fanny and Lloyd are off to the Adirondacks to see if that will suit; and +the rest of us leave Monday (this is Saturday) to follow them up. I hope +we may manage to stay there all winter. I have a splendid appetite and +have on the whole recovered well after a mighty sharp attack. I am now +on a salary of £500 a year for twelve articles in _Scribner’s Magazine_ +on what I like; it is more than £500, but I cannot calculate more +precisely. You have no idea how much is made of me here; I was offered +£2000 for a weekly article—eh heh! how is that? but I refused that +lucrative job. The success of _Underwoods_ is gratifying. You see, the +verses are sane; that is their strong point, and it seems it is strong +enough to carry them. + +A thousand thanks for your grand letter, ever yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _New York_ [_September_ 1887] + +MY DEAR LAD,—Herewith verses for Dr. Hake, which please communicate. I +did my best with the interviewers; I don’t know if Lloyd sent you the +result; my heart was too sick: you can do nothing with them; and +yet—literally sweated with anxiety to please, and took me down in long +hand! + +I have been quite ill, but go better. I am being not busted, but +medallioned, by St. Gaudens, who is a first-rate, plain, high-minded +artist and honest fellow; you would like him down to the ground. I +believe sculptors are fine fellows when they are not demons. O, I am now +a salaried person, £600 a year, {66} to write twelve articles in +_Scribner’s Magazine_; it remains to be seen if it really pays, huge as +the sum is, but the slavery may overweigh me. I hope you will like my +answer to Hake, and specially that he will. + +Love to all.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + (_le salarie_). + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _Saranac Lake_, _Adirondacks_, + _New York_, _U.S.A._ [_October_ 1887]. + +MY DEAR BOB,—The cold [of Colorado] was too rigorous for me; I could not +risk the long railway voyage, and the season was too late to risk the +Eastern, Cape Hatteras side of the steamer one; so here we stuck and +stick. We have a wooden house on a hill-top, overlooking a river, and a +village about a quarter of a mile away, and very wooded hills; the whole +scene is very Highland, bar want of heather and the wooden houses. + +I have got one good thing of my sea voyage: it is proved the sea agrees +heartily with me, and my mother likes it; so if I get any better, or no +worse, my mother will likely hire a yacht for a month or so in summer. +Good Lord! What fun! Wealth is only useful for two things: a yacht and +a string quartette. For these two I will sell my soul. Except for these +I hold that £700 a year is as much as anybody can possibly want; and I +have had more, so I know, for the extry coins were for no use, excepting +for illness, which damns everything. + +I was so happy on board that ship, I could not have believed it possible. +We had the beastliest weather, and many discomforts; but the mere fact of +its being a tramp-ship gave us many comforts; we could cut about with the +men and officers, stay in the wheel-house, discuss all manner of things, +and really be a little at sea. And truly there is nothing else. I had +literally forgotten what happiness was, and the full mind—full of +external and physical things, not full of cares and labours and rot about +a fellow’s behaviour. My heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing +so much as for that. We took so north a course, that we saw +Newfoundland; no one in the ship had ever seen it before. + +It was beyond belief to me how she rolled; in seemingly smooth water, the +bell striking, the fittings bounding out of our state-room. It is worth +having lived these last years, partly because I have written some better +books, which is always pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy of this +voyage. I have been made a lot of here, and it is sometimes pleasant, +sometimes the reverse; but I could give it all up, and agree that—was the +author of my works, for a good seventy ton schooner and the coins to keep +her on. And to think there are parties with yachts who would make the +exchange! I know a little about fame now; it is no good compared to a +yacht; and anyway there is more fame in a yacht, more genuine fame; to +cross the Atlantic and come to anchor in Newport (say) with the Union +Jack, and go ashore for your letters and hang about the pier, among the +holiday yachtsmen—that’s fame, that’s glory, and nobody can take it away; +they can’t say your book is bad; you _have_ crossed the Atlantic. I +should do it south by the West Indies, to avoid the damned Banks; and +probably come home by steamer, and leave the skipper to bring the yacht +home. + +Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe sail out of Southampton water some +of these days and take a run to Havre, and try the Baltic, or somewhere. + +Love to you all.—Ever your afft., + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Saranac Lake_, _Oct._ 8_th_, 1887. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I have just read your article twice, with cheers of +approving laughter. I do not believe you ever wrote anything so funny: +Tyndall’s ‘shell,’ the passage on the Davos press and its invaluable +issues, and that on V. Hugo and Swinburne, are exquisite; so, I say it +more ruefully, is the touch about the doctors. For the rest, I am very +glad you like my verses so well; and the qualities you ascribe to them +seem to me well found and well named. I own to that kind of candour you +attribute to me: when I am frankly interested, I suppose I fancy the +public will be so too; and when I am moved, I am sure of it. It has been +my luck hitherto to meet with no staggering disillusion. ‘Before’ and +‘After’ may be two; and yet I believe the habit is now too thoroughly +ingrained to be altered. About the doctors, you were right, that +dedication has been the subject of some pleasantries that made me grind, +and of your happily touched reproof which made me blush. And to miscarry +in a dedication is an abominable form of book-wreck; I am a good captain, +I would rather lose the tent and save my dedication. + +I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks, I suppose for the winter: it +seems a first-rate place; we have a house in the eye of many winds, with +a view of a piece of running water—Highland, all but the dear hue of +peat—and of many hills—Highland also, but for the lack of heather. Soon +the snow will close on us; we are here some twenty miles—twenty-seven, +they say, but this I profoundly disbelieve—in the woods; communication by +letter is slow and (let me be consistent) aleatory; by telegram is as +near as may be impossible. + +I had some experience of American appreciation; I liked a little of it, +but there is too much; a little of that would go a long way to spoil a +man; and I like myself better in the woods. I am so damned candid and +ingenuous (for a cynic), and so much of a ‘cweatu’ of impulse—aw’ (if you +remember that admirable Leech), that I begin to shirk any more taffy; I +think I begin to like it too well. But let us trust the Gods; they have +a rod in pickle; reverently I doff my trousers, and with screwed eyes +await the _amari aliquid_ of the great God Busby. + +I thank you for the article in all ways, and remain yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + [_Saranac_, _October_ 1887.] + +SIR,—I have to trouble you with the following _paroles bien senties_. We +are here at a first-rate place. ‘Baker’s’ is the name of our house, but +we don’t address there; we prefer the tender care of the Post-Office, as +more aristocratic (it is no use to telegraph even to the care of the +Post-Office who does not give a single damn {70}). Baker’s has a +prophet’s chamber, which the hypercritical might describe as a garret +with a hole in the floor: in that garret, sir, I have to trouble you and +your wife to come and slumber. Not now, however: with manly hospitality, +I choke off any sudden impulse. Because first, my wife and my mother are +gone (a note for the latter, strongly suspected to be in the hand of your +talented wife, now sits silent on the mantel shelf), one to Niagara and +t’other to Indianapolis. Because, second, we are not yet installed. And +because third, I won’t have you till I have a buffalo robe and leggings, +lest you should want to paint me as a plain man, which I am not, but a +rank Saranacker and wild man of the woods.—Yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER. + + + _Saranac Lake_, _October_ 1887. + +DEAR ARCHER,—Many thanks for the Wondrous Tale. It is scarcely a work of +genius, as I believe you felt. Thanks also for your pencillings; though +I defend ‘shrew,’ or at least many of the shrews. + +We are here (I suppose) for the winter in the Adirondacks, a hill and +forest country on the Canadian border of New York State, very unsettled +and primitive and cold, and healthful, or we are the more bitterly +deceived. I believe it will do well for me; but must not boast. + +My wife is away to Indiana to see her family; my mother, Lloyd, and I +remain here in the cold, which has been exceeding sharp, and the hill +air, which is inimitably fine. We all eat bravely, and sleep well, and +make great fires, and get along like one o’clock. + +I am now a salaried party; I am a _bourgeois_ now; I am to write a weekly +paper for Scribner’s, at a scale of payment which makes my teeth ache for +shame and diffidence. The editor is, I believe, to apply to you; for we +were talking over likely men, and when I instanced you, he said he had +had his eye upon you from the first. It is worth while, perhaps, to get +in tow with the Scribners; they are such thorough gentlefolk in all ways +that it is always a pleasure to deal with them. I am like to be a +millionaire if this goes on, and be publicly hanged at the social +revolution: well, I would prefer that to dying in my bed; and it would be +a godsend to my biographer, if ever I have one. What are you about? I +hope you are all well and in good case and spirits, as I am now, after a +most nefast experience of despondency before I left; but indeed I was +quite run down. Remember me to Mrs. Archer, and give my respects to +Tom.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _October_ 1887.] + I know not the day; but the month it + is the drear October by the + ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—This is to say _First_, the voyage was a huge +success. We all enjoyed it (bar my wife) to the ground: sixteen days at +sea with a cargo of hay, matches, stallions, and monkeys, and in a ship +with no style on, and plenty of sailors to talk to, and the endless +pleasures of the sea—the romance of it, the sport of the scratch dinner +and the smashing crockery, the pleasure—an endless pleasure—of balancing +to the swell: well, it’s over. + +_Second_, I had a fine time, rather a troubled one, at Newport and New +York; saw much of and liked hugely the Fairchilds, St. Gaudens the +sculptor, Gilder of the _Century_—just saw the dear Alexander—saw a lot +of my old and admirable friend Will Low, whom I wish you knew and +appreciated—was medallioned by St. Gaudens, and at last escaped to + +_Third_, Saranac Lake, where we now are, and which I believe we mean to +like and pass the winter at. Our house—emphatically ‘Baker’s’—is on a +hill, and has a sight of a stream turning a corner in the valley—bless +the face of running water!—and sees some hills too, and the paganly +prosaic roofs of Saranac itself; the Lake it does not see, nor do I +regret that; I like water (fresh water I mean) either running swiftly +among stones, or else largely qualified with whisky. As I write, the sun +(which has been long a stranger) shines in at my shoulder; from the next +room, the bell of Lloyd’s typewriter makes an agreeable music as it +patters off (at a rate which astonishes this experienced novelist) the +early chapters of a humorous romance; from still further off—the walls of +Baker’s are neither ancient nor massive—rumours of Valentine about the +kitchen stove come to my ears; of my mother and Fanny I hear nothing, for +the excellent reason that they have gone sparking off, one to Niagara, +one to Indianapolis. People complain that I never give news in my +letters. I have wiped out that reproach. + +But now, _Fourth_, I have seen the article; and it may be from natural +partiality, I think it the best you have written. O—I remember the +Gautier, which was an excellent performance; and the Balzac, which was +good; and the Daudet, over which I licked my chops; but the R. L. S. is +better yet. It is so humorous, and it hits my little frailties with so +neat (and so friendly) a touch; and Alan is the occasion for so much +happy talk, and the quarrel is so generously praised. I read it twice, +though it was only some hours in my possession; and Low, who got it for +me from the _Century_, sat up to finish it ere he returned it; and, sir, +we were all delighted. Here is the paper out, nor will anything, not +even friendship, not even gratitude for the article, induce me to begin a +second sheet; so here with the kindest remembrances and the warmest good +wishes, I remain, yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Saranac_, 18_th_ _November_ 1887. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—No likely I’m going to waste a sheet of paper. . . . I +am offered £1600 ($8000) for the American serial rights on my next story! +As you say, times are changed since the Lothian Road. Well, the Lothian +Road was grand fun too; I could take an afternoon of it with great +delight. But I’m awfu’ grand noo, and long may it last! + +Remember me to any of the faithful—if there are any left. I wish I could +have a crack with you.—Yours ever affectionately, + + R. L. S. + +I find I have forgotten more than I remembered of business. . . . Please +let us know (if you know) for how much Skerryvore is let; you will here +detect the female mind; I let it for what I could get; nor shall the +possession of this knowledge (which I am happy to have forgot) increase +the amount by so much as the shadow of a sixpenny piece; but my females +are agog.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES SCRIBNER + + + [_Saranac_, _November_ 20 _or_ 21, 1887.] + +MY DEAR MR. SCRIBNER,—Heaven help me, I am under a curse just now. I +have played fast and loose with what I said to you; and that, I beg you +to believe, in the purest innocence of mind. I told you you should have +the power over all my work in this country; and about a fortnight ago, +when M’Clure was here, I calmly signed a bargain for the serial +publication of a story. You will scarce believe that I did this in mere +oblivion; but I did; and all that I can say is that I will do so no more, +and ask you to forgive me. Please write to me soon as to this. + +Will you oblige me by paying in for three articles, as already sent, to +my account with John Paton & Co., 52 William Street? This will be most +convenient for us. + +The fourth article is nearly done; and I am the more deceived, or it is +_A Buster_. + +Now as to the first thing in this letter, I do wish to hear from you +soon; and I am prepared to hear any reproach, or (what is harder to hear) +any forgiveness; for I have deserved the worst.—Yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Saranac_, _November_ 1887. + +DEAR MR. BURLINGAME,—I enclose corrected proof of _Beggars_, which seems +good. I mean to make a second sermon, which, if it is about the same +length as _Pulvis et Umbra_, might go in along with it as two sermons, in +which case I should call the first ‘The Whole Creation,’ and the second +‘Any Good.’ We shall see; but you might say how you like the notion. + +One word: if you have heard from Mr. Scribner of my unhappy oversight in +the matter of a story, you will make me ashamed to write to you, and yet +I wish to beg you to help me into quieter waters. The oversight +committed—and I do think it was not so bad as Mr. Scribner seems to think +it-and discovered, I was in a miserable position. I need not tell you +that my first impulse was to offer to share or to surrender the price +agreed upon when it should fall due; and it is almost to my credit that I +arranged to refrain. It is one of these positions from which there is no +escape; I cannot undo what I have done. And I wish to beg you—should Mr. +Scribner speak to you in the matter—to try to get him to see this neglect +of mine for no worse than it is: unpardonable enough, because a breach of +an agreement; but still pardonable, because a piece of sheer carelessness +and want of memory, done, God knows, without design and since most +sincerely regretted. I have no memory. You have seen how I omitted to +reserve the American rights in _Jekyll_: last winter I wrote and +demanded, as an increase, a less sum than had already been agreed upon +for a story that I gave to Cassell’s. For once that my forgetfulness +has, by a cursed fortune, seemed to gain, instead of lose, me money, it +is painful indeed that I should produce so poor an impression on the mind +of Mr. Scribner. But I beg you to believe, and if possible to make him +believe, that I am in no degree or sense a _faiseur_, and that in matters +of business my design, at least, is honest. Nor (bating bad memory and +self-deception) am I untruthful in such affairs. + +If Mr. Scribner shall have said nothing to you in the matter, please +regard the above as unwritten, and believe me, yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Saranac_, _November_ 1887. + +DEAR MR. BURLINGAME,—The revise seemed all right, so I did not trouble +you with it; indeed, my demand for one was theatrical, to impress that +obdurate dog, your reader. Herewith a third paper: it has been a cruel +long time upon the road, but here it is, and not bad at last, I fondly +hope. I was glad you liked the _Lantern Bearers_; I did, too. I thought +it was a good paper, really contained some excellent sense, and was +ingeniously put together. I have not often had more trouble than I have +with these papers; thirty or forty pages of foul copy, twenty is the very +least I have had. Well, you pay high; it is fit that I should have to +work hard, it somewhat quiets my conscience.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO J. A. SYMONDS + + + _Saranac Lake_, _Adirondack Mountains_, + _New York_, _U.S.A._, _November_ 21, 1887. + +MY DEAR SYMONDS,—I think we have both meant and wanted to write to you +any time these months; but we have been much tossed about, among new +faces and old, and new scenes and old, and scenes (like this of Saranac) +which are neither one nor other. To give you some clue to our affairs, I +had best begin pretty well back. We sailed from the Thames in a vast +bucket of iron that took seventeen days from shore to shore. I cannot +describe how I enjoyed the voyage, nor what good it did me; but on the +Banks I caught friend catarrh. In New York and then in Newport I was +pretty ill; but on my return to New York, lying in bed most of the time, +with St. Gaudens the sculptor sculping me, and my old friend Low around, +I began to pick up once more. Now here we are in a kind of wilderness of +hills and firwoods and boulders and snow and wooden houses. So far as we +have gone the climate is grey and harsh, but hungry and somnolent; and +although not charming like that of Davos, essentially bracing and +briskening. The country is a kind of insane mixture of Scotland and a +touch of Switzerland and a dash of America, and a thought of the British +Channel in the skies. We have a decent house— + + _December_ 6_th_. + +—A decent house, as I was saying, sir, on a hill-top, with a look down a +Scottish river in front, and on one hand a Perthshire hill; on the other, +the beginnings and skirts of the village play hide and seek among other +hills. We have been below zero, I know not how far (10 at 8 A.M. once), +and when it is cold it is delightful; but hitherto the cold has not held, +and we have chopped in and out from frost to thaw, from snow to rain, +from quiet air to the most disastrous north-westerly curdlers of the +blood. After a week of practical thaw, the ice still bears in favoured +places. So there is hope. + +I wonder if you saw my book of verses? It went into a second edition, +because of my name, I suppose, and its _prose_ merits. I do not set up +to be a poet. Only an all-round literary man: a man who talks, not one +who sings. But I believe the very fact that it was only speech served +the book with the public. Horace is much a speaker, and see how popular! +most of Martial is only speech, and I cannot conceive a person who does +not love his Martial; most of Burns, also, such as ‘The Louse,’ ‘The +Toothache,’ ‘The Haggis,’ and lots more of his best. Excuse this little +apology for my house; but I don’t like to come before people who have a +note of song, and let it be supposed I do not know the difference. + +To return to the more important—news. My wife again suffers in high and +cold places; I again profit. She is off to-day to New York for a change, +as heretofore to Berne, but I am glad to say in better case than then. +Still it is undeniable she suffers, and you must excuse her (at least) if +we both prove bad correspondents. I am decidedly better, but I have been +terribly cut up with business complications: one disagreeable, as +threatening loss; one, of the most intolerable complexion, as involving +me in dishonour. The burthen of consistent carelessness: I have lost +much by it in the past; and for once (to my damnation) I have gained. I +am sure you will sympathise. It is hard work to sleep; it is hard to be +told you are a liar, and have to hold your peace, and think, ‘Yes, by +God, and a thief too!’ You remember my lectures on Ajax, or the +Unintentional Sin? Well, I know all about that now. Nothing seems so +unjust to the sufferer: or is more just in essence. _Laissez passer la +justice de Dieu_. + +Lloyd has learned to use the typewriter, and has most gallantly completed +upon that the draft of a tale, which seems to me not without merit and +promise, it is so silly, so gay, so absurd, in spots (to my partial eyes) +so genuinely humorous. It is true, he would not have written it but for +the New Arabian Nights; but it is strange to find a young writer funny. +Heavens, but I was depressing when I took the pen in hand! And now I +doubt if I am sadder than my neighbours. Will this beginner move in the +inverse direction? + +Let me have your news, and believe me, my dear Symonds, with genuine +affection, yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Saranac_ [_December_ 1887]. + +MY DEAR LAD,—I was indeed overjoyed to hear of the Dumas. In the matter +of the dedication, are not cross dedications a little awkward? Lang and +Rider Haggard did it, to be sure. Perpend. And if you should conclude +against a dedication, there is a passage in _Memories and Portraits_ +written _at_ you, when I was most desperate (to stir you up a bit), which +might be quoted: something about Dumas still waiting his biographer. I +have a decent time when the weather is fine; when it is grey, or windy, +or wet (as it too often is), I am merely degraded to the dirt. I get +some work done every day with a devil of a heave; not extra good ever; +and I regret my engagement. Whiles I have had the most deplorable +business annoyances too; have been threatened with having to refund +money; got over that; and found myself in the worse scrape of being a +kind of unintentional swindler. These have worried me a great deal; also +old age with his stealing steps seems to have clawed me in his clutch to +some tune. + +Do you play All Fours? We are trying it; it is still all haze to me. +Can the elder hand _beg_ more than once? The Port Admiral is at Boston +mingling with millionaires. I am but a weed on Lethe wharf. The wife is +only so-so. The Lord lead us all: if I can only get off the stage with +clean hands, I shall sing Hosanna. ‘Put’ is described quite differently +from your version in a book I have; what are your rules? The Port +Admiral is using a game of put in a tale of his, the first copy of which +was gloriously finished about a fortnight ago, and the revise gallantly +begun: _The Finsbury Tontine_ it is named, and might fill two volumes, +and is quite incredibly silly, and in parts (it seems to me) pretty +humorous.—Love to all from + + AN OLD, OLD MAN. + +I say, Taine’s _Origines de la France Contemporaine_ is no end; it would +turn the dead body of Charles Fox into a living Tory. + + + +TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _December_ 1887.] + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—The Opal is very well; it is fed with glycerine when +it seems hungry. I am very well, and get about much more than I could +have hoped. My wife is not very well; there is no doubt the high level +does not agree with her, and she is on the move for a holiday to New +York. Lloyd is at Boston on a visit, and I hope has a good time. My +mother is really first-rate; she and I, despairing of other games for +two, now play All Fours out of a gamebook, and have not yet discovered +its niceties, if any. + +You will have heard, I dare say, that they made a great row over me here. +They also offered me much money, a great deal more than my works are +worth: I took some of it, and was greedy and hasty, and am now very +sorry. I have done with big prices from now out. Wealth and +self-respect seem, in my case, to be strangers. + +We were talking the other day of how well Fleeming managed to grow rich. +Ah, that is a rare art; something more intellectual than a virtue. The +book has not yet made its appearance here; the life alone, with a little +preface, is to appear in the States; and the Scribners are to send you +half the royalties. I should like it to do well, for Fleeming’s sake. + +Will you please send me the Greek water-carrier’s song? I have a +particular use for it. + +Have I any more news, I wonder?—and echo wonders along with me. I am +strangely disquieted on all political matters; and I do not know if it is +‘the signs of the times’ or the sign of my own time of life. But to me +the sky seems black both in France and England, and only partly clear in +America. I have not seen it so dark in my time; of that I am sure. + +Please let us have some news; and, excuse me, for the sake of my +well-known idleness; and pardon Fanny, who is really not very well, for +this long silence.—Very sincerely your friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _December_ 1887.] + +MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—I am so much afraid, our gamekeeper may weary of +unacknowledged reports! Hence, in the midst of a perfect horror of +detestable weathers of a quite incongruous strain, and with less desire +for correspondence than—well, than—well, with no desire for +correspondence, behold me dash into the breach. Do keep up your letters. +They are most delightful to this exiled backwoods family; and in your +next, we shall hope somehow or other to hear better news of you and +yours—that in the first place—and to hear more news of our beasts and +birds and kindly fruits of earth and those human tenants who are (truly) +too much with us. + +I am very well; better than for years: that is for good. But then my +wife is no great shakes; the place does not suit her—it is my private +opinion that no place does—and she is now away down to New York for a +change, which (as Lloyd is in Boston) leaves my mother and me and +Valentine alone in our wind-beleaguered hilltop hatbox of a house. You +should hear the cows butt against the walls in the early morning while +they feed; you should also see our back log when the thermometer goes (as +it does go) away—away below zero, till it can be seen no more by the eye +of man—not the thermometer, which is still perfectly visible, but the +mercury, which curls up into the bulb like a hibernating bear; you should +also see the lad who ‘does chores’ for us, with his red stockings and his +thirteen year old face, and his highly manly tramp into the room; and his +two alternative answers to all questions about the weather: either +‘Cold,’ or with a really lyrical movement of the voice, +‘_Lovely_—raining!’ + +Will you take this miserable scarp for what it is worth? Will you also +understand that I am the man to blame, and my wife is really almost too +much out of health to write, or at least doesn’t write?—And believe me, +with kind remembrance to Mrs. Boodle and your sisters, very sincerely +yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Saranac_, 12_th_ _December_ ’87. + +Give us news of all your folk. A Merry Christmas from all of us. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Will you please send £20 to — for a Christmas gift from +—? Moreover, I cannot remember what I told you to send to —; but as God +has dealt so providentially with me this year, I now propose to make it +£20. + +I beg of you also to consider my strange position. I jined a club which +it was said was to defend the Union; and had a letter from the secretary, +which his name I believe was Lord Warmingpan (or words to that effect), +to say I am elected, and had better pay up a certain sum of money, I +forget what. Now I cannae verra weel draw a blank cheque and send to— + + LORD WARMINGPAN (or words to that effect), + London, England. + +And, man, if it was possible, I would be dooms glad to be out o’ this bit +scrapie. Mebbe the club was ca’d ‘The Union,’ but I wouldnae like to +sweir; and mebbe it wasnae, or mebbe only words to that effec’—but I +wouldnae care just exac’ly about sweirin’. Do ye no think Henley, or +Pollick, or some o’ they London fellies, micht mebbe perhaps find out for +me? and just what the soom was? And that you would aiblins pay for me? +For I thocht I was sae dam patriotic jinin’, and it would be a kind o’ a +come-doun to be turned out again. Mebbe Lang would ken; or mebbe Rider +Haggyard: they’re kind o’ Union folks. But it’s my belief his name was +Warmingpan whatever. Yours, + + THOMSON, + _alias_ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Could it be Warminster? {83} + + + +TO MISS MONROE + + + _Saranac Lake_, _New York_ [_December_ 19, 1887]. + +DEAR MISS MONROE,—Many thanks for your letter and your good wishes. It +was much my desire to get to Chicago: had I done—or if I yet do—so, I +shall hope to see the original of my photograph, which is one of my show +possessions; but the fates are rather contrary. My wife is far from +well; I myself dread worse than almost any other imaginable peril, that +miraculous and really insane invention the American Railroad Car. Heaven +help the man—may I add the woman—that sets foot in one! Ah, if it were +only an ocean to cross, it would be a matter of small thought to me—and +great pleasure. But the railroad car—every man has his weak point; and I +fear the railroad car as abjectly as I do an earwig, and, on the whole, +on better grounds. You do not know how bitter it is to have to make such +a confession; for you have not the pretension nor the weakness of a man. +If I do get to Chicago, you will hear of me: so much can be said. And do +you never come east? + +I was pleased to recognise a word of my poor old Deacon in your letter. +It would interest me very much to hear how it went and what you thought +of piece and actors; and my collaborator, who knows and respects the +photograph, would be pleased too.—Still in the hope of seeing you, I am, +yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Saranac Lake_, _Winter_ 1887–8. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—It may please you to know how our family has been +employed. In the silence of the snow the afternoon lamp has lighted an +eager fireside group: my mother reading, Fanny, Lloyd, and I devoted +listeners; and the work was really one of the best works I ever heard; +and its author is to be praised and honoured; and what do you suppose is +the name of it? and have you ever read it yourself? and (I am bound I +will get to the bottom of the page before I blow the gaff, if I have to +fight it out on this line all summer; for if you have not to turn a leaf, +there can be no suspense, the conspectory eye being swift to pick out +proper names; and without suspense, there can be little pleasure in this +world, to my mind at least)—and, in short, the name of it is _Roderick +Hudson_, if you please. My dear James, it is very spirited, and very +sound, and very noble too. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson, Rowland, O, all +first-rate: Rowland a very fine fellow; Hudson as good as he can stick +(did you know Hudson? I suspect you did), Mrs. H. his real born mother, +a thing rarely managed in fiction. + +We are all keeping pretty fit and pretty hearty; but this letter is not +from me to you, it is from a reader of _R. H._ to the author of the same, +and it says nothing, and has nothing to say, but thank you. + +We are going to re-read _Casamassima_ as a proper pendant. Sir, I think +these two are your best, and care not who knows it. + +May I beg you, the next time _Roderick_ is printed off, to go over the +sheets of the last few chapters, and strike out ‘immense’ and +‘tremendous’? You have simply dropped them there like your +pocket-handkerchief; all you have to do is to pick them up and pouch +them, and your room—what do I say?—your cathedral!—will be swept and +garnished.—I am, dear sir, your delighted reader, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—Perhaps it is a pang of causeless honesty, perhaps. I hope it +will set a value on my praise of _Roderick_, perhaps it’s a burst of the +diabolic, but I must break out with the news that I can’t bear the +_Portrait of a Lady_. I read it all, and I wept too; but I can’t stand +your having written it; and I beg you will write no more of the like. +_Infra_, sir; Below you: I can’t help it—it may be your favourite work, +but in my eyes it’s BELOW YOU to write and me to read. I thought +_Roderick_ was going to be another such at the beginning; and I cannot +describe my pleasure as I found it taking bones and blood, and looking +out at me with a moved and human countenance, whose lineaments are +written in my memory until my last of days. + + R. L. S. + +My wife begs your forgiveness; I believe for her silence. + + [Picture: Manuscript of letter] + + [Picture: Manuscript of letter] + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Saranac Lake_ [_December_ 1887]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—This goes to say that we are all fit, and the place is +very bleak and wintry, and up to now has shown no such charms of climate +as Davos, but is a place where men eat and where the cattarh, catarrh +(cattarrh, or cattarrhh) appears to be unknown. I walk in my verandy in +the snaw, sir, looking down over one of those dabbled wintry landscapes +that are (to be frank) so chilly to the human bosom, and up at a grey, +English—nay, _mehercle_, Scottish—heaven; and I think it pretty bleak; +and the wind swoops at me round the corner, like a lion, and fluffs the +snow in my face; and I could aspire to be elsewhere; but yet I do not +catch cold, and yet, when I come in, I eat. So that hitherto Saranac, if +not deliriously delectable, has not been a failure; nay, from the mere +point of view of the wicked body, it has proved a success. But I wish I +could still get to the woods; alas, _nous n’irons plus au bois_ is my +poor song; the paths are buried, the dingles drifted full, a little walk +is grown a long one; till spring comes, I fear the burthen will hold +good. + +I get along with my papers for _Scribner_ not fast, nor so far specially +well; only this last, the fourth one (which makes a third part of my +whole task), I do believe is pulled off after a fashion. It is a mere +sermon: ‘Smith opens out’; {86} but it is true, and I find it touching +and beneficial, to me at least; and I think there is some fine writing in +it, some very apt and pregnant phrases. _Pulvis et Umbra_, I call it; I +might have called it a Darwinian Sermon, if I had wanted. Its +sentiments, although parsonic, will not offend even you, I believe. The +other three papers, I fear, bear many traces of effort, and the ungenuine +inspiration of an income at so much per essay, and the honest desire of +the incomer to give good measure for his money. Well, I did my damndest +anyway. + +We have been reading H. James’s _Roderick Hudson_, which I eagerly press +you to get at once: it is a book of a high order—the last volume in +particular. I wish Meredith would read it. It took my breath away. + +I am at the seventh book of the _Æneid_, and quite amazed at its merits +(also very often floored by its difficulties). The Circe passage at the +beginning, and the sublime business of Amata with the simile of the boy’s +top—O Lord, what a happy thought!—have specially delighted me.—I am, dear +sir, your respected friend, + + JOHN GREGG GILLSON, J.P., M.R.I.A., etc. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Saranac_, _December_ 24, 1887.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Thank you for your explanations. I have done no more +Virgil since I finished the seventh book, for I have, first been eaten up +with Taine, and next have fallen head over heels into a new tale, _The +Master of Ballantrae_. No thought have I now apart from it, and I have +got along up to page ninety-two of the draft with great interest. It is +to me a most seizing tale: there are some fantastic elements; the most is +a dead genuine human problem—human tragedy, I should say rather. It will +be about as long, I imagine, as _Kidnapped_. + + DRAMATIS PERSONAE: + + (1) My old Lord Durrisdeer. + + (2) The Master of Ballantrae, _and_ + + (3) Henry Durie, _his sons_. + + (4) Clementina, _engaged to the first_, _married to the second_. + + (5) Ephraim Mackellar, _land steward at Durrisdeer and narrator of the + most of the book_. + + (6) Francis Burke, Chevalier de St. Louis, _one of Prince Charlie’s + Irishmen and narrator of the rest_. + +Besides these, many instant figures, most of them dumb or nearly so: +Jessie Brown the whore, Captain Crail, Captain MacCombie, our old friend +Alan Breck, our old friend Riach (both only for an instant), Teach the +pirate (vulgarly Blackbeard), John Paul and Macconochie, servants at +Durrisdeer. The date is from 1745 to ’65 (about). The scene, near +Kirkcudbright, in the States, and for a little moment in the French East +Indies. I have done most of the big work, the quarrel, duel between the +brothers, and announcement of the death to Clementina and my +Lord—Clementina, Henry, and Mackellar (nicknamed Squaretoes) are really +very fine fellows; the Master is all I know of the devil. I have known +hints of him, in the world, but always cowards; he is as bold as a lion, +but with the same deadly, causeless duplicity I have watched with so much +surprise in my two cowards. ’Tis true, I saw a hint of the same nature +in another man who was not a coward; but he had other things to attend +to; the Master has nothing else but his devilry. Here come my +visitors—and have now gone, or the first relay of them; and I hope no +more may come. For mark you, sir, this is our ‘day’—Saturday, as ever +was, and here we sit, my mother and I, before a large wood fire and await +the enemy with the most steadfast courage; and without snow and greyness: +and the woman Fanny in New York for her health, which is far from good; +and the lad Lloyd at the inn in the village because he has a cold; and +the handmaid Valentine abroad in a sleigh upon her messages; and +to-morrow Christmas and no mistake. Such is human life: _la carrière +humaine_. I will enclose, if I remember, the required autograph. + +I will do better, put it on the back of this page. Love to all, and +mostly, my very dear Colvin, to yourself. For whatever I say or do, or +don’t say or do, you may be very sure I am,—Yours always affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + _Saranac Lake_, _Adirondacks_, _N.Y._, _U.S.A._, _Christmas_ 1887. + +MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—And a very good Christmas to you all; and better +fortune; and if worse, the more courage to support it—which I think is +the kinder wish in all human affairs. Somewhile—I fear a good +while—after this, you should receive our Christmas gift; we have no tact +and no taste, only a welcome and (often) tonic brutality; and I dare say +the present, even after my friend Baxter has acted on and reviewed my +hints, may prove a White Elephant. That is why I dread presents. And +therefore pray understand if any element of that hamper prove unwelcome, +_it is to be exchanged_. I will not sit down under the name of a giver +of White Elephants. I never had any elephant but one, and his initials +were R. L. S.; and he trod on my foot at a very early age. But this is a +fable, and not in the least to the point: which is that if, for once in +my life, I have wished to make things nicer for anybody but the Elephant +(see fable), do not suffer me to have made them ineffably more +embarrassing, and exchange—ruthlessly exchange! + +For my part, I am the most cockered up of any mortal being; and one of +the healthiest, or thereabout, at some modest distance from the bull’s +eye. I am condemned to write twelve articles in _Scribner’s Magazine_ +for the love of gain; I think I had better send you them; what is far +more to the purpose, I am on the jump with a new story which has +bewitched me—I doubt it may bewitch no one else. It is called _The +Master of Ballantrae_—pronounce Bällän-tray. If it is not good, well, +mine will be the fault; for I believe it is a good tale. + +The greetings of the season to you, and your mother, and your sisters. +My wife heartily joins.—And I am, yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—You will think me an illiterate dog: I am, for the first time, +reading _Robertson’s Sermons_. I do not know how to express how much I +think of them. If by any chance you should be as illiterate as I, and +not know them, it is worth while curing the defect. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Saranac Lake_, _January_ ’88. + +DEAR CHARLES,—You are the flower of Doers. . . . Will my doer collaborate +thus much in my new novel? In the year 1794 or 5, Mr. Ephraim Mackellar, +A.M., late steward on the Durrisdeer estates, completed a set of +memoranda (as long as a novel) with regard to the death of the (then) +late Lord Durrisdeer, and as to that of his attainted elder brother, +called by the family courtesy title the Master of Ballantrae. These he +placed in the hands of John Macbrair. W.S., the family agent, on the +understanding they were to be sealed until 1862, when a century would +have elapsed since the affair in the wilderness (my lord’s death). You +succeeded Mr. Macbrair’s firm; the Durrisdeers are extinct; and last +year, in an old green box, you found these papers with Macbrair’s +indorsation. It is that indorsation of which I want a copy; you may +remember, when you gave me the papers, I neglected to take that, and I am +sure you are a man too careful of antiquities to have let it fall aside. +I shall have a little introduction descriptive of my visit to Edinburgh, +arrival there, denner with yoursel’, and first reading of the papers in +your smoking-room: all of which, of course, you well remember.—Ever yours +affectionately, + + R. L S. + +Your name is my friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S.!!! + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Saranac_, _Winter_ 1887–8. + +DEAR MR. BURLINGAME,—I am keeping the sermon to see if I can’t add +another. Meanwhile, I will send you very soon a different paper which +may take its place. Possibly some of these days soon I may get together +a talk on things current, which should go in (if possible) earlier than +either. I am now less nervous about these papers; I believe I can do the +trick without great strain, though the terror that breathed on my back in +the beginning is not yet forgotten. + +_The Master of Ballantrae_ I have had to leave aside, as I was quite +worked out. But in about a week I hope to try back and send you the +first four numbers: these are all drafted, it is only the revision that +has broken me down, as it is often the hardest work. These four I +propose you should set up for me at once, and we’ll copyright ’em in a +pamphlet. I will tell you the names of the _bona fide_ purchasers in +England. + +The numbers will run from twenty to thirty pages of my manuscript. You +can give me that much, can you not? It is a howling good tale—at least +these first four numbers are; the end is a trifle more fantastic, but +’tis all picturesque. + +Don’t trouble about any more French books; I am on another scent, you +see, just now. Only the _French in Hindustan_ I await with impatience, +as that is for _Ballantrae_. The scene of that romance is Scotland—the +States—Scotland—India—Scotland—and the States again; so it jumps like a +flea. I have enough about the States now, and very much obliged I am; +yet if Drake’s _Tragedies of the Wilderness_ is (as I gather) a +collection of originals, I should like to purchase it. If it is a +picturesque vulgarisation, I do not wish to look it in the face. +Purchase, I say; for I think it would be well to have some such +collection by me with a view to fresh works.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—If you think of having the _Master_ illustrated, I suggest that +Hole would be very well up to the Scottish, which is the larger part. If +you have it done here, tell your artist to look at the hall of Craigievar +in Billing’s _Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities_, and he will get a +broad hint for the hall at Durrisdeer: it is, I think, the chimney of +Craigievar and the roof of Pinkie, and perhaps a little more of Pinkie +altogether; but I should have to see the book myself to be sure. Hole +would be invaluable for this. I dare say if you had it illustrated, you +could let me have one or two for the English edition. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + [_Saranac_, _Winter_ 1887–8.] + +MY DEAR ARCHER,—What am I to say? I have read your friend’s book with +singular relish. If he has written any other, I beg you will let me see +it; and if he has not, I beg him to lose no time in supplying the +deficiency. It is full of promise; but I should like to know his age. +There are things in it that are very clever, to which I attach small +importance; it is the shape of the age. And there are passages, +particularly the rally in presence of the Zulu king, that show genuine +and remarkable narrative talent—a talent that few will have the wit to +understand, a talent of strength, spirit, capacity, sufficient vision, +and sufficient self-sacrifice, which last is the chief point in a +narrator. + +As a whole, it is (of course) a fever dream of the most feverish. Over +Bashville the footman I howled with derision and delight; I dote on +Bashville—I could read of him for ever; _de Bashville je suis le +fervent_—there is only one Bashville, and I am his devoted slave; +_Bashville est magnifique_, _mais il n’est guère possible_. He is the +note of the book. It is all mad, mad and deliriously delightful; the +author has a taste in chivalry like Walter Scott’s or Dumas’, and then he +daubs in little bits of socialism; he soars away on the wings of the +romantic griffon—even the griffon, as he cleaves air, shouting with +laughter at the nature of the quest—and I believe in his heart he thinks +he is labouring in a quarry of solid granite realism. + +It is this that makes me—the most hardened adviser now extant—stand back +and hold my peace. If Mr. Shaw is below five-and-twenty, let him go his +path; if he is thirty, he had best be told that he is a romantic, and +pursue romance with his eyes open;—or perhaps he knows it;—God knows!—my +brain is softened. + +It is HORRID FUN. All I ask is more of it. Thank you for the pleasure +you gave us, and tell me more of the inimitable author. + +(I say, Archer, my God, what women!)—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + _Saranac_, _February_ 1888. + +MY DEAR ARCHER,—Pretty sick in bed; but necessary to protest and continue +your education. + +Why was Jenkin an amateur in my eyes? You think because not amusing (I +think he often was amusing). The reason is this: I never, or almost +never, saw two pages of his work that I could not have put in one without +the smallest loss of material. That is the only test I know of writing. +If there is anywhere a thing said in two sentences that could have been +as clearly and as engagingly and as forcibly said in one, then it’s +amateur work. Then you will bring me up with old Dumas. Nay, the object +of a story is to be long, to fill up hours; the story-teller’s art of +writing is to water out by continual invention, historical and technical, +and yet not seem to water; seem on the other hand to practise that same +wit of conspicuous and declaratory condensation which is the proper art +of writing. That is one thing in which my stories fail: I am always +cutting the flesh off their bones. + +I would rise from the dead to preach! + +Hope all well. I think my wife better, but she’s not allowed to write; +and this (only wrung from me by desire to Boss and Parsonise and +Dominate, strong in sickness) is my first letter for days, and will +likely be my last for many more. Not blame my wife for her silence: +doctor’s orders. All much interested by your last, and fragment from +brother, and anecdotes of Tomarcher.—The sick but still Moral + + R. L. S. + +Tell Shaw to hurry up: I want another. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + [_Saranac_, _Spring_ 1888?] + +MY DEAR ARCHER,—It happened thus. I came forth from that performance in +a breathing heat of indignation. (Mind, at this distance of time and +with my increased knowledge, I admit there is a problem in the piece; but +I saw none then, except a problem in brutality; and I still consider the +problem in that case not established.) On my way down the _Français_ +stairs, I trod on an old gentleman’s toes, whereupon with that suavity +that so well becomes me, I turned about to apologise, and on the instant, +repenting me of that intention, stopped the apology midway, and added +something in French to this effect: No, you are one of the _lâches_ who +have been applauding that piece. I retract my apology. Said the old +Frenchman, laying his hand on my arm, and with a smile that was truly +heavenly in temperance, irony, good-nature, and knowledge of the world, +‘Ah, monsieur, vous êtes bien jeune!’—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Saranac_ [_February_ 1888]. + +DEAR MR. BURLINGAME,—Will you send me (from the library) some of the +works of my dear old G. P. R. James. With the following especially I +desire to make or to renew acquaintance: _The Songster_, _The Gipsy_, +_The Convict_, _The Stepmother_, _The Gentleman of the Old School_, _The +Robber_. + +_Excusez du peu_. + +This sudden return to an ancient favourite hangs upon an accident. The +‘Franklin County Library’ contains two works of his, _The Cavalier_ and +_Morley Ernstein_. I read the first with indescribable amusement—it was +worse than I had feared, and yet somehow engaging; the second (to my +surprise) was better than I had dared to hope: a good honest, dull, +interesting tale, with a genuine old-fashioned talent in the invention +when not strained; and a genuine old-fashioned feeling for the English +language. This experience awoke appetite, and you see I have taken steps +to stay it. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + [_Saranac_, _February_ 1888.] + +DEAR MR. BURLINGAME,—1. Of course then don’t use it. Dear Man, I write +these to please you, not myself, and you know a main sight better than I +do what is good. In that case, however, I enclose another paper, and +return the corrected proof of _Pulvis et Umbra_, so that we may be +afloat. + +2. I want to say a word as to the _Master_. (_The Master of Ballantrae_ +shall be the name by all means.) If you like and want it, I leave it to +you to make an offer. You may remember I thought the offer you made when +I was still in England too small; by which I did not at all mean, I +thought it less than it was worth, but too little to tempt me to undergo +the disagreeables of serial publication. This tale (if you want it) you +are to have; for it is the least I can do for you; and you are to observe +that the sum you pay me for my articles going far to meet my wants, I am +quite open to be satisfied with less than formerly. I tell you I do +dislike this battle of the dollars. I feel sure you all pay too much +here in America; and I beg you not to spoil me any more. For I am +getting spoiled: I do not want wealth, and I feel these big sums +demoralise me. + +My wife came here pretty ill; she had a dreadful bad night; to-day she is +better. But now Valentine is ill; and Lloyd and I have got breakfast, +and my hand somewhat shakes after washing dishes.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—Please order me the _Evening Post_ for two months. My +subscription is run out. The _Mutiny_ and _Edwardes_ to hand. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Saranac_, _March_ 1888.] + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Fanny has been very unwell. She is not long home, has +been ill again since her return, but is now better again to a degree. +You must not blame her for not writing, as she is not allowed to write at +all, not even a letter. To add to our misfortunes, Valentine is quite +ill and in bed. Lloyd and I get breakfast; I have now, 10.15, just got +the dishes washed and the kitchen all clear, and sit down to give you as +much news as I have spirit for, after such an engagement. Glass is a +thing that really breaks my spirit: I do not like to fail, and with glass +I cannot reach the work of my high calling—the artist’s. + +I am, as you may gather from this, wonderfully better: this harsh, grey, +glum, doleful climate has done me good. You cannot fancy how sad a +climate it is. When the thermometer stays all day below 10°, it is +really cold; and when the wind blows, O commend me to the result. +Pleasure in life is all delete; there is no red spot left, fires do not +radiate, you burn your hands all the time on what seem to be cold stones. +It is odd, zero is like summer heat to us now; and we like, when the +thermometer outside is really low, a room at about 48°: 60° we find +oppressive. Yet the natives keep their holes at 90° or even 100°. + +This was interrupted days ago by household labours. Since then I have +had and (I tremble to write it, but it does seem as if I had) beaten off +an influenza. The cold is exquisite. Valentine still in bed. The +proofs of the first part of the _Master of Ballantrae_ begin to come in; +soon you shall have it in the pamphlet form; and I hope you will like it. +The second part will not be near so good; but there—we can but do as +it’ll do with us. I have every reason to believe this winter has done me +real good, so far as it has gone; and if I carry out my scheme for next +winter, and succeeding years, I should end by being a tower of strength. +I want you to save a good holiday for next winter; I hope we shall be +able to help you to some larks. Is there any Greek Isle you would like +to explore? or any creek in Asia Minor?—Yours ever affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THE REV. DR. CHARTERIS + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _Winter_ 1887–1888.] + +MY DEAR DR. CHARTERIS,—I have asked Douglas and Foulis to send you my +last volume, so that you may possess my little paper on my father in a +permanent shape; not for what that is worth, but as a tribute of respect +to one whom my father regarded with such love, esteem, and affection. +Besides, as you will see, I have brought you under contribution, and I +have still to thank you for your letter to my mother; so more than kind; +in much, so just. It is my hope, when time and health permit, to do +something more definite for my father’s memory. You are one of the very +few who can (if you will) help me. Pray believe that I lay on you no +obligation; I know too well, you may believe me, how difficult it is to +put even two sincere lines upon paper, where all, too, is to order. But +if the spirit should ever move you, and you should recall something +memorable of your friend, his son will heartily thank you for a note of +it.—With much respect, believe me, yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _March_ 1888.] + +MY DEAR DELIGHTFUL JAMES,—To quote your heading to my wife, I think no +man writes so elegant a letter, I am sure none so kind, unless it be +Colvin, and there is more of the stern parent about him. I was vexed at +your account of my admired Meredith: I wish I could go and see him; as it +is I will try to write. I read with indescribable admiration your +_Emerson_. I begin to long for the day when these portraits of yours +shall be collected: do put me in. But Emerson is a higher flight. Have +you a _Tourgueneff_? You have told me many interesting things of him, +and I seem to see them written, and forming a graceful and _bildend_ +sketch. My novel is a tragedy; four parts out of six or seven are +written, and gone to Burlingame. Five parts of it are sound, human +tragedy; the last one or two, I regret to say, not so soundly designed; I +almost hesitate to write them; they are very picturesque, but they are +fantastic; they shame, perhaps degrade, the beginning. I wish I knew; +that was how the tale came to me however. I got the situation; it was an +old taste of mine: The older brother goes out in the ’45, the younger +stays; the younger, of course, gets title and estate and marries the +bride designate of the elder—a family match, but he (the younger) had +always loved her, and she had really loved the elder. Do you see the +situation? Then the devil and Saranac suggested this _dénouement_, and I +joined the two ends in a day or two of constant feverish thought, and +began to write. And now—I wonder if I have not gone too far with the +fantastic? The elder brother is an INCUBUS: supposed to be killed at +Culloden, he turns up again and bleeds the family of money; on that +stopping he comes and lives with them, whence flows the real tragedy, the +nocturnal duel of the brothers (very naturally, and indeed, I think, +inevitably arising), and second supposed death of the elder. Husband and +wife now really make up, and then the cloven hoof appears. For the third +supposed death and the manner of the third reappearance is steep; steep, +sir. It is even very steep, and I fear it shames the honest stuff so +far; but then it is highly pictorial, and it leads up to the death of the +elder brother at the hands of the younger in a perfectly cold-blooded +murder, of which I wish (and mean) the reader to approve. You see how +daring is the design. There are really but six characters, and one of +these episodic, and yet it covers eighteen years, and will be, I imagine, +the longest of my works.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + +_Read Gosse’s Raleigh_. First-rate.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO THE REV. DR. CHARTERIS + + + _Saranac Lake_, _Adirondacks_, + _New York_, _U.S.A._, _Spring_ 1888. + +MY DEAR DR. CHARTERIS,—The funeral letter, your notes, and many other +things, are reserved for a book, _Memorials of a Scottish Family_, if +ever I can find time and opportunity. I wish I could throw off all else +and sit down to it to-day. Yes, my father was a ‘distinctly religious +man,’ but not a pious. The distinction painfully and pleasurably recalls +old conflicts; it used to be my great gun—and you, who suffered for the +whole Church, know how needful it was to have some reserve artillery! +His sentiments were tragic; he was a tragic thinker. Now, granted that +life is tragic to the marrow, it seems the proper function of religion to +make us accept and serve in that tragedy, as officers in that other and +comparable one of war. Service is the word, active service, in the +military sense; and the religious man—I beg pardon, the pious man—is he +who has a military joy in duty—not he who weeps over the wounded. We can +do no more than try to do our best. Really, I am the grandson of the +manse—I preach you a kind of sermon. Box the brat’s ears! + +My mother—to pass to matters more within my competence—finely enjoys +herself. The new country, some new friends we have made, the interesting +experiment of this climate-which (at least) is tragic—all have done her +good. I have myself passed a better winter than for years, and now that +it is nearly over have some diffident hopes of doing well in the summer +and ‘eating a little more air’ than usual. + +I thank you for the trouble you are taking, and my mother joins with me +in kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. Charteris.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO S. R. CROCKETT + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _Spring_ 1888.] + +DEAR MINISTER OF THE FREE KIRK AT PENICUIK,—For O, man, I cannae read +your name!—That I have been so long in answering your delightful letter +sits on my conscience badly. The fact is I let my correspondence +accumulate until I am going to leave a place; and then I pitch in, +overhaul the pile, and my cries of penitence might be heard a mile about. +Yesterday I despatched thirty-five belated letters: conceive the state of +my conscience, above all as the Sins of Omission (see boyhood’s guide, +the Shorter Catechism) are in my view the only serious ones; I call it my +view, but it cannot have escaped you that it was also Christ’s. However, +all that is not to the purpose, which is to thank you for the sincere +pleasure afforded by your charming letter. I get a good few such; how +few that please me at all, you would be surprised to learn—or have a +singularly just idea of the dulness of our race; how few that please me +as yours did, I can tell you in one word—_None_. I am no great kirkgoer, +for many reasons—and the sermon’s one of them, and the first prayer +another, but the chief and effectual reason is the stuffiness. I am no +great kirkgoer, says I, but when I read yon letter of yours, I thought I +would like to sit under ye. And then I saw ye were to send me a bit +buik, and says I, I’ll wait for the bit buik, and then I’ll mebbe can +read the man’s name, and anyway I’ll can kill twa birds wi’ ae stane. +And, man! the buik was ne’er heard tell o’! + +That fact is an adminicle of excuse for my delay. + +And now, dear minister of the illegible name, thanks to you, and greeting +to your wife, and may you have good guidance in your difficult labours, +and a blessing on your life. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + (No just so young sae young’s he was, though— + I’m awfae near forty, man.) + + Address c/o CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, + 743 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. + +Don’t put ‘N.B.’ in your paper: put _Scotland_, and be done with it. +Alas, that I should be thus stabbed in the home of my friends! The name +of my native land is not _North Britain_, whatever may be the name of +yours. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MISS FERRIER + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _April_ 1888.] + +MY DEAREST COGGIE,—I wish I could find the letter I began to you some +time ago when I was ill; but I can’t and I don’t believe there was much +in it anyway. We have all behaved like pigs and beasts and barn-door +poultry to you; but I have been sunk in work, and the lad is lazy and +blind and has been working too; and as for Fanny, she has been (and still +is) really unwell. I had a mean hope you might perhaps write again +before I got up steam: I could not have been more ashamed of myself than +I am, and I should have had another laugh. + +They always say I cannot give news in my letters: I shall shake off that +reproach. On Monday, if she is well enough, Fanny leaves for California +to see her friends; it is rather an anxiety to let her go alone; but the +doctor simply forbids it in my case, and she is better anywhere than +here—a bleak, blackguard, beggarly climate, of which I can say no good +except that it suits me and some others of the same or similar +persuasions whom (by all rights) it ought to kill. It is a form of +Arctic St. Andrews, I should imagine; and the miseries of forty degrees +below zero, with a high wind, have to be felt to be appreciated. The +greyness of the heavens here is a circumstance eminently revolting to the +soul; I have near forgot the aspect of the sun—I doubt if this be news; +it is certainly no news to us. My mother suffers a little from the +inclemency of the place, but less on the whole than would be imagined. +Among other wild schemes, we have been projecting yacht voyages; and I +beg to inform you that Cogia Hassan was cast for the part of passenger. +They may come off!—Again this is not news. The lad? Well, the lad wrote +a tale this winter, which appeared to me so funny that I have taken it in +hand, and some of these days you will receive a copy of a work entitled +‘_A Game of Bluff_, by Lloyd Osbourne and Robert Louis Stevenson.’ + +Otherwise he (the lad) is much as usual. There remains, I believe, to be +considered only R. L. S., the house-bond, prop, pillar, bread-winner, and +bully of the establishment. Well, I do think him much better; he is +making piles of money; the hope of being able to hire a yacht ere long +dances before his eyes; otherwise he is not in very high spirits at this +particular moment, though compared with last year at Bournemouth an angel +of joy. + +And now is this news, Cogia, or is it not? It all depends upon the point +of view, and I call it news. The devil of it is that I can think of +nothing else, except to send you all our loves, and to wish exceedingly +you were here to cheer us all up. But we’ll see about that on board the +yacht.—Your affectionate friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + [_Saranac Lake_], _April_ 9_th_!! 1888 + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I have been long without writing to you, but am not to +blame, I had some little annoyances quite for a private eye, but they ran +me so hard that I could not write without lugging them in, which (for +several reasons) I did not choose to do. Fanny is off to San Francisco, +and next week I myself flit to New York: address Scribner’s. Where we +shall go I know not, nor (I was going to say) care; so bald and bad is my +frame of mind. Do you know our—ahem!—fellow clubman, Colonel Majendie? +I had such an interesting letter from him. Did you see my sermon? It +has evoked the worst feeling: I fear people don’t care for the truth, or +else I don’t tell it. Suffer me to wander without purpose. I have sent +off twenty letters to-day, and begun and stuck at a twenty-first, and +taken a copy of one which was on business, and corrected several galleys +of proof, and sorted about a bushel of old letters; so if any one has a +right to be romantically stupid it is I—and I am. Really deeply stupid, +and at that stage when in old days I used to pour out words without any +meaning whatever and with my mind taking no part in the performance. I +suspect that is now the case. I am reading with extraordinary pleasure +the life of Lord Lawrence: Lloyd and I have a mutiny novel— + +(_Next morning_, _after twelve other letters_)—mutiny novel on hand—a +tremendous work—so we are all at Indian books. The idea of the novel is +Lloyd’s: I call it a novel. ’Tis a tragic romance, of the most tragic +sort: I believe the end will be almost too much for human endurance—when +the hero is thrown to the ground with one of his own (Sepoy) soldier’s +knees upon his chest, and the cries begin in the Beebeeghar. O truly, +you know it is a howler! The whole last part is—well the difficulty is +that, short of resuscitating Shakespeare, I don’t know who is to write +it. + +I still keep wonderful. I am a great performer before the Lord on the +penny whistle. Dear sir, sincerely yours, + + ANDREW JACKSON. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + [_Saranac Lake_, _April_ 1888.] + _Address c/o Messrs. Scribner’s Sons_, + 743 _Broadway_, _N.Y._ + +MY DEAR GAMEKEEPER,—Your p. c. (proving you a good student of Micawber) +has just arrived, and it paves the way to something I am anxious to say. +I wrote a paper the other day—_Pulvis et Umbra_;—I wrote it with great +feeling and conviction: to me it seemed bracing and healthful, it is in +such a world (so seen by me), that I am very glad to fight out my battle, +and see some fine sunsets, and hear some excellent jests between whiles +round the camp fire. But I find that to some people this vision of mine +is a nightmare, and extinguishes all ground of faith in God or pleasure +in man. Truth I think not so much of; for I do not know it. And I could +wish in my heart that I had not published this paper, if it troubles folk +too much: all have not the same digestion, nor the same sight of things. +And it came over me with special pain that perhaps this article (which I +was at the pains to send to her) might give dismalness to my _Gamekeeper +at Home_. Well, I cannot take back what I have said; but yet I may add +this. If my view be everything but the nonsense that it may be—to me it +seems self-evident and blinding truth—surely of all things it makes this +world holier. There is nothing in it but the moral side—but the great +battle and the breathing times with their refreshments. I see no more +and no less. And if you look again, it is not ugly, and it is filled +with promise. + +Pray excuse a desponding author for this apology. My wife is away off to +the uttermost parts of the States, all by herself. I shall be off, I +hope, in a week; but where? Ah! that I know not. I keep wonderful, and +my wife a little better, and the lad flourishing. We now perform duets +on two D tin whistles; it is no joke to make the bass; I think I must +really send you one, which I wish you would correct . . . I may be said +to live for these instrumental labours now, but I have always some +childishness on hand.—I am, dear Gamekeeper, your indulgent but +intemperate Squire, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Union House_, _Manasquan_, _N.J._, _but address to Scribner’s_, + 11_th_ _May_ 1888. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I have found a yacht, and we are going the full pitch +for seven months. If I cannot get my health back (more or less), ’tis +madness; but, of course, there is the hope, and I will play big. . . . If +this business fails to set me up, well, £2000 is gone, and I know I can’t +get better. We sail from San Francisco, June 15th, for the South Seas in +the yacht _Casco_.—With a million thanks for all your dear friendliness, +ever yours affectionately, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HOMER ST. GAUDENS + + + _Manasquan_, _New Jersey_, 27_th_ _May_ 1888. + +DEAR HOMER ST. GAUDENS,—Your father has brought you this day to see me, +and he tells me it is his hope you may remember the occasion. I am going +to do what I can to carry out his wish; and it may amuse you, years +after, to see this little scrap of paper and to read what I write. I +must begin by testifying that you yourself took no interest whatever in +the introduction, and in the most proper spirit displayed a single-minded +ambition to get back to play, and this I thought an excellent and +admirable point in your character. You were also (I use the past tense, +with a view to the time when you shall read, rather than to that when I +am writing) a very pretty boy, and (to my European views) startlingly +self-possessed. My time of observation was so limited that you must +pardon me if I can say no more: what else I marked, what restlessness of +foot and hand, what graceful clumsiness, what experimental designs upon +the furniture, was but the common inheritance of human youth. But you +may perhaps like to know that the lean flushed man in bed, who interested +you so little, was in a state of mind extremely mingled and unpleasant: +harassed with work which he thought he was not doing well, troubled with +difficulties to which you will in time succeed, and yet looking forward +to no less a matter than a voyage to the South Seas and the visitation of +savage and desert islands.—Your father’s friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Manasquan_ (_ahem_!), _New Jersey_, _May_ 28_th_, 1888. + +MY DEAR JAMES,—With what a torrent it has come at last! Up to now, what +I like best is the first number of a _London Life_. You have never done +anything better, and I don’t know if perhaps you have ever done anything +so good as the girl’s outburst: tip-top. I have been preaching your +later works in your native land. I had to present the Beltraffio volume +to Low, and it has brought him to his knees; he was _amazed_ at the first +part of Georgina’s Reasons, although (like me) not so well satisfied with +Part II. It is annoying to find the American public as stupid as the +English, but they will waken up in time: I wonder what they will think of +_Two Nations_? . . . + +This, dear James, is a valedictory. On June 15th the schooner yacht +_Casco_ will (weather and a jealous providence permitting) steam through +the Golden Gates for Honolulu, Tahiti, the Galapagos, Guayaquil, and—I +hope _not_ the bottom of the Pacific. It will contain your obedient +’umble servant and party. It seems too good to be true, and is a very +good way of getting through the green-sickness of maturity which, with +all its accompanying ills, is now declaring itself in my mind and life. +They tell me it is not so severe as that of youth; if I (and the _Casco_) +are spared, I shall tell you more exactly, as I am one of the few people +in the world who do not forget their own lives. + +Good-bye, then, my dear fellow, and please write us a word; we expect to +have three mails in the next two months: Honolulu, Tahiti, and Guayaquil. +But letters will be forwarded from Scribner’s, if you hear nothing more +definite directly. In 3 (three) days I leave for San Francisco.—Ever +yours most cordially, + + R. L. S. + + + + +X +PACIFIC VOYAGES +JUNE 1888-NOVEMBER 1890 + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Yacht_ ‘_Casco_,’ _Anaho Bay_, _Nukahiva_, + _Marquesas Islands_ [_July_ 1888]. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—From this somewhat (ahem) out of the way place, I write +to say how d’ye do. It is all a swindle: I chose these isles as having +the most beastly population, and they are far better, and far more +civilised than we. I know one old chief Ko-o-amua, a great cannibal in +his day, who ate his enemies even as he walked home from killing ’em, and +he is a perfect gentleman and exceedingly amiable and simple-minded: no +fool, though. + +The climate is delightful; and the harbour where we lie one of the +loveliest spots imaginable. Yesterday evening we had near a score +natives on board; lovely parties. We have a native god; very rare now. +Very rare and equally absurd to view. + +This sort of work is not favourable to correspondence: it takes me all +the little strength I have to go about and see, and then come home and +note, the strangeness around us. I shouldn’t wonder if there came +trouble here some day, all the same. I could name a nation that is not +beloved in certain islands—and it does not know it! {114} Strange: like +ourselves, perhaps, in India! Love to all and much to yourself. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Yacht_ ‘_Casco_,’ _at sea_, _near the Paumotus_, + 7 A.M., _September_ 6_th_, 1888, _with a dreadful pen_. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Last night as I lay under my blanket in the cockpit, +courting sleep, I had a comic seizure. There was nothing visible but the +southern stars, and the steersman there out by the binnacle lamp; we were +all looking forward to a most deplorable landfall on the morrow, praying +God we should fetch a tuft of palms which are to indicate the Dangerous +Archipelago; the night was as warm as milk, and all of a sudden I had a +vision of—Drummond Street. It came on me like a flash of lightning: I +simply returned thither, and into the past. And when I remember all I +hoped and feared as I pickled about Rutherford’s in the rain and the east +wind; how I feared I should make a mere shipwreck, and yet timidly hoped +not; how I feared I should never have a friend, far less a wife, and yet +passionately hoped I might; how I hoped (if I did not take to drink) I +should possibly write one little book, etc. etc. And then now—what a +change! I feel somehow as if I should like the incident set upon a brass +plate at the corner of that dreary thoroughfare for all students to read, +poor devils, when their hearts are down. And I felt I must write one +word to you. Excuse me if I write little: when I am at sea, it gives me +a headache; when I am in port, I have my diary crying ‘Give, give.’ I +shall have a fine book of travels, I feel sure; and will tell you more of +the South Seas after very few months than any other writer has +done—except Herman Melville perhaps, who is a howling cheese. Good luck +to you, God bless you.—Your affectionate friend, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Fakarava_, _Low Archipelago_, _September_ 21_st_, 1888. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Only a word. Get out your big atlas, and imagine a +straight line from San Francisco to Anaho, the N.E. corner of Nukahiva, +one of the Marquesas Islands; imagine three weeks there: imagine a day’s +sail on August 12th round the eastern end of the island to Tai-o-hae, the +capital; imagine us there till August 22nd: imagine us skirt the east +side of Ua-pu—perhaps Rona-Poa on your atlas—and through the Bondelais +straits to Taaka-uku in Hiva-Oa, where we arrive on the 23rd; imagine us +there until September 4th, when we sailed for Fakarava, which we reached +on the 9th, after a very difficult and dangerous passage among these +isles. Tuesday, we shall leave for Taiti, where I shall knock off and do +some necessary work ashore. It looks pretty bald in the atlas; not in +fact; nor I trust in the 130 odd pages of diary which I have just been +looking up for these dates: the interest, indeed, has been _incredible_: +I did not dream there were such places or such races. My health has +stood me splendidly; I am in for hours wading over the knees for shells; +I have been five hours on horseback: I have been up pretty near all night +waiting to see where the _Casco_ would go ashore, and with my diary all +ready—simply the most entertaining night of my life. Withal I still have +colds; I have one now, and feel pretty sick too; but not as at home: +instead of being in bed, for instance, I am at this moment sitting +snuffling and writing in an undershirt and trousers; and as for colour, +hands, arms, feet, legs, and face, I am browner than the berry: only my +trunk and the aristocratic spot on which I sit retain the vile whiteness +of the north. + +Please give my news and kind love to Henley, Henry James, and any whom +you see of well-wishers. Accept from me the very best of my affection: +and believe me ever yours, + + THE OLD MAN VIRULENT. + + * * * * * + + _Taiti_, _October_ 7_th_, 1888. + +Never having found a chance to send this off, I may add more of my news. +My cold took a very bad turn, and I am pretty much out of sorts at this +particular, living in a little bare one-twentieth-furnished house, +surrounded by mangoes, etc. All the rest are well, and I mean to be +soon. But these Taiti colds are very severe and, to children, often +fatal; so they were not the thing for me. Yesterday the brigantine came +in from San Francisco, so we can get our letters off soon. There are in +Papeete at this moment, in a little wooden house with grated verandahs, +two people who love you very much, and one of them is + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Taiti_, _as ever was_, 6_th_ _October_ 1888. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—. . . You will receive a lot of mostly very bad proofs +of photographs: the paper was so bad. Please keep them very private, as +they are for the book. We send them, having learned so dread a fear of +the sea, that we wish to put our eggs in different baskets. We have been +thrice within an ace of being ashore: we were lost (!) for about twelve +hours in the Low Archipelago, but by God’s blessing had quiet weather all +the time; and once, in a squall, we cam’ so near gaun heels ower hurdies, +that I really dinnae ken why we didnae athegither. Hence, as I say, a +great desire to put our eggs in different baskets, particularly on the +Pacific (aw-haw-haw) Pacific Ocean. + +You can have no idea what a mean time we have had, owing to incidental +beastlinesses, nor what a glorious, owing to the intrinsic interest of +these isles. I hope the book will be a good one; nor do I really very +much doubt that—the stuff is so curious; what I wonder is, if the public +will rise to it. A copy of my journal, or as much of it as is made, +shall go to you also; it is, of course, quite imperfect, much being to be +added and corrected; but O, for the eggs in the different baskets. + +All the rest are well enough, and all have enjoyed the cruise so far, in +spite of its drawbacks. We have had an awfae time in some ways, Mr. +Baxter; and if I wasnae sic a verra patient man (when I ken that I _have_ +to be) there wad hae been a braw row; and ance if I hadnae happened to be +on deck about three in the marnin’, I _think_ there would have been +_murder_ done. The American Mairchant Marine is a kent service; ye’ll +have heard its praise, I’m thinkin’; an’ if ye never did, ye can get _Twa +Years Before the Mast_, by Dana, whaur forbye a great deal o’ pleisure, +ye’ll get a’ the needcessary information. Love to your father and all +the family.—Ever your affectionate friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + _Taiti_, _October_ 10_th_, 1888. + +DEAR GIVER,—I am at a loss to conceive your object in giving me to a +person so locomotory as my proprietor. The number of thousand miles that +I have travelled, the strange bed-fellows with which I have been made +acquainted, I lack the requisite literary talent to make clear to your +imagination. I speak of bed-fellows; pocket-fellows would be a more +exact expression, for the place of my abode is in my master’s righthand +trouser-pocket; and there, as he waded on the resounding beaches of +Nukahiva, or in the shallow tepid water on the reef of Fakarava, I have +been overwhelmed by and buried among all manner of abominable South Sea +shells, beautiful enough in their way, I make no doubt, but singular +company for any self-respecting paper-cutter. He, my master—or as I more +justly call him, my bearer; for although I occasionally serve him, does +not he serve me daily and all day long, carrying me like an African +potentate on my subject’s legs?—_he_ is delighted with these isles, and +this climate, and these savages, and a variety of other things. He now +blows a flageolet with singular effects: sometimes the poor thing appears +stifled with shame, sometimes it screams with agony; he pursues his +career with truculent insensibility. Health appears to reign in the +party. I was very nearly sunk in a squall. I am sorry I ever left +England, for here there are no books to be had, and without books there +is no stable situation for, dear Giver, your affectionate + + WOODEN PAPER-CUTTER. + +A neighbouring pair of scissors snips a kiss in your direction. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Taiti_, _October_ 16_th_, 1888. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—The cruiser for San Francisco departs to-morrow morning +bearing you some kind of a scratch. This much more important packet will +travel by way of Auckland. It contains a ballant; and I think a better +ballant than I expected ever to do. I can imagine how you will wag your +pow over it; and how ragged you will find it, etc., but has it not spirit +all the same? and though the verse is not all your fancy painted it, has +it not some life? And surely, as narrative, the thing has considerable +merit! Read it, get a typewritten copy taken, and send me that and your +opinion to the Sandwiches. I know I am only courting the most +excruciating mortification; but the real cause of my sending the thing is +that I could bear to go down myself, but not to have much MS. go down +with me. To say truth, we are through the most dangerous; but it has +left in all minds a strong sense of insecurity, and we are all for +putting eggs in various baskets. + +We leave here soon, bound for Uahiva, Reiatea, Bora-Bora, and the +Sandwiches. + + O, how my spirit languishes + To step ashore on the Sanguishes; + For there my letters wait, + There shall I know my fate. + O, how my spirit languidges + To step ashore on the Sanguidges. + +18_th_.—I think we shall leave here if all is well on Monday. I am quite +recovered, astonishingly recovered. It must be owned these climates and +this voyage have given me more strength than I could have thought +possible. And yet the sea is a terrible place, stupefying to the mind +and poisonous to the temper, the sea, the motion, the lack of space, the +cruel publicity, the villainous tinned foods, the sailors, the captain, +the passengers—but you are amply repaid when you sight an island, and +drop anchor in a new world. Much trouble has attended this trip, but I +must confess more pleasure. Nor should I ever complain, as in the last +few weeks, with the curing of my illness indeed, as if that were the +bursting of an abscess, the cloud has risen from my spirits and to some +degree from my temper. Do you know what they called the _Casco_ at +Fakarava? The _Silver Ship_. Is that not pretty? Pray tell Mrs. +Jenkin, _die silberne Frau_, as I only learned it since I wrote her. I +think of calling the book by that name: _The Cruise of the Silver +Ship_—so there will be one poetic page at least—the title. At the +Sandwiches we shall say farewell to the _S. S._ with mingled feelings. +She is a lovely creature: the most beautiful thing at this moment in +Taiti. + +Well, I will take another sheet, though I know I have nothing to say. +You would think I was bursting: but the voyage is all stored up for the +book, which is to pay for it, we fondly hope; and the troubles of the +time are not worth telling; and our news is little. + +Here I conclude (Oct. 24th, I think), for we are now stored, and the Blue +Peter metaphorically flies. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO WILLIAM AND THOMAS ARCHER + + + _Taiti_, _October_ 17_th_, 1888. + +DEAR ARCHER,—Though quite unable to write letters, I nobly send you a +line signifying nothing. The voyage has agreed well with all; it has had +its pains, and its extraordinary pleasures; nothing in the world can +equal the excitement of the first time you cast anchor in some bay of a +tropical island, and the boats begin to surround you, and the tattooed +people swarm aboard. Tell Tomarcher, with my respex, that hide-and-seek +is not equal to it; no, nor hidee-in-the-dark; which, for the matter of +that, is a game for the unskilful: the artist prefers daylight, a +good-sized garden, some shrubbery, an open paddock, and—come on, Macduff. + +TOMARCHER, I am now a distinguished litterytour, but that was not the +real bent of my genius. I was the best player of hide-and-seek going; +not a good runner, I was up to every shift and dodge, I could jink very +well, I could crawl without any noise through leaves, I could hide under +a carrot plant, it used to be my favourite boast that I always _walked_ +into the den. You may care to hear, Tomarcher, about the children in +these parts; their parents obey them, they do not obey their parents; and +I am sorry to tell you (for I dare say you are already thinking the idea +a good one) that it does not pay one halfpenny. There are three sorts of +civilisation, Tomarcher: the real old-fashioned one, in which children +either had to find out how to please their dear papas, or their dear +papas cut their heads off. This style did very well, but is now out of +fashion. Then the modern European style: in which children have to +behave reasonably well, and go to school and say their prayers, or their +dear papas _will know the reason why_. This does fairly well. Then +there is the South Sea Island plan, which does not do one bit. The +children beat their parents here; it does not make their parents any +better; so do not try it. + +Dear Tomarcher, I have forgotten the address of your new house, but will +send this to one of your papa’s publishers. Remember us all to all of +you, and believe me, yours respectably, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Tautira_ (_The Garden of the World_), _otherwise called_ + _Hans-Christian-Andersen-ville_ [_November_ 1888]. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Whether I have a penny left in the wide world, I know +not, nor shall know, till I get to Honolulu, where I anticipate a devil +of an awakening. It will be from a mighty pleasant dream at least: +Tautira being mere Heaven. But suppose, for the sake of argument, any +money to be left in the hands of my painful doer, what is to be done with +it? Save us from exile would be the wise man’s choice, I suppose; for +the exile threatens to be eternal. But yet I am of opinion—in case there +should be _some_ dibs in the hand of the P.D., _i.e._ painful doer; +because if there be none, I shall take to my flageolet on the high-road, +and work home the best way I can, having previously made away with my +family—I am of opinion that if — and his are in the customary state, and +you are thinking of an offering, and there should be still some funds +over, you would be a real good P.D. to put some in with yours and tak’ +the credit o’t, like a wee man! I know it’s a beastly thing to ask; but +it, after all, does no earthly harm, only that much good. And besides, +like enough there’s nothing in the till, and there is an end. Yet I live +here in the full lustre of millions; it is thought I am the richest son +of man that has yet been to Tautira: I!—and I am secretly eaten with the +fear of lying in pawn, perhaps for the remainder of my days, in San +Francisco. As usual, my colds have much hashed my finances. + +Do tell Henley I write this just after having dismissed Ori the +sub-chief, in whose house I live, Mrs. Ori, and Pairai, their adopted +child, from the evening hour of music: during which I Publickly (with a +k) Blow on the Flageolet. These are words of truth. Yesterday I told +Ori about W. E. H., counterfeited his playing on the piano and the pipe, +and succeeded in sending the six feet four there is of that sub-chief +somewhat sadly to his bed; feeling that his was not the genuine article +after all. Ori is exactly like a colonel in the Guards.—I am, dear +Charles, ever yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + _Tautira_, 10_th_ _November_ ’88. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Our mainmast is dry-rotten, and we are all to the devil; +I shall lie in a debtor’s jail. Never mind, Tautira is first chop. I am +so besotted that I shall put on the back of this my attempt at words to +Wandering Willie; if you can conceive at all the difficulty, you will +also conceive the vanity with which I regard any kind of result; and +whatever mine is like, it has some sense, and Burns’s has none. + + Home no more home to me, whither must I wander? + Hunger my driver, I go where I must. + Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather; + Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust. + Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree. + The true word of welcome was spoken in the door— + Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight, + Kind folks of old, you come again no more. + + Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces, + Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child. + Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland; + Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild. + Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland, + Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. + Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed, + The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO J. A. SYMONDS + + + _November_ 11_th_ 1888. + +_One November night_, _in the village of Tautira_, _we sat at the high +table in the hall of assembly_, _hearing the natives sing_. _It was dark +in the hall_, _and very warm_; _though at times the land wind blew a +little shrewdly through the chinks_, _and at times_, _through the larger +openings_, _we could see the moonlight on the lawn_. _As the songs arose +in the rattling Tahitian chorus_, _the chief translated here and there a +verse_. _Farther on in the volume you shall read the songs themselves_; +_and I am in hopes that not you only_, _but all who can find a savour in +the ancient poetry of places_, _will read them with some pleasure_. _You +are to conceive us_, _therefore_, _in strange circumstances and very +pleasing_; _in a strange land and climate_, _the most beautiful on +earth_; _surrounded by a foreign race that all travellers have agreed to +be the most engaging_; _and taking a double interest in two foreign +arts_. + +_We came forth again at last_, _in a cloudy moonlight_, _on the forest +lawn which is the street of Tautira_. _The Pacific roared outside upon +the reef_. _Here and there one of the scattered palm-built lodges shone +out under the shadow of the wood_, _the lamplight bursting through the +crannies of the wall_. _We went homeward slowly_, _Ori a Ori carrying +behind us the lantern and the chairs_, _properties with which we had just +been enacting our part of the distinguished visitor_. _It was one of +those moments in which minds not altogether churlish recall the names and +deplore the absence of congenial friends_; _and it was your name that +first rose upon our lips_. ‘_How Symonds would have enjoyed this +evening_!’ _said one_, _and then another_. _The word caught in my mind_; +_I went to bed_, _and it was still there_. _The glittering_, _frosty +solitudes in which your days are cast arose before me_: _I seemed to see +you walking there in the late night_, _under the pine-trees and the +stars_; _and I received the image with something like remorse_. + +_There is a modern attitude towards fortune_; _in this place I will not +use a graver name_. _Staunchly to withstand her buffets and to enjoy +with equanimity her favours was the code of the virtuous of old_. _Our +fathers_, _it should seem_, _wondered and doubted how they had merited +their misfortunes_: _we_, _rather how we have deserved our happiness_. +_And we stand often abashed and sometimes revolted_, _at those +partialities of fate by which we profit most_. _It was so with me on +that November night_: _I felt that our positions should be changed_. _It +was you_, _dear Symonds_, _who should have gone upon that voyage and +written this account_. _With your rich stores of knowledge_, _you could +have remarked and understood a thousand things of interest and beauty +that escaped my ignorance_; _and the brilliant colours of your style +would have carried into a thousand sickrooms the sea air and the strong +sun of tropic islands_. _It was otherwise decreed_. _But suffer me at +least to connect you_, _if only in name and only in the fondness of +imagination_, _with the voyage of the_ ‘Silver Ship.’ + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +DEAR SYMONDS,—I send you this (November 11th), the morning of its +completion. If I ever write an account of this voyage, may I place this +letter at the beginning? It represents—I need not tell you, for you too +are an artist—a most genuine feeling, which kept me long awake last +night; and though perhaps a little elaborate, I think it a good piece of +writing. We are _in heaven here_. Do not forget + + R. L. S. + +Please keep this: I have no perfect copy. + +_Tautira_, _on the peninsula of Tahiti_. + + + +TO THOMAS ARCHER + + + _Tautira_, _Island of Tahiti_ [_November_ 1888]. + +DEAR TOMARCHER,—This is a pretty state of things! seven o’clock and no +word of breakfast! And I was awake a good deal last night, for it was +full moon, and they had made a great fire of cocoa-nut husks down by the +sea, and as we have no blinds or shutters, this kept my room very bright. +And then the rats had a wedding or a school-feast under my bed. And then +I woke early, and I have nothing to read except Virgil’s _Æneid_, which +is not good fun on an empty stomach, and a Latin dictionary, which is +good for naught, and by some humorous accident, your dear papa’s article +on Skerryvore. And I read the whole of that, and very impudent it is, +but you must not tell your dear papa I said so, or it might come to a +battle in which you might lose either a dear papa or a valued +correspondent, or both, which would be prodigal. And still no breakfast; +so I said ‘Let’s write to Tomarcher.’ + +This is a much better place for children than any I have hitherto seen in +these seas. The girls (and sometimes the boys) play a very elaborate +kind of hopscotch. The boys play horses exactly as we do in Europe; and +have very good fun on stilts, trying to knock each other down, in which +they do not often succeed. The children of all ages go to church and are +allowed to do what they please, running about the aisles, rolling balls, +stealing mamma’s bonnet and publicly sitting on it, and at last going to +sleep in the middle of the floor. I forgot to say that the whips to play +horses, and the balls to roll about the church—at least I never saw them +used elsewhere—grow ready made on trees; which is rough on toy-shops. +The whips are so good that I wanted to play horses myself; but no such +luck! my hair is grey, and I am a great, big, ugly man. The balls are +rather hard, but very light and quite round. When you grow up and become +offensively rich, you can charter a ship in the port of London, and have +it come back to you entirely loaded with these balls; when you could +satisfy your mind as to their character, and give them away when done +with to your uncles and aunts. But what I really wanted to tell you was +this: besides the tree-top toys (Hush-a-by, toy-shop, on the tree-top!), +I have seen some real _made_ toys, the first hitherto observed in the +South Seas. + +This was how. You are to imagine a four-wheeled gig; one horse; in the +front seat two Tahiti natives, in their Sunday clothes, blue coat, white +shirt, kilt (a little longer than the Scotch) of a blue stuff with big +white or yellow flowers, legs and feet bare; in the back seat me and my +wife, who is a friend of yours; under our feet, plenty of lunch and +things: among us a great deal of fun in broken Tahitian, one of the +natives, the sub-chief of the village, being a great ally of mine. +Indeed we have exchanged names; so that he is now called Rui, the nearest +they can come to Louis, for they have no _l_ and no _s_ in their +language. Rui is six feet three in his stockings, and a magnificent man. +We all have straw hats, for the sun is strong. We drive between the sea, +which makes a great noise, and the mountains; the road is cut through a +forest mostly of fruit trees, the very creepers, which take the place of +our ivy, heavy with a great and delicious fruit, bigger than your head +and far nicer, called Barbedine. Presently we came to a house in a +pretty garden, quite by itself, very nicely kept, the doors and windows +open, no one about, and no noise but that of the sea. It looked like a +house in a fairy-tale, and just beyond we must ford a river, and there we +saw the inhabitants. Just in the mouth of the river, where it met the +sea waves, they were ducking and bathing and screaming together like a +covey of birds: seven or eight little naked brown boys and girls as happy +as the day was long; and on the banks of the stream beside them, real +toys—toy ships, full rigged, and with their sails set, though they were +lying in the dust on their beam ends. And then I knew for sure they were +all children in a fairy-story, living alone together in that lonely house +with the only toys in all the island; and that I had myself driven, in my +four-wheeled gig, into a corner of the fairy-story, and the question was, +should I get out again? But it was all right; I guess only one of the +wheels of the gig had got into the fairy-story; and the next jolt the +whole thing vanished, and we drove on in our sea-side forest as before, +and I have the honour to be Tomarcher’s valued correspondent, TERIITEPA, +which he was previously known as + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Yacht_ ‘_Casco_,’ _at Sea_, 14_th_ _January_, 1889. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—Twenty days out from Papeete. Yes, sir, all that, and +only (for a guess) in 4° north or at the best 4° 30′, though already the +wind seems to smell a little of the North Pole. My handwriting you must +take as you get, for we are speeding along through a nasty swell, and I +can only keep my place at the table by means of a foot against the divan, +the unoccupied hand meanwhile gripping the ink-bottle. As we begin (so +very slowly) to draw near to seven months of correspondence, we are all +in some fear; and I want to have letters written before I shall be +plunged into that boiling pot of disagreeables which I constantly expect +at Honolulu. What is needful can be added there. + +We were kept two months at Tautira in the house of my dear old friend, +Ori a Ori, till both the masts of this invaluable yacht had been +repaired. It was all for the best: Tautira being the most beautiful +spot, and its people the most amiable, I have ever found. Besides which, +the climate suited me to the ground; I actually went sea-bathing almost +every day, and in our feasts (we are all huge eaters in Taiarapu) have +been known to apply four times for pig. And then again I got wonderful +materials for my book, collected songs and legends on the spot; songs +still sung in chorus by perhaps a hundred persons, not two of whom can +agree on their translation; legends, on which I have seen half a dozen +seniors sitting in conclave and debating what came next. Once I went a +day’s journey to the other side of the island to Tati, the high chief of +the Tevas—_my_ chief that is, for I am now a Teva and Teriitera, at your +service—to collect more and correct what I had already. In the meanwhile +I got on with my work, almost finished the _Master of Ballantrae_, which +contains more human work than anything of mine but _Kidnapped_, and wrote +the half of another ballad, the _Song of Rahero_, on a Taiarapu legend of +my own clan, sir—not so much fire as the _Feast of Famine_, but promising +to be more even and correct. But the best fortune of our stay at Tautira +was my knowledge of Ori himself, one of the finest creatures extant. The +day of our parting was a sad one. We deduced from it a rule for +travellers: not to stay two months in one place—which is to cultivate +regrets. + +At last our contemptible ship was ready; to sea we went, bound for +Honolulu and the letter-bag, on Christmas Day; and from then to now have +experienced every sort of minor misfortune, squalls, calms, contrary +winds and seas, pertinacious rains, declining stores, till we came almost +to regard ourselves as in the case of Vanderdecken. Three days ago our +luck seemed to improve, we struck a leading breeze, got creditably +through the doldrums, and just as we looked to have the N.E. trades and a +straight run, the rains and squalls and calms began again about midnight, +and this morning, though there is breeze enough to send us along, we are +beaten back by an obnoxious swell out of the north. Here is a page of +complaint, when a verse of thanksgiving had perhaps been more in place. +For all this time we must have been skirting past dangerous weather, in +the tail and circumference of hurricanes, and getting only annoyance +where we should have had peril, and ill-humour instead of fear. + +I wonder if I have managed to give you any news this time, or whether the +usual damn hangs over my letter? ‘The midwife whispered, Be thou dull!’ +or at least inexplicit. Anyway I have tried my best, am exhausted with +the effort, and fall back into the land of generalities. I cannot tell +you how often we have planned our arrival at the Monument: two nights +ago, the 12th January, we had it all planned out, arrived in the lights +and whirl of Waterloo, hailed a hansom, span up Waterloo Road, over the +bridge, etc. etc., and hailed the Monument gate in triumph and with +indescribable delight. My dear Custodian, I always think we are too +sparing of assurances: Cordelia is only to be excused by Regan and +Goneril in the same nursery; I wish to tell you that the longer I live, +the more dear do you become to me; nor does my heart own any stronger +sentiment. If the bloody schooner didn’t send me flying in every sort of +direction at the same time, I would say better what I feel so much; but +really, if you were here, you would not be writing letters, I believe; +and even I, though of a more marine constitution, am much perturbed by +this bobbery and wish—O ye Gods, how I wish!—that it was done, and we had +arrived, and I had Pandora’s Box (my mail bag) in hand, and was in the +lively hope of something eatable for dinner instead of salt horse, tinned +mutton, duff without any plums, and pie fruit, which now make up our +whole repertory. O Pandora’s Box! I wonder what you will contain. As +like as not you will contain but little money: if that be so, we shall +have to retire to ’Frisco in the _Casco_, and thence by sea _via_ Panama +to Southampton, where we should arrive in April. I would like fine to +see you on the tug: ten years older both of us than the last time you +came to welcome Fanny and me to England. If we have money, however, we +shall do a little differently: send the _Casco_ away from Honolulu empty +of its high-born lessees, for that voyage to ’Frisco is one long dead +beat in foul and at last in cold weather; stay awhile behind, follow by +steamer, cross the States by train, stay awhile in New York on business, +and arrive probably by the German Line in Southampton. But all this is a +question of money. We shall have to lie very dark awhile to recruit our +finances: what comes from the book of the cruise, I do not want to touch +until the capital is repaid. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Honolulu_, _January_ 1889. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—Here at last I have arrived. We could not get away +from Tahiti till Christmas Day, and then had thirty days of calms and +squalls, a deplorable passage. This has thrown me all out of gear in +every way. I plunge into business. + +1. _The Master_: Herewith go three more parts. You see he grows in +balk; this making ten already, and I am not yet sure if I can finish it +in an eleventh; which shall go to you _quam primum_—I hope by next mail. + +2. _Illustrations to M_. I totally forgot to try to write to Hole. It +was just as well, for I find it impossible to forecast with sufficient +precision. You had better throw off all this and let him have it at +once. _Please do_: _all_, _and at once_: _see further_; and I should +hope he would still be in time for the later numbers. The three pictures +I have received are so truly good that I should bitterly regret having +the volume imperfectly equipped. They are the best illustrations I have +seen since I don’t know when. + +3. _Money_. To-morrow the mail comes in, and I hope it will bring me +money either from you or home, but I will add a word on that point. + +4. My address will be Honolulu—no longer Yacht _Casco_, which I am +packing off—till probably April. + +5. As soon as I am through with _The Master_, I shall finish the _Game +of Bluff_—now rechristened _The Wrong Box_. This I wish to sell, cash +down. It is of course copyright in the States; and I offer it to you for +five thousand dollars. Please reply on this by return. Also please tell +the typewriter who was so good as to be amused by our follies that I am +filled with admiration for his piece of work. + +6. _Master_ again. Please see that I haven’t the name of the Governor +of New York wrong (1764 is the date) in part ten. I have no book of +reference to put me right. Observe you now have up to August inclusive +in hand, so you should begin to feel happy. + +Is this all? I wonder, and fear not. Henry the Trader has not yet +turned up: I hope he may to-morrow, when we expect a mail. Not one word +of business have I received either from the States or England, nor +anything in the shape of coin; which leaves me in a fine uncertainty and +quite penniless on these islands. H.M. {132} (who is a gentleman of a +courtly order and much tinctured with letters) is very polite; I may +possibly ask for the position of palace doorkeeper. My voyage has been a +singular mixture of good and ill-fortune. As far as regards interest and +material, the fortune has been admirable; as far as regards time, money, +and impediments of all kinds, from squalls and calms to rotten masts and +sprung spars, simply detestable. I hope you will be interested to hear +of two volumes on the wing. The cruise itself, you are to know, will +make a big volume with appendices; some of it will first appear as (what +they call) letters in some of M’Clure’s papers. I believe the book when +ready will have a fair measure of serious interest: I have had great +fortune in finding old songs and ballads and stories, for instance, and +have many singular instances of life in the last few years among these +islands. + +The second volume is of ballads. You know _Ticonderoga_. I have written +another: _The Feast of Famine_, a Marquesan story. A third is half done: +_The Song of Rahero_, a genuine Tahitian legend. A fourth dances before +me. A Hawaiian fellow this, _The Priest’s Drought_, or some such name. +If, as I half suspect, I get enough subjects out of the islands, +_Ticonderoga_ shall be suppressed, and we’ll call the volume _South Sea +Ballads_. In health, spirits, renewed interest in life, and, I do +believe, refreshed capacity for work, the cruise has proved a wise folly. +Still we’re not home, and (although the friend of a crowned head) are +penniless upon these (as one of my correspondents used to call them) +‘lovely but _fatil_ islands.’ By the way, who wrote the _Lion of the +Nile_? My dear sir, that is Something Like. Overdone in bits, it has a +true thought and a true ring of language. Beg the anonymous from me, to +delete (when he shall republish) the two last verses, and end on ‘the +lion of the Nile.’ One Lampman has a good sonnet on a ‘Winter Evening’ +in, I think, the same number: he seems ill named, but I am tempted to +hope a man is not always answerable for his name. {133} For instance, +you would think you knew mine. No such matter. It is—at your service +and Mr. Scribner’s and that of all of the faithful—Teriitera (pray +pronounce Tayree-Tayra) or (_gallicé_) Téri-téra. + + R. L. S. + +More when the mail shall come. + + * * * * * + +I am an idiot. I want to be clear on one point. Some of Hole’s drawings +must of course be too late; and yet they seem to me so excellent I would +fain have the lot complete. It is one thing for you to pay for drawings +which are to appear in that soul-swallowing machine, your magazine: quite +another if they are only to illustrate a volume. I wish you to take a +brisk (even a fiery) decision on the point; and let Hole know. To resume +my desultory song, I desire you would carry the same fire (hereinbefore +suggested) into your decision on the _Wrong Box_; for in my present state +of benighted ignorance as to my affairs for the last seven months—I know +not even whether my house or my mother’s house have been let—I desire to +see something definite in front of me—outside the lot of palace +doorkeeper. I believe the said _Wrong Box_ is a real lark; in which, of +course, I may be grievously deceived; but the typewriter is with me. I +may also be deceived as to the numbers of _The Master_ now going and +already gone; but to me they seem First Chop, sir, First Chop. I hope I +shall pull off that damned ending; but it still depresses me: this is +your doing, Mr. Burlingame: you would have it there and then, and I fear +it—I fear that ending. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Honolulu_, _February_ 8_th_, 1889. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Here we are at Honolulu, and have dismissed the yacht, +and lie here till April anyway, in a fine state of haze, which I am yet +in hopes some letter of yours (still on the way) may dissipate. No +money, and not one word as to money! However, I have got the yacht paid +off in triumph, I think; and though we stay here impignorate, it should +not be for long, even if you bring us no extra help from home. The +cruise has been a great success, both as to matter, fun, and health; and +yet, Lord, man! we’re pleased to be ashore! Yon was a very fine voyage +from Tahiti up here, but—the dry land’s a fine place too, and we don’t +mind squalls any longer, and eh, man, that’s a great thing. Blow, blow, +thou wintry wind, thou hast done me no appreciable harm beyond a few grey +hairs! Altogether, this foolhardy venture is achieved; and if I have but +nine months of life and any kind of health, I shall have both eaten my +cake and got it back again with usury. But, man, there have been days +when I felt guilty, and thought I was in no position for the head of a +house. + +Your letter and accounts are doubtless at S. F., and will reach me in +course. My wife is no great shakes; she is the one who has suffered +most. My mother has had a Huge Old Time; Lloyd is first chop; I so well +that I do not know myself—sea-bathing, if you please, and what is far +more dangerous, entertaining and being entertained by His Majesty here, +who is a very fine intelligent fellow, but O, Charles! what a crop for +the drink! He carries it, too, like a mountain with a sparrow on its +shoulders. We calculated five bottles of champagne in three hours and a +half (afternoon), and the sovereign quite presentable, although +perceptibly more dignified at the end. . . . + +The extraordinary health I enjoy and variety of interests I find among +these islands would tempt me to remain here; only for Lloyd, who is not +well placed in such countries for a permanency; and a little for Colvin, +to whom I feel I owe a sort of filial duty. And these two considerations +will no doubt bring me back—to go to bed again—in England.—Yours ever +affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _Honolulu_, _Hawaiian Islands_, _February_ 1889. + +MY DEAR BOB,—My extremely foolhardy venture is practically over. How +foolhardy it was I don’t think I realised. We had a very small schooner, +and, like most yachts, over-rigged and over-sparred, and like many +American yachts on a very dangerous sail plan. The waters we sailed in +are, of course, entirely unlighted, and very badly charted; in the +Dangerous Archipelago, through which we were fools enough to go, we were +perfectly in ignorance of where we were for a whole night and half the +next day, and this in the midst of invisible islands and rapid and +variable currents; and we were lucky when we found our whereabouts at +last. We have twice had all we wanted in the way of squalls: once, as I +came on deck, I found the green sea over the cockpit coamings and running +down the companion like a brook to meet me; at that same moment the +foresail sheet jammed and the captain had no knife; this was the only +occasion on the cruise that ever I set a hand to a rope, but I worked +like a Trojan, judging the possibility of hæmorrhage better than the +certainty of drowning. Another time I saw a rather singular thing: our +whole ship’s company as pale as paper from the captain to the cook; we +had a black squall astern on the port side and a white squall ahead to +starboard; the complication passed off innocuous, the black squall only +fetching us with its tail, and the white one slewing off somewhere else. +Twice we were a long while (days) in the close vicinity of hurricane +weather, but again luck prevailed, and we saw none of it. These are +dangers incident to these seas and small craft. What was an amazement, +and at the same time a powerful stroke of luck, both our masts were +rotten, and we found it out—I was going to say in time, but it was +stranger and luckier than that. The head of the mainmast hung over so +that hands were afraid to go to the helm; and less than three weeks +before—I am not sure it was more than a fortnight—we had been nearly +twelve hours beating off the lee shore of Eimeo (or Moorea, next island +to Tahiti) in half a gale of wind with a violent head sea: she would +neither tack nor wear once, and had to be boxed off with the mainsail—you +can imagine what an ungodly show of kites we carried—and yet the mast +stood. The very day after that, in the southern bight of Tahiti, we had +a near squeak, the wind suddenly coming calm; the reefs were close in +with, my eye! what a surf! The pilot thought we were gone, and the +captain had a boat cleared, when a lucky squall came to our rescue. My +wife, hearing the order given about the boats, remarked to my mother, +‘Isn’t that nice? We shall soon be ashore!’ Thus does the female mind +unconsciously skirt along the verge of eternity. Our voyage up here was +most disastrous—calms, squalls, head sea, waterspouts of rain, hurricane +weather all about, and we in the midst of the hurricane season, when even +the hopeful builder and owner of the yacht had pronounced these seas +unfit for her. We ran out of food, and were quite given up for lost in +Honolulu: people had ceased to speak to Belle {137} about the _Casco_, as +a deadly subject. + +But the perils of the deep were part of the programme; and though I am +very glad to be done with them for a while and comfortably ashore, where +a squall does not matter a snuff to any one, I feel pretty sure I shall +want to get to sea again ere long. The dreadful risk I took was +financial, and double-headed. First, I had to sink a lot of money in the +cruise, and if I didn’t get health, how was I to get it back? I have got +health to a wonderful extent; and as I have the most interesting matter +for my book, bar accidents, I ought to get all I have laid out and a +profit. But, second (what I own I never considered till too late), there +was the danger of collisions, of damages and heavy repairs, of +disablement, towing, and salvage; indeed, the cruise might have turned +round and cost me double. Nor will this danger be quite over till I hear +the yacht is in San Francisco; for though I have shaken the dust of her +deck from my feet, I fear (as a point of law) she is still mine till she +gets there. + +From my point of view, up to now the cruise has been a wonderful success. +I never knew the world was so amusing. On the last voyage we had grown +so used to sea-life that no one wearied, though it lasted a full month, +except Fanny, who is always ill. All the time our visits to the islands +have been more like dreams than realities: the people, the life, the +beachcombers, the old stories and songs I have picked up, so interesting; +the climate, the scenery, and (in some places) the women, so beautiful. +The women are handsomest in Tahiti, the men in the Marquesas; both as +fine types as can be imagined. Lloyd reminds me, I have not told you one +characteristic incident of the cruise from a semi-naval point of view. +One night we were going ashore in Anaho Bay; the most awful noise on +deck; the breakers distinctly audible in the cabin; and there I had to +sit below, entertaining in my best style a negroid native chieftain, much +the worse for rum! You can imagine the evening’s pleasure. + +This naval report on cruising in the South Seas would be incomplete +without one other trait. On our voyage up here I came one day into the +dining-room, the hatch in the floor was open, the ship’s boy was below +with a baler, and two of the hands were carrying buckets as for a fire; +this meant that the pumps had ceased working. + +One stirring day was that in which we sighted Hawaii. It blew fair, but +very strong; we carried jib, foresail, and mainsail, all single-reefed, +and she carried her lee rail under water and flew. The swell, the +heaviest I have ever been out in—I tried in vain to estimate the height, +_at least_ fifteen feet—came tearing after us about a point and a half +off the wind. We had the best hand—old Louis—at the wheel; and, really, +he did nobly, and had noble luck, for it never caught us once. At times +it seemed we must have it; Louis would look over his shoulder with the +queerest look and dive down his neck into his shoulders; and then it +missed us somehow, and only sprays came over our quarter, turning the +little outside lane of deck into a mill race as deep as to the cockpit +coamings. I never remember anything more delightful and exciting. +Pretty soon after we were lying absolutely becalmed under the lee of +Hawaii, of which we had been warned; and the captain never confessed he +had done it on purpose, but when accused, he smiled. Really, I suppose +he did quite right, for we stood committed to a dangerous race, and to +bring her to the wind would have been rather a heart-sickening manœuvre. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MARCEL SCHWOB + + + _Honolulu_, _Sandwich Islands_, _February_ 8_th_, 1889. + +DEAR SIR,—I thank you—from the midst of such a flurry as you can imagine, +with seven months’ accumulated correspondence on my table—for your two +friendly and clever letters. Pray write me again. I shall be home in +May or June, and not improbably shall come to Paris in the summer. Then +we can talk; or in the interval I may be able to write, which is to-day +out of the question. Pray take a word from a man of crushing +occupations, and count it as a volume. Your little _conte_ is +delightful. Ah yes, you are right, I love the eighteenth century; and so +do you, and have not listened to its voice in vain.—The Hunted One, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Honolulu_, 8_th_ _March_ 1889. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—At last I have the accounts: the Doer has done +excellently, and in the words of —, ‘I reciprocate every step of your +behaviour.’ . . I send a letter for Bob in your care, as I don’t know +his Liverpool address, by which (for he is to show you part of it) you +will see we have got out of this adventure—or hope to have—with wonderful +fortune. I have the retrospective horrors on me when I think of the +liabilities I incurred; but, thank God, I think I’m in port again, and I +have found one climate in which I can enjoy life. Even Honolulu is too +cold for me; but the south isles were a heaven upon earth to a puir, +catarrhal party like Johns’one. We think, as Tahiti is too complete a +banishment, to try Madeira. It’s only a week from England, good +communications, and I suspect in climate and scenery not unlike our dear +islands; in people, alas! there can be no comparison. But friends could +go, and I could come in summer, so I should not be quite cut off. + +Lloyd and I have finished a story, _The Wrong Box_. If it is not funny, +I am sure I do not know what is. I have split over writing it. Since I +have been here, I have been toiling like a galley slave: three numbers of +_The Master_ to rewrite, five chapters of the _Wrong Box_ to write and +rewrite, and about five hundred lines of a narrative poem to write, +rewrite, and re-rewrite. Now I have _The Master_ waiting me for its +continuation, two numbers more; when that’s done, I shall breathe. This +spasm of activity has been chequered with champagne parties: Happy and +Glorious, Hawaii Ponoi paua: kou moi—(Native Hawaiians, dote upon your +monarch!) Hawaiian God save the King. (In addition to my other labours, +I am learning the language with a native moonshee.) Kalakaua is a +terrible companion; a bottle of fizz is like a glass of sherry to him, he +thinks nothing of five or six in an afternoon as a whet for dinner. You +should see a photograph of our party after an afternoon with H. H. M.: +my! what a crew!—Yours ever affectionately, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Honolulu_ [_March_ 1889]. + +MY DEAR JAMES,—Yes—I own up—I am untrue to friendship and (what is less, +but still considerable) to civilisation. I am not coming home for +another year. There it is, cold and bald, and now you won’t believe in +me at all, and serve me right (says you) and the devil take me. But look +here, and judge me tenderly. I have had more fun and pleasure of my life +these past months than ever before, and more health than any time in ten +long years. And even here in Honolulu I have withered in the cold; and +this precious deep is filled with islands, which we may still visit; and +though the sea is a deathful place, I like to be there, and like squalls +(when they are over); and to draw near to a new island, I cannot say how +much I like. In short, I take another year of this sort of life, and +mean to try to work down among the poisoned arrows, and mean (if it may +be) to come back again when the thing is through, and converse with Henry +James as heretofore; and in the meanwhile issue directions to H. J. to +write to me once more. Let him address here at Honolulu, for my views +are vague; and if it is sent here it will follow and find me, if I am to +be found; and if I am not to be found the man James will have done his +duty, and we shall be at the bottom of the sea, where no post-office +clerk can be expected to discover us, or languishing on a coral island, +the philosophic drudges of some barbarian potentate: perchance, of an +American Missionary. My wife has just sent to Mrs. Sitwell a translation +(_tant bien que mal_) of a letter I have had from my chief friend in this +part of the world: go and see her, and get a hearing of it; it will do +you good; it is a better method of correspondence than even Henry +James’s. {141} I jest, but seriously it is a strange thing for a tough, +sick, middle-aged scrivener like R. L. S. to receive a letter so +conceived from a man fifty years old, a leading politician, a crack +orator, and the great wit of his village: boldly say, ‘the highly popular +M.P. of Tautira.’ My nineteenth century strikes here, and lies alongside +of something beautiful and ancient. I think the receipt of such a letter +might humble, shall I say even —? and for me, I would rather have +received it than written _Redgauntlet_ or the _Sixth Æneid_. All told, +if my books have enabled or helped me to make this voyage, to know Rui, +and to have received such a letter, they have (in the old prefatorial +expression) not been writ in vain. It would seem from this that I have +been not so much humbled as puffed up; but, I assure you, I have in fact +been both. A little of what that letter says is my own earning; not all, +but yet a little; and the little makes me proud, and all the rest +ashamed; and in the contrast, how much more beautiful altogether is the +ancient man than him of to-day! + +Well, well, Henry James is pretty good, though he _is_ of the nineteenth +century, and that glaringly. And to curry favour with him, I wish I +could be more explicit; but, indeed, I am still of necessity extremely +vague, and cannot tell what I am to do, nor where I am to go for some +while yet. As soon as I am sure, you shall hear. All are fairly +well—the wife, your countrywoman, least of all; troubles are not entirely +wanting; but on the whole we prosper, and we are all affectionately +yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Honolulu_, _April_ 2_nd_, 1889. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am beginning to be ashamed of writing on to you without +the least acknowledgment, like a tramp; but I do not care—I am hardened; +and whatever be the cause of your silence, I mean to write till all is +blue. I am outright ashamed of my news, which is that we are not coming +home for another year. I cannot but hope it may continue the vast +improvement of my health: I think it good for Fanny and Lloyd; and we +have all a taste for this wandering and dangerous life. My mother I send +home, to my relief, as this part of our cruise will be (if we can carry +it out) rather difficult in places. Here is the idea: about the middle +of June (unless the Boston Board objects) we sail from Honolulu in the +missionary ship (barquentine auxiliary steamer) _Morning Star_: she takes +us through the Gilberts and Marshalls, and drops us (this is my great +idea) on Ponape, one of the volcanic islands of the Carolines. Here we +stay marooned among a doubtful population, with a Spanish vice-governor +and five native kings, and a sprinkling of missionaries all at +loggerheads, on the chance of fetching a passage to Sydney in a trader, a +labour ship, or (maybe, but this appears too bright) a ship of war. If +we can’t get the _Morning Star_ (and the Board has many reasons that I +can see for refusing its permission) I mean to try to fetch Fiji, hire a +schooner there, do the Fijis and Friendlies, hit the course of the +_Richmond_ at Tonga Tabu, make back by Tahiti, and so to S. F., and home: +perhaps in June 1890. For the latter part of the cruise will likely be +the same in either case. You can see for yourself how much variety and +adventure this promises, and that it is not devoid of danger at the best; +but if we can pull it off in safety, gives me a fine book of travel, and +Lloyd a fine lecture and diorama, which should vastly better our +finances. + +I feel as if I were untrue to friendship; believe me, Colvin, when I look +forward to this absence of another year, my conscience sinks at thought +of the Monument; but I think you will pardon me if you consider how much +this tropical weather mends my health. Remember me as I was at home, and +think of me sea-bathing and walking about, as jolly as a sandboy: you +will own the temptation is strong; and as the scheme, bar fatal +accidents, is bound to pay into the bargain, sooner or later, it seems it +would be madness to come home now, with an imperfect book, no +illustrations to speak of, no diorama, and perhaps fall sick again by +autumn. I do not think I delude myself when I say the tendency to +catarrh has visibly diminished. + +It is a singular tiring that as I was packing up old papers ere I left +Skerryvore, I came on the prophecies of a drunken Highland sibyl, when I +was seventeen. She said I was to be very happy, to visit America, and +_to be much upon the sea_. It seems as if it were coming true with a +vengeance. Also, do you remember my strong, old, rooted belief that I +shall die by drowning? I don’t want that to come true, though it is an +easy death; but it occurs to me oddly, with these long chances in front. +I cannot say why I like the sea; no man is more cynically and constantly +alive to its perils; I regard it as the highest form of gambling; and yet +I love the sea as much as I hate gambling. Fine, clean emotions; a world +all and always beautiful; air better than wine; interest unflagging; +there is upon the whole no better life.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + [_Honolulu_, _April_ 1889.] + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—This is to announce the most prodigious change of +programme. I have seen so much of the South Seas that I desire to see +more, and I get so much health here that I dread a return to our vile +climates. I have applied accordingly to the missionary folk to let me go +round in the _Morning Star_; and if the Boston Board should refuse, I +shall get somehow to Fiji, hire a trading schooner, and see the Fijis and +Friendlies and Samoa. He would be a South Seayer, Mr. Burlingame. Of +course, if I go in the _Morning Star_, I see all the eastern (or +western?) islands. + +Before I sail, I shall make out to let you have the last of _The Master_: +though I tell you it sticks!—and I hope to have had some proofs forbye, +of the verses anyway. And now to business. + +I want (if you can find them) in the British sixpenny edition, if not, in +some equally compact and portable shape—Seaside Library, for instance—the +Waverley Novels entire, or as entire as you can get ’em, and the +following of Marryat: _Phantom Ship_, _Peter Simple_, _Percival Keene_, +_Privateersman_, _Children of the New Forest_, _Frank Mildmay_, _Newton +Forster_, _Dog Fiend_ (_Snarleyyow_). Also _Midshipman Easy_, +_Kingsburn_, Carlyle’s _French Revolution_, Motley’s _Dutch Republic_, +Lang’s _Letters on Literature_, a complete set of my works, _Jenkin_, in +duplicate; also _Familiar Studies_, ditto. + +I have to thank you for the accounts, which are satisfactory indeed, and +for the cheque for $1000. Another account will have come and gone before +I see you. I hope it will be equally roseate in colour. I am quite +worked out, and this cursed end of _The Master_ hangs over me like the +arm of the gallows; but it is always darkest before dawn, and no doubt +the clouds will soon rise; but it is a difficult thing to write, above +all in Mackellarese; and I cannot yet see my way clear. If I pull this +off, _The Master_ will be a pretty good novel or I am the more deceived; +and even if I don’t pull it off, it’ll still have some stuff in it. + +We shall remain here until the middle of June anyway; but my mother +leaves for Europe early in May. Hence our mail should continue to come +here; but not hers. I will let you know my next address, which will +probably be Sydney. If we get on the _Morning Star_, I propose at +present to get marooned on Ponape, and take my chance of getting a +passage to Australia. It will leave times and seasons mighty vague, and +the cruise is risky; but I shall know something of the South Seas when it +is done, or else the South Seas will contain all there is of me. It +should give me a fine book of travels, anyway. + +Low will probably come and ask some dollars of you. Pray let him have +them, they are for outfit. O, another complete set of my books should go +to Captain A. H. Otis, care of Dr. Merritt, Yacht _Casco_, Oakland, Cal. +In haste, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + _Honolulu_, _April_ 6_th_, 1889. + +MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—Nobody writes a better letter than my Gamekeeper: so +gay, so pleasant, so engagingly particular, answering (by some delicate +instinct) all the questions she suggests. It is a shame you should get +such a poor return as I can make, from a mind essentially and originally +incapable of the art epistolary. I would let the paper-cutter take my +place; but I am sorry to say the little wooden seaman did after the +manner of seamen, and deserted in the Societies. The place he seems to +have stayed at—seems, for his absence was not observed till we were near +the Equator—was Tautira, and, I assure you, he displayed good taste, +Tautira being as ‘nigh hand heaven’ as a paper-cutter or anybody has a +right to expect. + +I think all our friends will be very angry with us, and I give the +grounds of their probable displeasure bluntly—we are not coming home for +another year. My mother returns next month. Fanny, Lloyd, and I push on +again among the islands on a trading schooner, the _Equator_—first for +the Gilbert group, which we shall have an opportunity to explore +thoroughly; then, if occasion serve, to the Marshalls and Carolines; and +if occasion (or money) fail, to Samoa, and back to Tahiti. I own we are +deserters, but we have excuses. You cannot conceive how these climates +agree with the wretched house-plant of Skerryvore: he wonders to find +himself sea-bathing, and cutting about the world loose, like a grown-up +person. They agree with Fanny too, who does not suffer from her +rheumatism, and with Lloyd also. And the interest of the islands is +endless; and the sea, though I own it is a fearsome place, is very +delightful. We had applied for places in the American missionary ship, +the _Morning Star_, but this trading schooner is a far preferable idea, +giving us more time and a thousandfold more liberty; so we determined to +cut off the missionaries with a shilling. + +The Sandwich Islands do not interest us very much; we live here, +oppressed with civilisation, and look for good things in the future. But +it would surprise you if you came out to-night from Honolulu (all shining +with electric lights, and all in a bustle from the arrival of the mail, +which is to carry you these lines) and crossed the long wooden causeway +along the beach, and came out on the road through Kapiolani park, and +seeing a gate in the palings, with a tub of gold-fish by the wayside, +entered casually in. The buildings stand in three groups by the edge of +the beach, where an angry little spitfire sea continually spirts and +thrashes with impotent irascibility, the big seas breaking further out +upon the reef. The first is a small house, with a very large summer +parlour, or _lanai_, as they call it here, roofed, but practically open. +There you will find the lamps burning and the family sitting about the +table, dinner just done: my mother, my wife, Lloyd, Belle, my wife’s +daughter, Austin her child, and to-night (by way of rarity) a guest. All +about the walls our South Sea curiosities, war clubs, idols, pearl +shells, stone axes, etc.; and the walls are only a small part of a lanai, +the rest being glazed or latticed windows, or mere open space. You will +see there no sign of the Squire, however; and being a person of a humane +disposition, you will only glance in over the balcony railing at the +merry-makers in the summer parlour, and proceed further afield after the +Exile. You look round, there is beautiful green turf, many trees of an +outlandish sort that drop thorns—look out if your feet are bare; but I +beg your pardon, you have not been long enough in the South Seas—and many +oleanders in full flower. The next group of buildings is ramshackle, and +quite dark; you make out a coach-house door, and look in—only some +cocoanuts; you try round to the left and come to the sea front, where +Venus and the moon are making luminous tracks on the water, and a great +swell rolls and shines on the outer reef; and here is another door—all +these places open from the outside—and you go in, and find photography, +tubs of water, negatives steeping, a tap, and a chair and an inkbottle, +where my wife is supposed to write; round a little further, a third door, +entering which you find a picture upon the easel and a table sticky with +paints; a fourth door admits you to a sort of court, where there is a hen +sitting—I believe on a fallacious egg. No sign of the Squire in all +this. But right opposite the studio door you have observed a third +little house, from whose open door lamplight streams and makes hay of the +strong moonlight shadows. You had supposed it made no part of the +grounds, for a fence runs round it lined with oleander; but as the Squire +is nowhere else, is it not just possible he may be here? It is a grim +little wooden shanty; cobwebs bedeck it; friendly mice inhabit its +recesses; the mailed cockroach walks upon the wall; so also, I regret to +say, the scorpion. Herein are two pallet beds, two mosquito curtains, +strung to the pitch-boards of the roof, two tables laden with books and +manuscripts, three chairs, and, in one of the beds, the Squire busy +writing to yourself, as it chances, and just at this moment somewhat +bitten by mosquitoes. He has just set fire to the insect powder, and +will be all right in no time; but just now he contemplates large white +blisters, and would like to scratch them, but knows better. The house is +not bare; it has been inhabited by Kanakas, and—you know what children +are!—the bare wood walls are pasted over with pages from the _Graphic_, +_Harper’s Weekly_, etc. The floor is matted, and I am bound to say the +matting is filthy. There are two windows and two doors, one of which is +condemned; on the panels of that last a sheet of paper is pinned up, and +covered with writing. I cull a few plums:— + + ‘A duck-hammock for each person. + + A patent organ like the commandant’s at Taiohae. + + Cheap and bad cigars for presents. + + Revolvers. + + Permanganate of potass. + + Liniment for the head and sulphur. + + Fine tooth-comb.’ + +What do you think this is? Simply life in the South Seas foreshortened. +These are a few of our desiderata for the next trip, which we jot down as +they occur. + +There, I have really done my best and tried to send something like a +letter—one letter in return for all your dozens. Pray remember us all to +yourself, Mrs. Boodle, and the rest of your house. I do hope your mother +will be better when this comes. I shall write and give you a new address +when I have made up my mind as to the most probable, and I do beg you +will continue to write from time to time and give us airs from home. +To-morrow—think of it—I must be off by a quarter to eight to drive in to +the palace and breakfast with his Hawaiian Majesty at 8.30: I shall be +dead indeed. Please give my news to Scott, I trust he is better; give +him my warm regards. To you we all send all kinds of things, and I am +the absentee Squire, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Honolulu_, _April_ 1889. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—As usual, your letter is as good as a cordial, and I +thank you for it, and all your care, kindness, and generous and +thoughtful friendship, from my heart. I was truly glad to hear a word of +Colvin, whose long silence has terrified me; and glad to hear that you +condoned the notion of my staying longer in the South Seas, for I have +decided in that sense. The first idea was to go in the _Morning Star_, +missionary ship; but now I have found a trading schooner, the _Equator_, +which is to call for me here early in June and carry us through the +Gilberts. What will happen then, the Lord knows. My mother does not +accompany us: she leaves here for home early in May, and you will hear of +us from her; but not, I imagine, anything more definite. We shall get +dumped on Butaritari, and whether we manage to go on to the Marshalls and +Carolines, or whether we fall back on Samoa, Heaven must decide; but I +mean to fetch back into the course of the _Richmond_—(to think you don’t +know what the _Richmond_ is!—the steamer of the Eastern South Seas, +joining New Zealand, Tongatabu, the Samoas, Taheite, and Rarotonga, and +carrying by last advices sheep in the saloon!)—into the course of the +_Richmond_ and make Taheite again on the home track. Would I like to see +the _Scots Observer_? Wouldn’t I not? But whaur? I’m direckit at +space. They have nae post offishes at the Gilberts, and as for the +Car’lines! Ye see, Mr. Baxter, we’re no just in the punkshewal _centre_ +o’ civ’lisation. But pile them up for me, and when I’ve decided on an +address, I’ll let you ken, and ye’ll can send them stavin’ after me.—Ever +your affectionate, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Honolulu_, 10_th_ _May_ 1889. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I am appalled to gather from your last just to hand that +you have felt so much concern about the letter. Pray dismiss it from +your mind. But I think you scarce appreciate how disagreeable it is to +have your private affairs and private unguarded expressions getting into +print. It would soon sicken any one of writing letters. I have no doubt +that letter was very wisely selected, but it just shows how things crop +up. There was a raging jealousy between the two yachts; our captain was +nearly in a fight over it. However, no more; and whatever you think, my +dear fellow, do not suppose me angry with you or —; although I was +_annoyed at the circumstance_—a very different thing. But it is +difficult to conduct life by letter, and I continually feel I may be +drifting into some matter of offence, in which my heart takes no part. + +I must now turn to a point of business. This new cruise of ours is +somewhat venturesome; and I think it needful to warn you not to be in a +hurry to suppose us dead. In these ill-charted seas, it is quite on the +cards we might be cast on some unvisited, or very rarely visited, island; +that there we might lie for a long time, even years, unheard of; and yet +turn up smiling at the hinder end. So do not let me be ‘rowpit’ till you +get some certainty we have gone to Davie Jones in a squall, or graced the +feast of some barbarian in the character of Long Pig. + +I have just been a week away alone on the lee coast of Hawaii, the only +white creature in many miles, riding five and a half hours one day, +living with a native, seeing four lepers shipped off to Molokai, hearing +native causes, and giving my opinion as _amicus curiæ_ as to the +interpretation of a statute in English; a lovely week among God’s best—at +least God’s sweetest works—Polynesians. It has bettered me greatly. If +I could only stay there the time that remains, I could get my work done +and be happy; but the care of my family keeps me in vile Honolulu, where +I am always out of sorts, amidst heat and cold and cesspools and beastly +_haoles_. {152} What is a haole? You are one; and so, I am sorry to +say, am I. After so long a dose of whites, it was a blessing to get +among Polynesians again even for a week. + +Well, Charles, there are waur haoles than yoursel’, I’ll say that for ye; +and trust before I sail I shall get another letter with more about +yourself.—Ever your affectionate friend + + R. L. S. + + + +TO W. H. LOW + + + _Honolulu_, (_about_) 20_th_ _May_ ’89. + +MY DEAR LOW,—. . . The goods have come; many daughters have done +virtuously, but thou excellest them all.—I have at length finished _The +Master_; it has been a sore cross to me; but now he is buried, his body’s +under hatches,—his soul, if there is any hell to go to, gone to hell; and +I forgive him: it is harder to forgive Burlingame for having induced me +to begin the publication, or myself for suffering the induction.—Yes, I +think Hole has done finely; it will be one of the most adequately +illustrated books of our generation; he gets the note, he tells the +story—_my_ story: I know only one failure—the Master standing on the +beach.—You must have a letter for me at Sydney—till further notice. +Remember me to Mrs. Will. H., the godlike sculptor, and any of the +faithful. If you want to cease to be a republican, see my little +Kaiulani, as she goes through—but she is gone already. You will die a +red, I wear the colours of that little royal maiden, _Nous allons chanter +à la ronde_, _si vous voulez_! only she is not blonde by several chalks, +though she is but a half-blood, and the wrong half Edinburgh Scots like +mysel’. But, O Low, I love the Polynesian: this civilisation of ours is +a dingy, ungentlemanly business; it drops out too much of man, and too +much of that the very beauty of the poor beast: who has his beauties in +spite of Zola and Co. As usual, here is a whole letter with no news: I +am a bloodless, inhuman dog; and no doubt Zola is a better +correspondent.—Long live your fine old English admiral—yours, I mean—the +U.S.A. one at Samoa; I wept tears and loved myself and mankind when I +read of him: he is not too much civilised. And there was Gordon, too; +and there are others, beyond question. But if you could live, the only +white folk, in a Polynesian village; and drink that warm, light _vin du +pays_ of human affection, and enjoy that simple dignity of all about +you—I will not gush, for I am now in my fortieth year, which seems highly +unjust, but there it is, Mr. Low, and the Lord enlighten your +affectionate + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. R. L. STEVENSON + + + _Kalawao_, _Molokai_ [_May_ 1889]. + +DEAR FANNY,—I had a lovely sail up. Captain Cameron and Mr. Gilfillan, +both born in the States, yet the first still with a strong Highland, and +the second still with a strong Lowland accent, were good company; the +night was warm, the victuals plain but good. Mr. Gilfillan gave me his +berth, and I slept well, though I heard the sisters sick in the next +stateroom, poor souls. Heavy rolling woke me in the morning; I turned in +all standing, so went right on the upper deck. The day was on the peep +out of a low morning bank, and we were wallowing along under stupendous +cliffs. As the lights brightened, we could see certain abutments and +buttresses on their front where wood clustered and grass grew brightly. +But the whole brow seemed quite impassable, and my heart sank at the +sight. Two thousand feet of rock making 19° (the Captain guesses) seemed +quite beyond my powers. However, I had come so far; and, to tell you the +truth, I was so cowed with fear and disgust that I dared not go back on +the adventure in the interests of my own self-respect. Presently we came +up with the leper promontory: lowland, quite bare and bleak and harsh, a +little town of wooden houses, two churches, a landing-stair, all +unsightly, sour, northerly, lying athwart the sunrise, with the great +wall of the pali cutting the world out on the south. Our lepers were +sent on the first boat, about a dozen, one poor child very horrid, one +white man, leaving a large grown family behind him in Honolulu, and then +into the second stepped the sisters and myself. I do not know how it +would have been with me had the sisters not been there. My horror of the +horrible is about my weakest point; but the moral loveliness at my elbow +blotted all else out; and when I found that one of them was crying, poor +soul, quietly under her veil, I cried a little myself; then I felt as +right as a trivet, only a little crushed to be there so uselessly. I +thought it was a sin and a shame she should feel unhappy; I turned round +to her, and said something like this: ‘Ladies, God Himself is here to +give you welcome. I’m sure it is good for me to be beside you; I hope it +will be blessed to me; I thank you for myself and the good you do me.’ +It seemed to cheer her up; but indeed I had scarce said it when we were +at the landing-stairs, and there was a great crowd, hundreds of (God save +us!) pantomime masks in poor human flesh, waiting to receive the sisters +and the new patients. + +Every hand was offered: I had gloves, but I had made up my mind on the +boat’s voyage _not_ to give my hand; that seemed less offensive than the +gloves. So the sisters and I went up among that crew, and presently I +got aside (for I felt I had no business there) and set off on foot across +the promontory, carrying my wrap and the camera. All horror was quite +gone from me: to see these dread creatures smile and look happy was +beautiful. On my way through Kalaupapa I was exchanging cheerful +_alohas_ with the patients coming galloping over on their horses; I was +stopping to gossip at house-doors; I was happy, only ashamed of myself +that I was here for no good. One woman was pretty, and spoke good +English, and was infinitely engaging and (in the old phrase) towardly; +she thought I was the new white patient; and when she found I was only a +visitor, a curious change came in her face and voice—the only sad thing, +morally sad, I mean—that I met that morning. But for all that, they tell +me none want to leave. Beyond Kalaupapa the houses became rare; dry +stone dykes, grassy, stony land, one sick pandanus; a dreary country; +from overhead in the little clinging wood shogs of the pali chirruping of +birds fell; the low sun was right in my face; the trade blew pure and +cool and delicious; I felt as right as ninepence, and stopped and chatted +with the patients whom I still met on their horses, with not the least +disgust. About half-way over, I met the superintendent (a leper) with a +horse for me, and O, wasn’t I glad! But the horse was one of those +curious, dogged, cranky brutes that always dully want to go somewhere +else, and my traffic with him completed my crushing fatigue. I got to +the guest-house, an empty house with several rooms, kitchen, bath, etc. +There was no one there, and I let the horse go loose in the garden, lay +down on the bed, and fell asleep. + +Dr. Swift woke me and gave me breakfast, then I came back and slept again +while he was at the dispensary, and he woke me for dinner; and I came +back and slept again, and he woke me about six for supper; and then in +about an hour I felt tired again, and came up to my solitary guest-house, +played the flageolet, and am now writing to you. As yet, you see, I have +seen nothing of the settlement, and my crushing fatigue (though I believe +that was moral and a measure of my cowardice) and the doctor’s opinion +make me think the pali hopeless. ‘You don’t look a strong man,’ said the +doctor; ‘but are you sound?’ I told him the truth; then he said it was +out of the question, and if I were to get up at all, I must be carried +up. But, as it seems, men as well as horses continually fall on this +ascent: the doctor goes up with a change of clothes—it is plain that to +be carried would in itself be very fatiguing to both mind and body; and I +should then be at the beginning of thirteen miles of mountain road to be +ridden against time. How should I come through? I hope you will think +me right in my decision: I mean to stay, and shall not be back in +Honolulu till Saturday, June first. You must all do the best you can to +make ready. + +Dr. Swift has a wife and an infant son, beginning to toddle and run, and +they live here as composed as brick and mortar—at least the wife does, a +Kentucky German, a fine enough creature, I believe, who was quite amazed +at the sisters shedding tears! How strange is mankind! Gilfillan too, a +good fellow I think, and far from a stupid, kept up his hard Lowland +Scottish talk in the boat while the sister was covering her face; but I +believe he knew, and did it (partly) in embarrassment, and part perhaps +in mistaken kindness. And that was one reason, too, why I made my speech +to them. Partly, too, I did it, because I was ashamed to do so, and +remembered one of my golden rules, ‘When you are ashamed to speak, speak +up at once.’ But, mind you, that rule is only golden with strangers; +with your own folks, there are other considerations. This is a strange +place to be in. A bell has been sounded at intervals while I wrote, now +all is still but a musical humming of the sea, not unlike the sound of +telegraph wires; the night is quite cool and pitch dark, with a small +fine rain; one light over in the leper settlement, one cricket whistling +in the garden, my lamp here by my bedside, and my pen cheeping between my +inky fingers. + +Next day, lovely morning, slept all night, 80° in the shade, strong, +sweet Anaho trade-wind. + + LOUIS. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Honolulu_, _June_ 1889. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am just home after twelve days journey to Molokai, +seven of them at the leper settlement, where I can only say that the +sight of so much courage, cheerfulness, and devotion strung me too high +to mind the infinite pity and horror of the sights. I used to ride over +from Kalawao to Kalaupapa (about three miles across the promontory, the +cliff-wall, ivied with forest and yet inaccessible from steepness, on my +left), go to the Sisters’ home, which is a miracle of neatness, play a +game of croquet with seven leper girls (90° in the shade), got a little +old-maid meal served me by the Sisters, and ride home again, tired +enough, but not too tired. The girls have all dolls, and love dressing +them. You who know so many ladies delicately clad, and they who know so +many dressmakers, please make it known it would be an acceptable gift to +send scraps for doll dressmaking to the Reverend Sister Maryanne, Bishop +Home, Kalaupapa, Molokai, Hawaiian Islands. + +I have seen sights that cannot be told, and heard stories that cannot be +repeated: yet I never admired my poor race so much, nor (strange as it +may seem) loved life more than in the settlement. A horror of moral +beauty broods over the place: that’s like bad Victor Hugo, but it is the +only way I can express the sense that lived with me all these days. And +this even though it was in great part Catholic, and my sympathies flew +never with so much difficulty as towards Catholic virtues. The pass-book +kept with heaven stirs me to anger and laughter. One of the sisters +calls the place ‘the ticket office to heaven.’ Well, what is the odds? +They do their darg and do it with kindness and efficiency incredible; and +we must take folk’s virtues as we find them, and love the better part. +Of old Damien, whose weaknesses and worse perhaps I heard fully, I think +only the more. It was a European peasant: dirty, bigoted, untruthful, +unwise, tricky, but superb with generosity, residual candour and +fundamental good-humour: convince him he had done wrong (it might take +hours of insult) and he would undo what he had done and like his +corrector better. A man, with all the grime and paltriness of mankind, +but a saint and hero all the more for that. The place as regards scenery +is grand, gloomy, and bleak. Mighty mountain walls descending sheer +along the whole face of the island into a sea unusually deep; the front +of the mountain ivied and furred with clinging forest, one viridescent +cliff: about half-way from east to west, the low, bare, stony promontory +edged in between the cliff and the ocean; the two little towns (Kalawao +and Kalaupapa) seated on either side of it, as bare almost as bathing +machines upon a beach; and the population—gorgons and chimaeras dire. +All this tear of the nerves I bore admirably; and the day after I got +away, rode twenty miles along the opposite coast and up into the +mountains: they call it twenty, I am doubtful of the figures: I should +guess it nearer twelve; but let me take credit for what residents allege; +and I was riding again the day after, so I need say no more about health. +Honolulu does not agree with me at all: I am always out of sorts there, +with slight headache, blood to the head, etc. I had a good deal of work +to do and did it with miserable difficulty; and yet all the time I have +been gaining strength, as you see, which is highly encouraging. By the +time I am done with this cruise I shall have the material for a very +singular book of travels: names of strange stories and characters, +cannibals, pirates, ancient legends, old Polynesian poetry,—never was so +generous a farrago. I am going down now to get the story of a +shipwrecked family, who were fifteen months on an island with a murderer: +there is a specimen. The Pacific is a strange place; the nineteenth +century only exists there in spots: all round, it is a no man’s land of +the ages, a stir-about of epochs and races, barbarisms and civilisations, +virtues and crimes. + +It is good of you to let me stay longer, but if I had known how ill you +were, I should be now on my way home. I had chartered my schooner and +made all arrangements before (at last) we got definite news. I feel +highly guilty; I should be back to insult and worry you a little. Our +address till further notice is to be c/o R. Towns and Co., Sydney. That +is final: I only got the arrangement made yesterday; but you may now +publish it abroad.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO JAMES PAYN + + + _Honolulu_, _H.I._, _June_ 13_th_, 1889. + +MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,—I get sad news of you here at my offsetting for +further voyages: I wish I could say what I feel. Sure there was never +any man less deserved this calamity; for I have heard you speak time and +again, and I remember nothing that was unkind, nothing that was untrue, +nothing that was not helpful, from your lips. It is the ill-talkers that +should hear no more. God knows, I know no word of consolation; but I do +feel your trouble. You are the more open to letters now; let me talk to +you for two pages. I have nothing but happiness to tell; and you may +bless God you are a man so sound-hearted that (even in the freshness of +your calamity) I can come to you with my own good fortune unashamed and +secure of sympathy. It is a good thing to be a good man, whether deaf or +whether dumb; and of all our fellow-craftsmen (whom yet they count a +jealous race), I never knew one but gave you the name of honesty and +kindness: come to think of it gravely, this is better than the finest +hearing. We are all on the march to deafness, blindness, and all +conceivable and fatal disabilities; we shall not all get there with a +report so good. My good news is a health astonishingly reinstated. This +climate; these voyagings; these landfalls at dawn; new islands peaking +from the morning bank; new forested harbours; new passing alarms of +squalls and surf; new interests of gentle natives,—the whole tale of my +life is better to me than any poem. + +I am fresh just now from the leper settlement of Molokai, playing croquet +with seven leper girls, sitting and yarning with old, blind, leper +beachcombers in the hospital, sickened with the spectacle of abhorrent +suffering and deformation amongst the patients, touched to the heart by +the sight of lovely and effective virtues in their helpers: no stranger +time have I ever had, nor any so moving. I do not think it a little +thing to be deaf, God knows, and God defend me from the same!—but to be a +leper, of one of the self-condemned, how much more awful! and yet there’s +a way there also. ‘There are Molokais everywhere,’ said Mr. Dutton, +Father Damien’s dresser; you are but new landed in yours; and my dear and +kind adviser, I wish you, with all my soul, that patience and courage +which you will require. Think of me meanwhile on a trading schooner, +bound for the Gilbert Islands, thereafter for the Marshalls, with a diet +of fish and cocoanut before me; bound on a cruise of—well, of +investigation to what islands we can reach, and to get (some day or +other) to Sydney, where a letter addressed to the care of R. Towns & Co. +will find me sooner or later; and if it contain any good news, whether of +your welfare or the courage with which you bear the contrary, will do me +good.—Yours affectionately (although so near a stranger), + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Schooner_ ‘_Equator_,’ _Apaiang Lagoon_, _August_ 22_nd_, 1889. + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—The missionary ship is outside the reef trying (vainly) +to get in; so I may have a chance to get a line off. I am glad to say I +shall be home by June next for the summer, or we shall know the reason +why. For God’s sake be well and jolly for the meeting. I shall be, I +believe, a different character from what you have seen this long while. +This cruise is up to now a huge success, being interesting, pleasant, and +profitable. The beachcomber is perhaps the most interesting character +here; the natives are very different, on the whole, from Polynesians: +they are moral, stand-offish (for good reasons), and protected by a dark +tongue. It is delightful to meet the few Hawaiians (mostly missionaries) +that are dotted about, with their Italian _brio_ and their ready +friendliness. The whites are a strange lot, many of them good, kind, +pleasant fellows; others quite the lowest I have ever seen even in the +slums of cities. I wish I had time to narrate to you the doings and +character of three white murderers (more or less proven) I have met. +One, the only undoubted assassin of the lot, quite gained my affection in +his big home out of a wreck, with his New Hebrides wife in her savage +turban of hair and yet a perfect lady, and his three adorable little +girls in Rob Roy Macgregor dresses, dancing to the hand organ, performing +circus on the floor with startling effects of nudity, and curling up +together on a mat to sleep, three sizes, three attitudes, three Rob Roy +dresses, and six little clenched fists: the murderer meanwhile brooding +and gloating over his chicks, till your whole heart went out to him; and +yet his crime on the face of it was dark: disembowelling, in his own +house, an old man of seventy, and him drunk. + +It is lunch-time, I see, and I must close up with my warmest love to you. +I wish you were here to sit upon me when required. Ah! if you were but a +good sailor! I will never leave the sea, I think; it is only there that +a Briton lives: my poor grandfather, it is from him I inherit the taste, +I fancy, and he was round many islands in his day; but I, please God, +shall beat him at that before the recall is sounded. Would you be +surprised to learn that I contemplate becoming a shipowner? I do, but it +is a secret. Life is far better fun than people dream who fall asleep +among the chimney stacks and telegraph wires. + +Love to Henry James and others near.—Ever yours, my dear fellow, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + * * * * * + + _Equator Town_, _Apemama_, _October_ 1889. + +No _Morning Star_ came, however; and so now I try to send this to you by +the schooner _J. L. Tiernan_. We have been about a month ashore, camping +out in a kind of town the king set up for us: on the idea that I was +really a ‘big chief’ in England. He dines with us sometimes, and sends +up a cook for a share of our meals when he does not come himself. This +sounds like high living! alas, undeceive yourself. Salt junk is the +mainstay; a low island, except for cocoanuts, is just the same as a ship +at sea: brackish water, no supplies, and very little shelter. The king +is a great character—a thorough tyrant, very much of a gentleman, a poet, +a musician, a historian, or perhaps rather more a genealogist—it is +strange to see him lying in his house among a lot of wives (nominal +wives) writing the History of Apemama in an account-book; his description +of one of his own songs, which he sang to me himself, as ‘about +sweethearts, and trees, and the sea—and no true, all-the-same lie,’ seems +about as compendious a definition of lyric poetry as a man could ask. +Tembinoka is here the great attraction: all the rest is heat and tedium +and villainous dazzle, and yet more villainous mosquitoes. We are like +to be here, however, many a long week before we get away, and then +whither? A strange trade this voyaging: so vague, so bound-down, so +helpless. Fanny has been planting some vegetables, and we have actually +onions and radishes coming up: ah, onion-despiser, were you but awhile in +a low island, how your heart would leap at sight of a coster’s barrow! I +think I could shed tears over a dish of turnips. No doubt we shall all +be glad to say farewell to low islands—I had near said for ever. They +are very tame; and I begin to read up the directory, and pine for an +island with a profile, a running brook, or were it only a well among the +rocks. The thought of a mango came to me early this morning and set my +greed on edge; but you do not know what a mango is, so—. + +I have been thinking a great deal of you and the Monument of late, and +even tried to get my thoughts into a poem, hitherto without success. God +knows how you are: I begin to weary dreadfully to see you—well, in nine +months, I hope; but that seems a long time. I wonder what has befallen +me too, that flimsy part of me that lives (or dwindles) in the public +mind; and what has befallen _The Master_, and what kind of a Box the +Merry Box has been found. It is odd to know nothing of all this. We had +an old woman to do devil-work for you about a month ago, in a Chinaman’s +house on Apaiang (August 23rd or 24th). You should have seen the crone +with a noble masculine face, like that of an old crone [_sic_], a body +like a man’s (naked all but the feathery female girdle), knotting +cocoanut leaves and muttering spells: Fanny and I, and the good captain +of the _Equator_, and the Chinaman and his native wife and sister-in-law, +all squatting on the floor about the sibyl; and a crowd of dark faces +watching from behind her shoulder (she sat right in the doorway) and +tittering aloud with strange, appalled, embarrassed laughter at each +fresh adjuration. She informed us you were in England, not travelling +and now no longer sick; she promised us a fair wind the next day, and we +had it, so I cherish the hope she was as right about Sidney Colvin. The +shipownering has rather petered out since I last wrote, and a good many +other plans beside. + +Health? Fanny very so-so; I pretty right upon the whole, and getting +through plenty work: I know not quite how, but it seems to me not bad and +in places funny. + +South Sea Yarns: + + 1. _The Wrecker_ + + 2. _The Pearl Fisher_ + + 3. _The Beachcombers_ + + by R. L. S. and Lloyd O. + +_The Pearl Fisher_, part done, lies in Sydney. It is _The Wrecker_ we +are now engaged upon: strange ways of life, I think, they set forth: +things that I can scarce touch upon, or even not at all, in my travel +book; and the yarns are good, I do believe. _The Pearl Fisher_ is for +the _New York Ledger_: the yarn is a kind of Monte Cristo one. _The +Wrecker_ is the least good as a story, I think; but the characters seem +to me good. _The Beachcombers_ is more sentimental. These three scarce +touch the outskirts of the life we have been viewing; a hot-bed of +strange characters and incidents: Lord, how different from Europe or the +Pallid States! Farewell. Heaven knows when this will get to you. I +burn to be in Sydney and have news. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _Schooner_ ‘_Equator_,’ _at sea_. 190 _miles off Samoa_. + _Monday_, _December_ 2_nd_, 1889 + +MY DEAR COLVIN,—We are just nearing the end of our long cruise. Rain, +calms, squalls, bang—there’s the foretopmast gone; rain, calm, squalls, +away with the staysail; more rain, more calm, more squalls; a prodigious +heavy sea all the time, and the _Equator_ staggering and hovering like a +swallow in a storm; and the cabin, a great square, crowded with wet human +beings, and the rain avalanching on the deck, and the leaks dripping +everywhere: Fanny, in the midst of fifteen males, bearing up wonderfully. +But such voyages are at the best a trial. We had one particularity: +coming down on Winslow Reef, p. d. (position doubtful): two positions in +the directory, a third (if you cared to count that) on the chart; heavy +sea running, and the night due. The boats were cleared, bread put on +board, and we made up our packets for a boat voyage of four or five +hundred miles, and turned in, expectant of a crash. Needless to say it +did not come, and no doubt we were far to leeward. If we only had +twopenceworth of wind, we might be at dinner in Apia to-morrow evening; +but no such luck: here we roll, dead before a light air—and that is no +point of sailing at all for a fore and aft schooner—the sun blazing +overhead, thermometer 88°, four degrees above what I have learned to call +South Sea temperature; but for all that, land so near, and so much grief +being happily astern, we are all pretty gay on board, and have been +photographing and draught-playing and sky-larking like anything. I am +minded to stay not very long in Samoa and confine my studies there (as +far as any one can forecast) to the history of the late war. My book is +now practically modelled: if I can execute what is designed, there are +few better books now extant on this globe, bar the epics, and the big +tragedies, and histories, and the choice lyric poetics and a novel or +so—none. But it is not executed yet; and let not him that putteth on his +armour, vaunt himself. At least, nobody has had such stuff; such wild +stories, such beautiful scenes, such singular intimacies, such manners +and traditions, so incredible a mixture of the beautiful and horrible, +the savage and civilised. I will give you here some idea of the table of +contents, which ought to make your mouth water. I propose to call the +book _The South Seas_: it is rather a large title, but not many people +have seen more of them than I, perhaps no one—certainly no one capable of +using the material. + + _Part I_. _General_. ‘_Of schooners_, _islands_, _and maroons_.’ +CHAPTER I. Marine. + II. Contraband (smuggling, barratry, labour + traffic). + III. The Beachcomber. + IV. Beachcomber stories. i. The Murder of the + Chinaman. ii. Death of a Beachcomber. iii. + A Character. iv. The Apia Blacksmith. + _Part II_. _The Marquesas_. + V. Anaho. i. Arrival. ii. Death. iii. The + Tapu. iv. Morals. v. Hoka. + VI. Tai-o-hae. i. Arrival. ii. The French. + iii. The Royal Family. iv. Chiefless Folk. + v. The Catholics. vi. Hawaiian + Missionaries. + VII. Observations of a Long Pig. i. Cannibalism. + ii. Hatiheu. iii. Frère Michel. iv. + Toahauka and Atuona. v. The Vale of Atuona. + vi. Moipu. vii. Captain Hati. + _Part III_. _The Dangerous Archipelago_. + VIII. The Group. + IX. A House to let in a Low Island. + X. A Paumotuan Funeral. i. The Funeral. ii. + Tales of the Dead. + _Part IV_. _Tahiti_. + XI. Tautira. + XII. Village Government in Tahiti. + XIII. A Journey in Quest of Legends. + XIV. Legends and Songs. + XV. Life in Eden. + XVI. Note on the French Regimen. + _Part V_. _The Eight Islands_. + XVII. A Note on Missions. + XVIII. The Kona Coast of Hawaii. i. Hookena. ii. + A Ride in the Forest. iii. A Law Case. iv. + The City of Refuge. v. The Lepers. + XIX. Molokai. i. A Week in the Precinct. ii. + History of the Leper Settlement. iii. The + Mokolii. iv. The Free Island. + _Part VI_. _The Gilberts_. + XX. The Group. ii. Position of Woman. iii. The + Missions. iv. Devilwork. v. Republics. + XXI. Rule and Misrule on Makin. i. Butaritari, + its King and Court. ii. History of Three + Kings. iii. The Drink Question. + XXII. A Butaritarian Festival. + XXIII. The King of Apemama. i. First Impressions. + ii. Equator Town and the Palace. iii. The + Three Corselets. + _Part VII_. _Samoa_. + which I have not yet reached. + +Even as so sketched it makes sixty chapters, not less than 300 _Cornhill_ +pages; and I suspect not much under 500. Samoa has yet to be accounted +for: I think it will be all history, and I shall work in observations on +Samoan manners, under the similar heads in other Polynesian islands. It +is still possible, though unlikely, that I may add a passing visit to +Fiji or Tonga, or even both; but I am growing impatient to see yourself, +and I do not want to be later than June of coming to England. Anyway, +you see it will be a large work, and as it will be copiously illustrated, +the Lord knows what it will cost. We shall return, God willing, by +Sydney, Ceylon, Suez and, I guess, Marseilles the many-masted (copyright +epithet). I shall likely pause a day or two in Paris, but all that is +too far ahead—although now it begins to look near—so near, and I can hear +the rattle of the hansom up Endell Street, and see the gates swing back, +and feel myself jump out upon the Monument steps—Hosanna!—home again. My +dear fellow, now that my father is done with his troubles, and 17 Heriot +Row no more than a mere shell, you and that gaunt old Monument in +Bloomsbury are all that I have in view when I use the word home; some +passing thoughts there may be of the rooms at Skerryvore, and the +black-birds in the chine on a May morning; but the essence is S. C. and +the Museum. Suppose, by some damned accident, you were no more: well, I +should return just the same, because of my mother and Lloyd, whom I now +think to send to Cambridge; but all the spring would have gone out of me, +and ninety per cent. of the attraction lost. I will copy for you here a +copy of verses made in Apemama. + + I heard the pulse of the besieging sea + Throb far away all night. I heard the wind + Fly crying, and convulse tumultuous palms. + I rose and strolled. The isle was all bright sand, + And flailing fans and shadows of the palm: + The heaven all moon, and wind, and the blind vault— + The keenest planet slain, for Venus slept. + The King, my neighbour, with his host of wives, + Slept in the precinct of the palisade: + Where single, in the wind, under the moon, + Among the slumbering cabins, blazed a fire, + Sole street-lamp and the only sentinel. + To other lands and nights my fancy turned, + To London first, and chiefly to your house, + The many-pillared and the well-beloved. + There yearning fancy lighted; there again + In the upper room I lay and heard far off + The unsleeping city murmur like a shell; + The muffled tramp of the Museum guard + Once more went by me; I beheld again + Lamps vainly brighten the dispeopled street; + Again I longed for the returning morn, + The awaking traffic, the bestirring birds, + The consentaneous trill of tiny song + That weaves round monumental cornices + A passing charm of beauty: most of all, + For your light foot I wearied, and your knock + That was the glad réveillé of my day. + Lo, now, when to your task in the great house + At morning through the portico you pass, + One moment glance where, by the pillared wall, + Far-voyaging island gods, begrimed with smoke, + Sit now unworshipped, the rude monument + Of faiths forgot and races undivined; + Sit now disconsolate, remembering well + The priest, the victim, and the songful crowd, + The blaze of the blue noon, and that huge voice + Incessant, of the breakers on the shore. + As far as these from their ancestral shrine, + So far, so foreign, your divided friends + Wander, estranged in body, not in mind. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Schooner_ ‘_Equator_,’ _at sea_, _Wednesday_, 4_th_ _December_ 1889. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—We are now about to rise, like whales, from this long +dive, and I make ready a communication which is to go to you by the first +mail from Samoa. How long we shall stay in that group I cannot forecast; +but it will be best still to address at Sydney, where I trust, when I +shall arrive, perhaps in one month from now, more probably in two or +three, to find all news. + +_Business_.—Will you be likely to have a space in the Magazine for a +serial story, which should be, ready, I believe, by April, at latest by +autumn? It is called _The Wrecker_; and in book form will appear as +number 1 of South Sea Yarns by R. L. S. and Lloyd Osbourne. Here is the +table as far as fully conceived, and indeed executed. {170} . . . + +The story is founded on fact, the mystery I really believe to be +insoluble; the purchase of a wreck has never been handled before, no more +has San Francisco. These seem all elements of success. There is, +besides, a character, Jim Pinkerton, of the advertising American, on whom +we build a good deal; and some sketches of the American merchant marine, +opium smuggling in Honolulu, etc. It should run to (about) three hundred +pages of my MS. I would like to know if this tale smiles upon you, if +you will have a vacancy, and what you will be willing to pay. It will of +course be copyright in both the States and England. I am a little +anxious to have it tried serially, as it tests the interest of the +mystery. + +_Pleasure_.—We have had a fine time in the Gilbert group, though four +months on low islands, which involves low diet, is a largish order; and +my wife is rather down. I am myself, up to now, a pillar of health, +though our long and vile voyage of calms, squalls, cataracts of rain, +sails carried away, foretopmast lost, boats cleared and packets made on +the approach of a p. d. reef, etc., has cured me of salt brine, and +filled me with a longing for beef steak and mangoes not to be depicted. +The interest has been immense. Old King Tembinoka of Apemama, the +Napoleon of the group, poet, tyrant, altogether a man of mark, gave me +the woven corselets of his grandfather, his father and his uncle, and, +what pleased me more, told me their singular story, then all manner of +strange tales, facts and experiences for my South Sea book, which should +be a Tearer, Mr. Burlingame: no one at least has had such stuff. + +We are now engaged in the hell of a dead calm, the heat is cruel—it is +the only time when I suffer from heat: I have nothing on but a pair of +serge trousers, and a singlet without sleeves of Oxford gauze—O, yes, and +a red sash about my waist; and yet as I sit here in the cabin, sweat +streams from me. The rest are on deck under a bit of awning; we are not +much above a hundred miles from port, and we might as well be in +Kamschatka. However, I should be honest: this is the first calm I have +endured without the added bane of a heavy swell, and the intoxicated +blue-bottle wallowings and knockings of the helpless ship. + +I wonder how you liked the end of _The Master_; that was the hardest job +I ever had to do; did I do it? + +My wife begs to be remembered to yourself and Mrs. Burlingame. Remember +all of us to all friends, particularly Low, in case I don’t get a word +through for him.—I am, yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Samoa_, [_December_ 1889]. + +MY DEAR BAXTER,—. . . I cannot return until I have seen either Tonga or +Fiji or both: and I must not leave here till I have finished my +collections on the war—a very interesting bit of history, the truth often +very hard to come at, and the search (for me) much complicated by the +German tongue, from the use of which I have desisted (I suppose) these +fifteen years. The last two days I have been mugging with a dictionary +from five to six hours a day; besides this, I have to call upon, keep +sweet, and judiciously interview all sorts of persons—English, American, +German, and Samoan. It makes a hard life; above all, as after every +interview I have to come and get my notes straight on the nail. I +believe I should have got my facts before the end of January, when I +shall make our Tonga or Fiji. I am down right in the hurricane season; +but they had so bad a one last year, I don’t imagine there will be much +of an edition this. Say that I get to Sydney some time in April, and I +shall have done well, and be in a position to write a very singular and +interesting book, or rather two; for I shall begin, I think, with a +separate opuscule on the Samoan Trouble, about as long as _Kidnapped_, +not very interesting, but valuable—and a thing proper to be done. And +then, hey! for the big South Sea Book: a devil of a big one, and full of +the finest sport. + +This morning as I was going along to my breakfast a little before seven, +reading a number of _Blackwood’s Magazine_, I was startled by a soft +_talofa_, _alii_ (note for my mother: they are quite courteous here in +the European style, quite unlike Tahiti), right in my ear: it was Mataafa +coming from early mass in his white coat and white linen kilt, with three +fellows behind him. Mataafa is the nearest thing to a hero in my +history, and really a fine fellow; plenty sense, and the most dignified, +quiet, gentle manners. Talking of _Blackwood_—a file of which I was +lucky enough to find here in the lawyer’s—Mrs. Oliphant seems in a +staggering state: from the _Wrong Box_ to _The Master_ I scarce recognise +either my critic or myself. I gather that _The Master_ should do well, +and at least that notice is agreeable reading. I expect to be home in +June: you will have gathered that I am pretty well. In addition to my +labours, I suppose I walk five or six miles a day, and almost every day I +ride up and see Fanny and Lloyd, who are in a house in the bush with Ah +Fu. I live in Apia for history’s sake with Moors, an American trader. +Day before yesterday I was arrested and fined for riding fast in the +street, which made my blood bitter, as the wife of the manager of the +German Firm has twice almost ridden me down, and there seems none to say +her nay. The Germans have behaved pretty badly here, but not in all ways +so ill as you may have gathered: they were doubtless much provoked; and +if the insane Knappe had not appeared upon the scene, might have got out +of the muddle with dignity. I write along without rhyme or reason, as +things occur to me. + +I hope from my outcries about printing you do not think I want you to +keep my news or letters in a Blue Beard closet. I like all friends to +hear of me; they all should if I had ninety hours in the day, and +strength for all of them; but you must have gathered how hard worked I +am, and you will understand I go to bed a pretty tired man. + + 29_th_ _December_, [1889]. + +To-morrow (Monday, I won’t swear to my day of the month; this is the +Sunday between Christmas and New Year) I go up the coast with Mr. Clarke, +one of the London Society missionaries, in a boat to examine schools, see +Tamasese, etc. Lloyd comes to photograph. Pray Heaven we have good +weather; this is the rainy season; we shall be gone four or five days; +and if the rain keep off, I shall be glad of the change; if it rain, it +will be beastly. This explains still further how hard pressed I am, as +the mail will be gone ere I return, and I have thus lost the days I meant +to write in. I have a boy, Henry, who interprets and copies for me, and +is a great nuisance. He said he wished to come to me in order to learn +‘long expressions.’ Henry goes up along with us; and as I am not fond of +him, he may before the trip is over hear some ‘strong expressions.’ I am +writing this on the back balcony at Moors’, palms and a hill like the +hill of Kinnoull looking in at me; myself lying on the floor, and (like +the parties in Handel’s song) ‘clad in robes of virgin white’; the ink is +dreadful, the heat delicious, a fine going breeze in the palms, and from +the other side of the house the sudden angry splash and roar of the +Pacific on the reef, where the warships are still piled from last year’s +hurricane, some under water, one high and dry upon her side, the +strangest figure of a ship was ever witnessed; the narrow bay there is +full of ships; the men-of-war covered with sail after the rains, and +(especially the German ship, which is fearfully and awfully top heavy) +rolling almost yards in, in what appears to be calm water. + +Samoa, Apia at least, is far less beautiful than the Marquesas or Tahiti: +a more gentle scene, gentler acclivities, a tamer face of nature; and +this much aided, for the wanderer, by the great German plantations with +their countless regular avenues of palms. The island has beautiful +rivers, of about the bigness of our waters in the Lothians, with pleasant +pools and waterfalls and overhanging verdure, and often a great volume of +sound, so that once I thought I was passing near a mill, and it was only +the voice of the river. I am not specially attracted by the people; but +they are courteous; the women very attractive, and dress lovely; the men +purposelike, well set up, tall, lean, and dignified. As I write the +breeze is brisking up, doors are beginning to slam: and shutters; a +strong draught sweeps round the balcony; it looks doubtful for to-morrow. +Here I shut up.—Ever your affectionate, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO DR. SCOTT + + + _Apia_, _Samoa_, _January_ 20_th_, 1890. + +MY DEAR SCOTT,—Shameful indeed that you should not have heard of me +before! I have now been some twenty months in the South Seas, and am (up +to date) a person whom you would scarce know. I think nothing of long +walks and rides: I was four hours and a half gone the other day, partly +riding, partly climbing up a steep ravine. I have stood a six months’ +voyage on a copra schooner with about three months ashore on coral +atolls, which means (except for cocoanuts to drink) no change whatever +from ship’s food. My wife suffered badly—it was too rough a business +altogether—Lloyd suffered—and, in short, I was the only one of the party +who ‘kept my end up.’ + +I am so pleased with this climate that I have decided to settle; have +even purchased a piece of land from three to four hundred acres, I know +not which till the survey is completed, and shall only return next summer +to wind up my affairs in England; thenceforth I mean to be a subject of +the High Commissioner. + +Now you would have gone longer yet without news of your truant patient, +but that I have a medical discovery to communicate. I find I can (almost +immediately) fight off a cold with liquid extract of coca; two or (if +obstinate) three teaspoonfuls in the day for a variable period of from +one to five days sees the cold generally to the door. I find it at once +produces a glow, stops rigour, and though it makes one very +uncomfortable, prevents the advance of the disease. Hearing of this +influenza, it occurred to me that this might prove remedial; and perhaps +a stronger exhibition—injections of cocaine, for instance—still better. + +If on my return I find myself let in for this epidemic, which seems +highly calculated to nip me in the bud, I shall feel very much inclined +to make the experiment. See what a gulf you may save me from if you +shall have previously made it on _anima vili_, on some less important +sufferer, and shall have found it worse than useless. + +How is Miss Boodle and her family? Greeting to your brother and all +friends in Bournemouth, yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Februar den_ 3_en_ 1890. + + _Dampfer Lübeck zwischen Apia und Sydney_. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I have got one delightful letter from you, and heard +from my mother of your kindness in going to see her. Thank you for that: +you can in no way more touch and serve me. . . . Ay, ay, it is sad to +sell 17; sad and fine were the old days: when I was away in Apemama, I +wrote two copies of verse about Edinburgh and the past, so ink black, so +golden bright. I will send them, if I can find them, for they will say +something to you, and indeed one is more than half addressed to you. +This is it— + + TO MY OLD COMRADES + + Do you remember—can we e’er forget?— + How, in the coiled perplexities of youth, + In our wild climate, in our scowling town, + We gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed, and feared? + The belching winter wind, the missile rain, + The rare and welcome silence of the snows, + The laggard morn, the haggard day, the night, + The grimy spell of the nocturnal town, + Do you remember?—Ah, could one forget! + As when the fevered sick that all night long + Listed the wind intone, and hear at last + The ever-welcome voice of the chanticleer + Sing in the bitter hour before the dawn,— + With sudden ardour, these desire the day: + +(Here a squall sends all flying.) + + So sang in the gloom of youth the bird of hope; + So we, exulting, hearkened and desired. + For lo! as in the palace porch of life + We huddled with chimeras, from within— + How sweet to hear!—the music swelled and fell, + And through the breach of the revolving doors + What dreams of splendour blinded us and fled! + I have since then contended and rejoiced; + Amid the glories of the house of life + Profoundly entered, and the shrine beheld: + Yet when the lamp from my expiring eyes + Shall dwindle and recede, the voice of love + Fall insignificant on my closing ears, + What sound shall come but the old cry of the wind + In our inclement city? what return + But the image of the emptiness of youth, + Filled with the sound of footsteps and that voice + Of discontent and rapture and despair? + So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp, + The momentary pictures gleam and fade + And perish, and the night resurges—these + Shall I remember, and then all forget. + +They’re pretty second-rate, but felt. I can’t be bothered to copy the +other. + +I have bought 314½ acres of beautiful land in the bush behind Apia; when +we get the house built, the garden laid, and cattle in the place, it will +be something to fall back on for shelter and food; and if the island +could stumble into political quiet, it is conceivable it might even bring +a little income. . . . We range from 600 to 1500 feet, have five streams, +waterfalls, precipices, profound ravines, rich tablelands, fifty head of +cattle on the ground (if any one could catch them), a great view of +forest, sea, mountains, the warships in the haven: really a noble place. +Some day you are to take a long holiday and come and see us: it has been +all planned. + +With all these irons in the fire, and cloudy prospects, you may be sure I +was pleased to hear a good account of business. I believed _The Master_ +was a sure card: I wonder why Henley thinks it grimy; grim it is, God +knows, but sure not grimy, else I am the more deceived. I am sorry he +did not care for it; I place it on the line with _Kidnapped_ myself. +We’ll see as time goes on whether it goes above or falls below. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _SS. Lübeck_, [_between Apia and Sydney_, _February_] 1890. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—I desire nothing better than to continue my relation +with the Magazine, to which it pleases me to hear I have been useful. +The only thing I have ready is the enclosed barbaric piece. As soon as I +have arrived in Sydney I shall send you some photographs, a portrait of +Tembinoka, perhaps a view of the palace or of the ‘matted men’ at their +singing; also T.’s flag, which my wife designed for him: in a word, what +I can do best for you. It will be thus a foretaste of my book of +travels. I shall ask you to let me have, if I wish it, the use of the +plates made, and to make up a little tract of the verses and +illustrations, of which you might send six copies to H. M. Tembinoka, +King of Apemama _via_ Butaritari, Gilbert Islands. It might be best to +send it by Crawford and Co., S. F. There is no postal service; and +schooners must take it, how they may and when. Perhaps some such note as +this might be prefixed: + +_At my departure from the island of Apemama_, _for which you will look in +vain in most atlases_, _the king and I agreed_, _since we both set up to +be in the poetical way_, _that we should celebrate our separation in +verse_. _Whether or not his majesty has been true to his bargain_, _the +laggard posts of the Pacific may perhaps inform me in six months_, +_perhaps not before a year_. _The following lines represent my part of +the contract_, _and it is hoped_, _by their pictures of strange manners_, +_they may entertain a civilised audience_. _Nothing throughout has been +invented or exaggerated_; _the lady herein referred to as the author’s +Muse_, _has confined herself to stringing into rhyme facts and legends +that I saw or heard during two months’ residence upon the island_. + + R. L. S. + +You will have received from me a letter about _The Wrecker_. No doubt it +is a new experiment for me, being disguised so much as a study of +manners, and the interest turning on a mystery of the detective sort, I +think there need be no hesitation about beginning it in the fall of the +year. Lloyd has nearly finished his part, and I shall hope to send you +very soon the MS. of about the first four-sevenths. At the same time, I +have been employing myself in Samoa, collecting facts about the recent +war; and I propose to write almost at once and to publish shortly a small +volume, called I know not what—the War In Samoa, the Samoa Trouble, an +Island War, the War of the Three Consuls, I know not—perhaps you can +suggest. It was meant to be a part of my travel book; but material has +accumulated on my hands until I see myself forced into volume form, and I +hope it may be of use, if it come soon. I have a few photographs of the +war, which will do for illustrations. It is conceivable you might wish +to handle this in the Magazine, although I am inclined to think you +won’t, and to agree with you. But if you think otherwise, there it is. +The travel letters (fifty of them) are already contracted for in papers; +these I was quite bound to let M’Clure handle, as the idea was of his +suggestion, and I always felt a little sore as to one trick I played him +in the matter of the end-papers. The war-volume will contain some very +interesting and picturesque details: more I can’t promise for it. Of +course the fifty newspaper letters will be simply patches chosen from the +travel volume (or volumes) as it gets written. + +But you see I have in hand:— + +Say half done. 1. _The Wrecker_. +Lloyd’s copy half done, mine not 2. _The Pearl Fisher_ (a novel +touched. promised to the _Ledger_, and + which will form, when it comes in + book form, No. 2 of our _South + Sea Yarns_). +Not begun, but all material 3. _The War Volume_. +ready. +Ditto. 4. _The Big Travel Book_, which + includes the letters. +You know how they stand. 5. _The Ballads_. + +_Excusez du peu_! And you see what madness it would be to make any fresh +engagement. At the same time, you have _The Wrecker_ and the _War +Volume_, if you like either—or both—to keep my name in the Magazine. + +It begins to look as if I should not be able to get any more ballads done +this somewhile. I know the book would sell better if it were all +ballads; and yet I am growing half tempted to fill up with some other +verses. A good few are connected with my voyage, such as the ‘Home of +Tembinoka’ sent herewith, and would have a sort of slight affinity to the +_South Sea Ballads_. You might tell me how that strikes a stranger. + +In all this, my real interest is with the travel volume, which ought to +be of a really extraordinary interest. + +I am sending you ‘Tembinoka’ as he stands; but there are parts of him +that I hope to better, particularly in stanzas III. and II. I scarce +feel intelligent enough to try just now; and I thought at any rate you +had better see it, set it up if you think well, and let me have a proof; +so, at least, we shall get the bulk of it straight. I have spared you +Teñkoruti, Tenbaitake, Tembinatake, and other barbarous names, because I +thought the dentists in the States had work enough without my assistance; +but my chiefs name is TEMBINOKA, pronounced, according to the present +quite modern habit in the Gilberts, Tembinok’. Compare in the margin +Tengkorootch; a singular new trick, setting at defiance all South Sea +analogy, for nowhere else do they show even the ability, far less the +will, to end a word upon a consonant. Loia is Lloyd’s name, ship becomes +shipé, teapot, tipoté, etc. Our admirable friend Herman Melville, of +whom, since I could judge, I have thought more than ever, had no ear for +languages whatever: his Hapar tribe should be Hapaa, etc. + +But this is of no interest to you: suffice it, you see how I am as usual +up to the neck in projects, and really all likely bairns this time. When +will this activity cease? Too soon for me, I dare to say. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO JAMES PAYN + + + _February_ 4_th_, 1890, _SS._ ‘_Lübeck_.’ + +MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,—In virtue of confessions in your last, you would at +the present moment, if you were along of me, be sick; and I will ask you +to receive that as an excuse for my hand of write. Excuse a plain seaman +if he regards with scorn the likes of you pore land-lubbers ashore now. +(Reference to nautical ditty.) Which I may however be allowed to add +that when eight months’ mail was laid by my side one evening in Apia, and +my wife and I sat up the most of the night to peruse the same—(precious +indisposed we were next day in consequence)—no letter, out of so many, +more appealed to our hearts than one from the pore, stick-in-the-mud, +land-lubbering, common (or garden) Londoner, James Payn. Thank you for +it; my wife says, ‘Can’t I see him when we get back to London?’ I have +told her the thing appeared to me within the spear of practical politix. +(Why can’t I spell and write like an honest, sober, god-fearing litry +gent? I think it’s the motion of the ship.) Here I was interrupted to +play chess with the chief engineer; as I grow old, I prefer the ‘athletic +sport of cribbage,’ of which (I am sure I misquote) I have just been +reading in your delightful _Literary Recollections_. How you skim along, +you and Andrew Lang (different as you are), and yet the only two who can +keep a fellow smiling every page, and ever and again laughing out loud. +I joke wi’ deeficulty, I believe; I am not funny; and when I am, Mrs. +Oliphant says I’m vulgar, and somebody else says (in Latin) that I’m a +whore, which seems harsh and even uncalled for: I shall stick to weepers; +a 5s. weeper, 2s. 6d. laugher, 1s. shocker. + +My dear sir, I grow more and more idiotic; I cannot even feign sanity. +Sometime in the month of June a stalwart weather-beaten man, evidently of +seafaring antecedents, shall be observed wending his way between the +Athenæum Club and Waterloo Place. Arrived off No. 17, he shall be +observed to bring his head sharply to the wind, and tack into the outer +haven. ‘Captain Payn in the harbour?’—‘Ay, ay, sir. What +ship?’—‘Barquentin R. L. S., nine hundred and odd days out from the port +of Bournemouth, homeward bound, with yarns and curiosities.’ + +Who was it said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t speak of it!’ about Scott and his +tears? He knew what he was saying. The fear of that hour is the +skeleton in all our cupboards; that hour when the pastime and the +livelihood go together; and—I am getting hard of hearing myself; a pore +young child of forty, but new come frae my Mammy, O! + +Excuse these follies, and accept the expression of all my regards.—Yours +affectionately, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Union Club_, _Sydney_, _March_ 7_th_, 1890. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I did not send off the enclosed before from laziness; +having gone quite sick, and being a blooming prisoner here in the club, +and indeed in my bedroom. I was in receipt of your letters and your +ornamental photo, and was delighted to see how well you looked, and how +reasonably well I stood. . . . I am sure I shall never come back home +except to die; I may do it, but shall always think of the move as +suicidal, unless a great change comes over me, of which as yet I see no +symptom. This visit to Sydney has smashed me handsomely; and yet I made +myself a prisoner here in the club upon my first arrival. This is not +encouraging for further ventures; Sydney winter—or, I might almost say, +Sydney spring, for I came when the worst was over—is so small an affair, +comparable to our June depression at home in Scotland. . . . The pipe is +right again; it was the springs that had rusted, and ought to have been +oiled. Its voice is now that of an angel; but, Lord! here in the club I +dare not wake it! Conceive my impatience to be in my own backwoods and +raise the sound of minstrelsy. What pleasures are to be compared with +those of the Unvirtuous Virtuoso.—Yours ever affectionately, the +Unvirtuous Virtuoso, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIDNEY COLVIN + + + _SS._ ‘_Janet Nicoll_,’ _off Upolu_ [_Spring_ 1890]. + +MY DEAREST COLVIN,—I was sharply ill at Sydney, cut off, right out of +bed, in this steamer on a fresh island cruise, and have already reaped +the benefit. We are excellently found this time, on a spacious vessel, +with an excellent table; the captain, supercargo, our one +fellow-passenger, etc., very nice; and the charterer, Mr. Henderson, the +very man I could have chosen. The truth is, I fear, this life is the +only one that suits me; so long as I cruise in the South Seas, I shall be +well and happy—alas, no, I do not mean that, and _absit omen_!—I mean +that, so soon as I cease from cruising, the nerves are strained, the +decline commences, and I steer slowly but surely back to bedward. We +left Sydney, had a cruel rough passage to Auckland, for the _Janet_ is +the worst roller I was ever aboard of. I was confined to my cabin, ports +closed, self shied out of the berth, stomach (pampered till the day I +left on a diet of perpetual egg-nogg) revolted at ship’s food and ship +eating, in a frowsy bunk, clinging with one hand to the plate, with the +other to the glass, and using the knife and fork (except at intervals) +with the eyelid. No matter: I picked up hand over hand. After a day in +Auckland, we set sail again; were blown up in the main cabin with calcium +fires, as we left the bay. Let no man say I am unscientific: when I ran, +on the alert, out of my stateroom, and found the main cabin incarnadined +with the glow of the last scene of a pantomime, I stopped dead: ‘What is +this?’ said I. ‘This ship is on fire, I see that; but why a pantomime?’ +And I stood and reasoned the point, until my head was so muddled with the +fumes that I could not find the companion. A few seconds later, the +captain had to enter crawling on his belly, and took days to recover (if +he has recovered) from the fumes. By singular good fortune, we got the +hose down in time and saved the ship, but Lloyd lost most of his clothes +and a great part of our photographs was destroyed. Fanny saw the native +sailors tossing overboard a blazing trunk; she stopped them in time, and +behold, it contained my manuscripts. Thereafter we had three (or two) +days fine weather: then got into a gale of wind, with rain and a +vexatious sea. As we drew into our anchorage in a bight of Savage +Island, a man ashore told me afterwards the sight of the _Janet Nicoll_ +made him sick; and indeed it was rough play, though nothing to the night +before. All through this gale I worked four to six hours per diem, +spearing the ink-bottle like a flying fish, and holding my papers +together as I might. For, of all things, what I was at was history—the +Samoan business—and I had to turn from one to another of these piles of +manuscript notes, and from one page to another in each, until I should +have found employment for the hands of Briareus. All the same, this +history is a godsend for a voyage; I can put in time, getting events +co-ordinated and the narrative distributed, when my much-heaving numskull +would be incapable of finish or fine style. At Savage we met the +missionary barque _John Williams_. I tell you it was a great day for +Savage Island: the path up the cliffs was crowded with gay islandresses +(I like that feminine plural) who wrapped me in their embraces, and +picked my pockets of all my tobacco, with a manner which a touch would +have made revolting, but as it was, was simply charming, like the Golden +Age. One pretty, little, stalwart minx, with a red flower behind her +ear, had searched me with extraordinary zeal; and when, soon after, I +missed my matches, I accused her (she still following us) of being the +thief. After some delay, and with a subtle smile, she produced the box, +gave me _one match_, and put the rest away again. Too tired to add +more.—Your most affectionate, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _S.S._ ‘_Janet Nicoll_,’ _off Peru Island_, _Kingsmills Group_, + _July_ 13_th_, ’90. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—I am moved to write to you in the matter of the end +papers. I am somewhat tempted to begin them again. Follow the reasons +_pro_ and _con_:— + +1st. I must say I feel as if something in the nature of the end paper +were a desirable finish to the number, and that the substitutes of +occasional essays by occasional contributors somehow fail to fill the +bill. Should you differ with me on this point, no more is to be said. +And what follows must be regarded as lost words. + +2nd. I am rather taken with the idea of continuing the work. For +instance, should you have no distaste for papers of the class called +_Random Memories_, I should enjoy continuing them (of course at +intervals), and when they were done I have an idea they might make a +readable book. On the other hand, I believe a greater freedom of choice +might be taken, the subjects more varied and more briefly treated, in +somewhat approaching the manner of Andrew Lang in the _Sign of the Ship_; +it being well understood that the broken sticks {187} method is one not +very suitable (as Colonel Burke would say) to my genius, and not very +likely to be pushed far in my practice. Upon this point I wish you to +condense your massive brain. In the last lot I was promised, and I +fondly expected to receive, a vast amount of assistance from intelligent +and genial correspondents. I assure you, I never had a scratch of a pen +from any one above the level of a village idiot, except once, when a lady +sowed my head full of grey hairs by announcing that she was going to +direct her life in future by my counsels. Will the correspondents be +more copious and less irrelevant in the future? Suppose that to be the +case, will they be of any use to me in my place of exile? Is it possible +for a man in Samoa to be in touch with the great heart of the People? +And is it not perhaps a mere folly to attempt, from so hopeless a +distance, anything so delicate as a series of papers? Upon these points, +perpend, and give me the results of your perpensions. + +3rd. The emolument would be agreeable to your humble servant. + +I have now stated all the _pros_, and the most of the _cons_ are come in +by the way. There follows, however, one immense Con (with a capital +‘C’), which I beg you to consider particularly. I fear that, to be of +any use for your magazine, these papers should begin with the beginning +of a volume. Even supposing my hands were free, this would be now +impossible for next year. You have to consider whether, supposing you +have no other objection, it would be worth while to begin the series in +the middle of a volume, or desirable to delay the whole matter until the +beginning of another year. + +Now supposing that the _cons_ have it, and you refuse my offer, let me +make another proposal, which you will be very inclined to refuse at the +first off-go, but which I really believe might in time come to something. +You know how the penny papers have their answers to correspondents. Why +not do something of the same kind for the ‘culchawed’? Why not get men +like Stimson, Brownell, Professor James, Goldwin Smith, and others who +will occur to you more readily than to me, to put and to answer a series +of questions of intellectual and general interest, until at last you +should have established a certain standard of matter to be discussed in +this part of the Magazine? + +I want you to get me bound volumes of the Magazine from its start. The +Lord knows I have had enough copies; where they are I know not. A +wandering author gathers no magazines. + +_The Wrecker_ is in no forrader state than in last reports. I have +indeed got to a period when I cannot well go on until I can refresh +myself on the proofs of the beginning. My respected collaborator, who +handles the machine which is now addressing you, has indeed carried his +labours farther, but not, I am led to understand, with what we used to +call a blessing; at least, I have been refused a sight of his latest +labours. However, there is plenty of time ahead, and I feel no anxiety +about the tale, except that it may meet with your approval. + +All this voyage I have been busy over my _Travels_, which, given a very +high temperature and the saloon of a steamer usually going before the +wind, and with the cabins in front of the engines, has come very near to +prostrating me altogether. You will therefore understand that there are +no more poems. I wonder whether there are already enough, and whether +you think that such a volume would be worth the publishing? I shall hope +to find in Sydney some expression of your opinion on this point. Living +as I do among—not the most cultured of mankind (‘splendidly educated and +perfect gentlemen when sober’)—I attach a growing importance to friendly +criticisms from yourself. + +I believe that this is the most of our business. As for my health, I got +over my cold in a fine style, but have not been very well of late. To my +unaffected annoyance, the blood-spitting has started again. I find the +heat of a steamer decidedly wearing and trying in these latitudes, and I +am inclined to think the superior expedition rather dearly paid for. +Still, the fact that one does not even remark the coming of a squall, nor +feel relief on its departure, is a mercy not to be acknowledged without +gratitude. The rest of the family seem to be doing fairly well; both +seem less run down than they were on the _Equator_, and Mrs. Stevenson +very much less so. We have now been three months away, have visited +about thirty-five islands, many of which were novel to us, and some +extremely entertaining; some also were old acquaintances, and pleasant to +revisit. In the meantime, we have really a capital time aboard ship, in +the most pleasant and interesting society, and with (considering the +length and nature of the voyage) an excellent table. Please remember us +all to Mr. Scribner, the young chieftain of the house, and the lady, +whose health I trust is better. To Mrs. Burlingame we all desire to be +remembered, and I hope you will give our news to Low, St. Gaudens, Faxon, +and others of the faithful in the city. I shall probably return to Samoa +direct, having given up all idea of returning to civilisation in the +meanwhile. There, on my ancestral acres, which I purchased six months +ago from a blind Scots blacksmith, you will please address me until +further notice. The name of the ancestral acres is going to be Vailima; +but as at the present moment nobody else knows the name, except myself +and the co-patentees, it will be safer, if less ambitious, to address R. +L. S., Apia, Samoa. The ancestral acres run to upwards of three hundred; +they enjoy the ministrations of five streams, whence the name. They are +all at the present moment under a trackless covering of magnificent +forest, which would be worth a great deal if it grew beside a railway +terminus. To me, as it stands, it represents a handsome deficit. +Obliging natives from the Cannibal Islands are now cutting it down at my +expense. You would be able to run your magazine to much greater +advantage if the terms of authors were on the same scale with those of my +cannibals. We have also a house about the size of a manufacturer’s +lodge. ’Tis but the egg of the future palace, over the details of which +on paper Mrs. Stevenson and I have already shed real tears; what it will +be when it comes to paying for it, I leave you to imagine. But if it can +only be built as now intended, it will be with genuine satisfaction and a +growunded pride that I shall welcome you at the steps of my Old Colonial +Home, when you land from the steamer on a long-merited holiday. I speak +much at my ease; yet I do not know, I may be now an outlaw, a bankrupt, +the abhorred of all good men. I do not know, you probably do. Has Hyde +{190} turned upon me? Have I fallen, like Danvers Carew? + +It is suggested to me that you might like to know what will be my future +society. Three consuls, all at logger-heads with one another, or at the +best in a clique of two against one; three different sects of +missionaries, not upon the best of terms; and the Catholics and +Protestants in a condition of unhealable ill-feeling as to whether a +wooden drum ought or ought not to be beaten to announce the time of +school. The native population, very genteel, very songful, very +agreeable, very good-looking, chronically spoiling for a fight (a +circumstance not to be entirely neglected in the design of the palace). +As for the white population of (technically, ‘The Beach’), I don’t +suppose it is possible for any person not thoroughly conversant with the +South Seas to form the smallest conception of such a society, with its +grog-shops, its apparently unemployed hangers-on, its merchants of all +degrees of respectability and the reverse. The paper, of which I must +really send you a copy—if yours were really a live magazine, you would +have an exchange with the editor: I assure you, it has of late contained +a great deal of matter about one of your contributors—rejoices in the +name of _Samoa Times and South Sea Advertiser_. The advertisements in +the _Advertiser_ are permanent, being simply subsidies for its existence. +A dashing warfare of newspaper correspondence goes on between the various +residents, who are rather fond of recurring to one another’s antecedents. +But when all is said, there are a lot of very nice, pleasant people, and +I don’t know that Apia is very much worse than half a hundred towns that +I could name. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Hotel Sebastopol_, _Noumea_, _August_ 1890. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I have stayed here a week while Lloyd and my wife +continue to voyage in the _Janet Nicoll_; this I did, partly to see the +convict system, partly to shorten my stay in the extreme cold—hear me +with my extreme! _moi qui suis originaire d’Edinbourg_—of Sydney at this +season. I am feeling very seedy, utterly fatigued, and overborne with +sleep. I have a fine old gentleman of a doctor, who attends and cheers +and entertains, if he does not cure me; but even with his ministrations I +am almost incapable of the exertion sufficient for this letter; and I am +really, as I write, falling down with sleep. What is necessary to say, I +must try to say shortly. Lloyd goes to clear out our establishments: +pray keep him in funds, if I have any; if I have not, pray try to raise +them. Here is the idea: to install ourselves, at the risk of bankruptcy, +in Samoa. It is not the least likely it will pay (although it may); but +it is almost certain it will support life, with very few external +expenses. If I die, it will be an endowment for the survivors, at least +for my wife and Lloyd; and my mother, who might prefer to go home, has +her own. Hence I believe I shall do well to hurry my installation. The +letters are already in part done; in part done is a novel for Scribner; +in the course of the next twelve months I should receive a considerable +amount of money. I am aware I had intended to pay back to my capital +some of this. I am now of opinion I should act foolishly. Better to +build the house and have a roof and farm of my own; and thereafter, with +a livelihood assured, save and repay . . . There is my livelihood, all +but books and wine, ready in a nutshell; and it ought to be more easy to +save and to repay afterwards. Excellent, say you, but will you save and +will you repay? I do not know, said the Bell of Old Bow. . . . It seems +clear to me. . . . The deuce of the affair is that I do not know when I +shall see you and Colvin. I guess you will have to come and see me: many +a time already we have arranged the details of your visit in the yet +unbuilt house on the mountain. I shall be able to get decent wine from +Noumea. We shall be able to give you a decent welcome, and talk of old +days. _Apropos_ of old days, do you remember still the phrase we heard +in Waterloo Place? I believe you made a piece for the piano on that +phrase. Pray, if you remember it, send it me in your next. If you find +it impossible to write correctly, send it me _à la récitative_, and +indicate the accents. Do you feel (you must) how strangely heavy and +stupid I am? I must at last give up and go sleep; I am simply a rag. + +The morrow: I feel better, but still dim and groggy. To-night I go to +the governor’s; such a lark—no dress clothes—twenty-four hours’ +notice—able-bodied Polish tailor—suit made for a man with the figure of a +puncheon—same hastily altered for self with the figure of a bodkin—sight +inconceivable. Never mind; dress clothes, ‘which nobody can deny’; and +the officials have been all so civil that I liked neither to refuse nor +to appear in mufti. Bad dress clothes only prove you are a grisly ass; +no dress clothes, even when explained, indicate a want of respect. I +wish you were here with me to help me dress in this wild raiment, and to +accompany me to M. Noel-Pardon’s. I cannot say what I would give if +there came a knock now at the door and you came in. I guess Noel-Pardon +would go begging, and we might burn the fr. 200 dress clothes in the back +garden for a bonfire; or what would be yet more expensive and more +humorous, get them once more expanded to fit you, and when that was done, +a second time cut down for my gossamer dimensions. + +I hope you never forget to remember me to your father, who has always a +place in my heart, as I hope I have a little in his. His kindness helped +me infinitely when you and I were young; I recall it with gratitude and +affection in this town of convicts at the world’s end. There are very +few things, my dear Charles, worth mention: on a retrospect of life, the +day’s flash and colour, one day with another, flames, dazzles, and puts +to sleep; and when the days are gone, like a fast-flying thaumatrope, +they make but a single pattern. Only a few things stand out; and among +these—most plainly to me—Rutland Square,—Ever, my dear Charles, your +affectionate friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—Just returned from trying on the dress clo’. Lord, you should see +the coat! It stands out at the waist like a bustle, the flaps cross in +front, the sleeves are like bags. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Union Club_, _Sydney_ [_August_ 1890]. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,— + + _Ballads_. + +The deuce is in this volume. It has cost me more botheration and dubiety +than any other I ever took in hand. On one thing my mind is made up: the +verses at the end have no business there, and throw them down. Many of +them are bad, many of the rest want nine years’ keeping, and the +remainder are not relevant—throw them down; some I never want to hear of +more, others will grow in time towards decent items in a second +_Underwoods_—and in the meanwhile, down with them! At the same time, I +have a sneaking idea the ballads are not altogether without merit—I don’t +know if they’re poetry, but they’re good narrative, or I’m deceived. +(You’ve never said one word about them, from which I astutely gather you +are dead set against: ‘he was a diplomatic man’—extract from epitaph of +E. L. B.—‘and remained on good terms with Minor Poets.’) You will have +to judge: one of the Gladstonian trinity of paths must be chosen. (1st) +Either publish the five ballads, such as they are, in a volume called +_Ballads_; in which case pray send sheets at once to Chatto and Windus. +Or (2nd) write and tell me you think the book too small, and I’ll try and +get into the mood to do some more. Or (3rd) write and tell me the whole +thing is a blooming illusion; in which case draw off some twenty copies +for my private entertainment, and charge me with the expense of the whole +dream. + +In the matter of rhyme no man can judge himself; I am at the world’s end, +have no one to consult, and my publisher holds his tongue. I call it +unfair and almost unmanly. I do indeed begin to be filled with +animosity; Lord, wait till you see the continuation of _The Wrecker_, +when I introduce some New York publishers. . . It’s a good scene; the +quantities you drink and the really hideous language you are represented +as employing may perhaps cause you one tithe of the pain you have +inflicted by your silence on, sir, The Poetaster, + + R. L. S. + +Lloyd is off home; my wife and I dwell sundered: she in lodgings, +preparing for the move; I here in the club, and at my old +trade—bedridden. Naturally, the visit home is given up; we only wait our +opportunity to get to Samoa, where, please, address me. + +Have I yet asked you to despatch the books and papers left in your care +to me at Apia, Samoa? I wish you would, _quam primum_. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Union Club_, _Sydney_, _August_ 1890. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—Kipling is too clever to live. The _Bête Humaine_ I +had already perused in Noumea, listening the while to the strains of the +convict band. He a Beast; but not human, and, to be frank, not very +interesting. ‘Nervous maladies: the homicidal ward,’ would be the better +name: O, this game gets very tedious. + +Your two long and kind letters have helped to entertain the old familiar +sickbed. So has a book called _The Bondman_, by Hall Caine; I wish you +would look at it. I am not half-way through yet. Read the book, and +communicate your views. Hall Caine, by the way, appears to take Hugo’s +view of History and Chronology. (_Later_; the book doesn’t keep up; it +gets very wild.) + +I must tell you plainly—I can’t tell Colvin—I do not think I shall come +to England more than once, and then it’ll be to die. Health I enjoy in +the tropics; even here, which they call sub- or semi-tropical, I come +only to catch cold. I have not been out since my arrival; live here in a +nice bedroom by the fireside, and read books and letters from Henry +James, and send out to get his _Tragic Muse_, only to be told they can’t +be had as yet in Sydney, and have altogether a placid time. But I can’t +go out! The thermometer was nearly down to 50° the other day—no +temperature for me, Mr. James: how should I do in England? I fear not at +all. Am I very sorry? I am sorry about seven or eight people in +England, and one or two in the States. And outside of that, I simply +prefer Samoa. These are the words of honesty and soberness. (I am +fasting from all but sin, coughing, _The Bondman_, a couple of eggs and a +cup of tea.) I was never fond of towns, houses, society, or (it seems) +civilisation. Nor yet it seems was I ever very fond of (what is +technically called) God’s green earth. The sea, islands, the islanders, +the island life and climate, make and keep me truly happier. These last +two years I have been much at sea, and I have _never wearied_; sometimes +I have indeed grown impatient for some destination; more often I was +sorry that the voyage drew so early to an end; and never once did I lose +my fidelity to blue water and a ship. It is plain, then, that for me my +exile to the place of schooners and islands can be in no sense regarded +as a calamity. + +Good-bye just now: I must take a turn at my proofs. + +_N.B._—Even my wife has weakened about the sea. She wearied, the last +time we were ashore, to get afloat again.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MARCEL SCHWOB + + + _Union Club_, _Sydney_, _August_ 19_th_, 1890. + +MY DEAR MR. SCHWOB,—_Mais_, _alors_, _vous avez tous les bonheurs_, +_vous_! More about Villon; it seems incredible: when it is put in order, +pray send it me. + +You wish to translate the _Black Arrow_: dear sir, you are hereby +authorised; but I warn you, I do not like the work. Ah, if you, who know +so well both tongues, and have taste and instruction—if you would but +take a fancy to translate a book of mine that I myself admired—for we +sometimes admire our own—or I do—with what satisfaction would the +authority be granted! But these things are too much to expect. _Vous ne +détestez pas alors mes bonnes femmes_? _moi_, _je les déteste_. I have +never pleased myself with any women of mine save two character parts, one +of only a few lines—the Countess of Rosen, and Madame Desprez in the +_Treasure of Franchard_. + +I had indeed one moment of pride about my poor _Black Arrow_: Dickon +Crookback I did, and I do, think is a spirited and possible figure. +Shakespeare’s—O, if we can call that cocoon Shakespeare!—Shakespeare’s is +spirited—one likes to see the untaught athlete butting against the +adamantine ramparts of human nature, head down, breach up; it reminds us +how trivial we are to-day, and what safety resides in our triviality. +For spirited it may be, but O, sure not possible! I love Dumas and I +love Shakespeare: you will not mistake me when I say that the Richard of +the one reminds me of the Porthos of the other; and if by any sacrifice +of my own literary baggage I could clear the _Vicomte de Bragelonne_ of +Porthos, _Jekyll_ might go, and the _Master_, and the _Black Arrow_, you +may be sure, and I should think my life not lost for mankind if half a +dozen more of my volumes must be thrown in. + +The tone of your pleasant letters makes me egotistical; you make me take +myself too gravely. Comprehend how I have lived much of my time in +France, and loved your country, and many of its people, and all the time +was learning that which your country has to teach—breathing in rather +that atmosphere of art which can only there be breathed; and all the time +knew—and raged to know—that I might write with the pen of angels or of +heroes, and no Frenchman be the least the wiser! And now steps in M. +Marcel Schwob, writes me the most kind encouragement, and reads and +understands, and is kind enough to like my work. + +I am just now overloaded with work. I have two huge novels on hand—_The +Wrecker_ and the _Pearl Fisher_, {198} in collaboration with my stepson: +the latter, the _Pearl Fisher_, I think highly of, for a black, ugly, +trampling, violent story, full of strange scenes and striking characters. +And then I am about waist-deep in my big book on the South Seas: _the_ +big book on the South Seas it ought to be, and shall. And besides, I +have some verses in the press, which, however, I hesitate to publish. +For I am no judge of my own verse; self-deception is there so facile. +All this and the cares of an impending settlement in Samoa keep me very +busy, and a cold (as usual) keeps me in bed. + +Alas, I shall not have the pleasure to see you yet awhile, if ever. You +must be content to take me as a wandering voice, and in the form of +occasional letters from recondite islands; and address me, if you will be +good enough to write, to Apia, Samoa. My stepson, Mr. Osbourne, goes +home meanwhile to arrange some affairs; it is not unlikely he may go to +Paris to arrange about the illustrations to my South Seas; in which case +I shall ask him to call upon you, and give you some word of our +outlandish destinies. You will find him intelligent, I think; and I am +sure, if (_par hasard_) you should take any interest in the islands, he +will have much to tell you.—Herewith I conclude, and am your obliged and +interested correspondent, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—The story you refer to has got lost in the post. + + + +TO ANDREW LANG + + + _Union Club_, _Sydney_ [_August _1890]. + +MY DEAR LANG,—I observed with a great deal of surprise and interest that +a controversy in which you have been taking sides at home, in yellow +London, hinges in part at least on the Gilbert Islanders and their +customs in burial. Nearly six months of my life has been passed in the +group: I have revisited it but the other day; and I make haste to tell +you what I know. The upright stones—I enclose you a photograph of one on +Apemama—are certainly connected with religion; I do not think they are +adored. They stand usually on the windward shore of the islands, that is +to say, apart from habitation (on _enclosed islands_, where the people +live on the sea side, I do not know how it is, never having lived on +one). I gathered from Tembinoka, Rex Apemamae, that the pillars were +supposed to fortify the island from invasion: spiritual martellos. I +think he indicated they were connected with the cult of Tenti—pronounce +almost as chintz in English, the _t_ being explosive; but you must take +this with a grain of salt, for I knew no word of Gilbert Island; and the +King’s English, although creditable, is rather vigorous than exact. Now, +here follows the point of interest to you: such pillars, or standing +stones, have no connection with graves. The most elaborate grave that I +have ever seen in the group—to be certain—is in the form of a _raised +border_ of gravel, usually strewn with broken glass. One, of which I +cannot be sure that it was a grave, for I was told by one that it was, +and by another that it was not—consisted of a mound about breast high in +an excavated taro swamp, on the top of which was a child’s house, or +rather _maniapa_—that is to say, shed, or open house, such as is used in +the group for social or political gatherings—so small that only a child +could creep under its eaves. I have heard of another great tomb on +Apemama, which I did not see; but here again, by all accounts, no sign of +a standing stone. My report would be—no connection between standing +stones and sepulture. I shall, however, send on the terms of the problem +to a highly intelligent resident trader, who knows more than perhaps any +one living, white or native, of the Gilbert group; and you shall have the +result. In Samoa, whither I return for good, I shall myself make +inquiries; up to now, I have neither seen nor heard of any standing +stones in that group.—Yours, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. CHARLES FAIRCHILD + + + _Union Club_, _Sydney_ [_September_ 1890]. + +MY DEAR MRS. FAIRCHILD,—I began a letter to you on board the _Janet +Nicoll_ on my last cruise, wrote, I believe, two sheets, and ruthlessly +destroyed the flippant trash. Your last has given me great pleasure and +some pain, for it increased the consciousness of my neglect. Now, this +must go to you, whatever it is like. + +. . . You are quite right; our civilisation is a hollow fraud, all the +fun of life is lost by it; all it gains is that a larger number of +persons can continue to be contemporaneously unhappy on the surface of +the globe. O, unhappy!—there is a big word and a false—continue to be +not nearly—by about twenty per cent.—so happy as they might be: that +would be nearer the mark. + +When—observe that word, which I will write again and larger—WHEN you come +to see us in Samoa, you will see for yourself a healthy and happy people. + +You see, you are one of the very few of our friends rich enough to come +and see us; and when my house is built, and the road is made, and we have +enough fruit planted and poultry and pigs raised, it is undeniable that +you must come—must is the word; that is the way in which I speak to +ladies. You and Fairchild, anyway—perhaps my friend Blair—we’ll arrange +details in good time. It will be the salvation of your souls, and make +you willing to die. + +Let me tell you this: In ’74 or 5 there came to stay with my father and +mother a certain Mr. Seed, a prime minister or something of New Zealand. +He spotted what my complaint was; told me that I had no business to stay +in Europe; that I should find all I cared for, and all that was good for +me, in the Navigator Islands; sat up till four in the morning persuading +me, demolishing my scruples. And I resisted: I refused to go so far from +my father and mother. O, it was virtuous, and O, wasn’t it silly! But +my father, who was always my dearest, got to his grave without that pang; +and now in 1890, I (or what is left of me) go at last to the Navigator +Islands. God go with us! It is but a Pisgah sight when all is said; I +go there only to grow old and die; but when you come, you will see it is +a fair place for the purpose. + +Flaubert {201} has not turned up; I hope he will soon; I knew of him only +through Maxime Descamps.—With kindest messages to yourself and all of +yours, I remain, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + + +XI +LIFE IN SAMOA, +NOVEMBER 1890–DECEMBER 1892 + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima_, _Apia_, _Samoa_, _Nov._ 7, 1890. + +I WISH you to add to the words at the end of the prologue; they run, I +think, thus, ‘And this is the yarn of Loudon Dodd’; add, ‘not as he told, +but as he wrote it afterwards for his diversion.’ This becomes the more +needful, because, when all is done, I shall probably revert to Tai-o-hae, +and give final details about the characters in the way of a conversation +between Dodd and Havers. These little snippets of information and +_faits-divers_ have always a disjointed, broken-backed appearance; yet, +readers like them. In this book we have introduced so many characters, +that this kind of epilogue will be looked for; and I rather hope, looking +far ahead, that I can lighten it in dialogue. + +We are well past the middle now. How does it strike you? and can you +guess my mystery? It will make a fattish volume! + +I say, have you ever read the _Highland Widow_? I never had till +yesterday: I am half inclined, bar a trip or two, to think it Scott’s +masterpiece; and it has the name of a failure! Strange things are +readers. + +I expect proofs and revises in duplicate. + +We have now got into a small barrack at our place. We see the sea six +hundred feet below filling the end of two vales of forest. On one hand +the mountain runs above us some thousand feet higher; great trees stand +round us in our clearing; there is an endless voice of birds; I have +never lived in such a heaven; just now, I have fever, which mitigates but +not destroys my gusto in my circumstances.—You may envy + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +. . . O, I don’t know if I mentioned that having seen your new tail to +the magazine, I cried off interference, at least for this trip. Did I +ask you to send me my books and papers, and all the bound volumes of the +mag.? _quorum pars_. I might add that were there a good book or so—new—I +don’t believe there is—such would be welcome. + +I desire—I positively begin to awake—to be remembered to Scribner, Low, +St. Gaudens, Russell Sullivan. Well, well, you fellows have the feast of +reason and the flow of soul; I have a better-looking place and climate: +you should hear the birds on the hill now! The day has just wound up +with a shower; it is still light without, though I write within here at +the cheek of a lamp; my wife and an invaluable German are wrestling about +bread on the back verandah; and how the birds and the frogs are rattling, +and piping, and hailing from the woods! Here and there a throaty +chuckle; here and there, cries like those of jolly children who have lost +their way; here and there, the ringing sleigh-bell of the tree frog. Out +and away down below me on the sea it is still raining; it will be wet +under foot on schooners, and the house will leak; how well I know that! +Here the showers only patter on the iron roof, and sometimes roar; and +within, the lamp burns steady on the tafa-covered walls, with their dusky +tartan patterns, and the book-shelves with their thin array of books; and +no squall can rout my house or bring my heart into my mouth.—The +well-pleased South Sea Islander, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + [_Vailima_, _December_ 1890.] + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—By some diabolical accident, I have mislaid your +last. What was in it? I know not, and here I am caught unexpectedly by +the American mail, a week earlier than by computation. The computation, +not the mail, is supposed to be in error. The vols. of _Scribner’s_ have +arrived, and present a noble appearance in my house, which is not a noble +structure at present. But by autumn we hope to be sprawling in our +verandah, twelve feet, sir, by eighty-eight in front, and seventy-two on +the flank; view of the sea and mountains, sunrise, moonrise, and the +German fleet at anchor three miles away in Apia harbour. I hope some day +to offer you a bowl of kava there, or a slice of a pineapple, or some +lemonade from my own hedge. ‘I know a hedge where the lemons +grow’—_Shakespeare_. My house at this moment smells of them strong; and +the rain, which a while ago roared there, now rings in minute drops upon +the iron roof. I have no _Wrecker_ for you this mail, other things +having engaged me. I was on the whole rather relieved you did not vote +for regular papers, as I feared the traces. It is my design from time to +time to write a paper of a reminiscential (beastly word) description; +some of them I could scarce publish from different considerations; but +some of them—for instance, my long experience of gambling places—Homburg, +Wiesbaden, Baden-Baden, old Monaco, and new Monte Carlo—would make good +magazine padding, if I got the stuff handled the right way. I never +could fathom why verse was put in magazines; it has something to do with +the making-up, has it not? I am scribbling a lot just now; if you are +taken badly that way, apply to the South Seas. I could send you some, I +believe, anyway, only none of it is thoroughly ripe. If kept back the +volume of ballads, I’ll soon make it a respectable size if this fit +continue. By the next mail you may expect some more _Wrecker_, or I +shall be displeased. Probably no more than a chapter, however, for it is +a hard one, and I am denuded of my proofs, my collaborator having walked +away with them to England; hence some trouble in catching the just note. + +I am a mere farmer: my talk, which would scarce interest you on Broadway, +is all of fuafua and tuitui, and black boys, and planting and weeding, +and axes and cutlasses; my hands are covered with blisters and full of +thorns; letters are, doubtless, a fine thing, so are beer and skittles, +but give me farmering in the tropics for real interest. Life goes in +enchantment; I come home to find I am late for dinner; and when I go to +bed at night, I could cry for the weariness of my loins and thighs. Do +not speak to me of vexation, the life brims with it, but with living +interest fairly. + +Christmas I go to Auckland, to meet Tamate, the New Guinea missionary, a +man I love. The rest of my life is a prospect of much rain, much weeding +and making of paths, a little letters, and devilish little to eat.—I am, +my dear Burlingame, with messages to all whom it may concern, very +sincerely yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Vailima_, _Apia_, _Samoa_, _December_ 29_th_, 1890. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—It is terrible how little everybody writes, and how +much of that little disappears in the capacious maw of the Post Office. +Many letters, both from and to me, I now know to have been lost in +transit: my eye is on the Sydney Post Office, a large ungainly structure +with a tower, as being not a hundred miles from the scene of +disappearance; but then I have no proof. _The Tragic Muse_ you announced +to me as coming; I had already ordered it from a Sydney bookseller: about +two months ago he advised me that his copy was in the post; and I am +still tragically museless. + +News, news, news. What do we know of yours? What do you care for ours? +We are in the midst of the rainy season, and dwell among alarms of +hurricanes, in a very unsafe little two-storied wooden box 650 feet above +and about three miles from the sea-beach. Behind us, till the other +slope of the island, desert forest, peaks, and loud torrents; in front +green slopes to the sea, some fifty miles of which we dominate. We see +the ships as they go out and in to the dangerous roadstead of Apia; and +if they lie far out, we can even see their topmasts while they are at +anchor. Of sounds of men, beyond those of our own labourers, there reach +us, at very long intervals, salutes from the warships in harbour, the +bell of the cathedral church, and the low of the conch-shell calling the +labour boys on the German plantations. Yesterday, which was Sunday—the +_quantième_ is most likely erroneous; you can now correct it—we had a +visitor—Baker of Tonga. Heard you ever of him? He is a great man here: +he is accused of theft, rape, judicial murder, private poisoning, +abortion, misappropriation of public moneys—oddly enough, not forgery, +nor arson: you would be amused if you knew how thick the accusations fly +in this South Sea world. I make no doubt my own character is something +illustrious; or if not yet, there is a good time coming. + +But all our resources have not of late been Pacific. We have had +enlightened society: La Farge the painter, and your friend Henry Adams: a +great privilege—would it might endure. I would go oftener to see them, +but the place is awkward to reach on horseback. I had to swim my horse +the last time I went to dinner; and as I have not yet returned the +clothes I had to borrow, I dare not return in the same plight: it seems +inevitable—as soon as the wash comes in, I plump straight into the +American consul’s shirt or trousers! They, I believe, would come oftener +to see me but for the horrid doubt that weighs upon our commissariat +department; we have _often_ almost nothing to eat; a guest would simply +break the bank; my wife and I have dined on one avocado pear; I have +several times dined on hard bread and onions. What would you do with a +guest at such narrow seasons?—eat him? or serve up a labour boy +fricasseed? + +Work? work is now arrested, but I have written, I should think, about +thirty chapters of the South Sea book; they will all want rehandling, I +dare say. Gracious, what a strain is a long book! The time it took me +to design this volume, before I could dream of putting pen to paper, was +excessive; and then think of writing a book of travels on the spot, when +I am continually extending my information, revising my opinions, and +seeing the most finely finished portions of my work come part by part in +pieces. Very soon I shall have no opinions left. And without an +opinion, how to string artistically vast accumulations of fact? Darwin +said no one could observe without a theory; I suppose he was right; ’tis +a fine point of metaphysic; but I will take my oath, no man can write +without one—at least the way he would like to, and my theories melt, +melt, melt, and as they melt the thaw-waters wash down my writing, and +leave unideal tracts—wastes instead of cultivated farms. + +Kipling is by far the most promising young man who has appeared +since—ahem—I appeared. He amazes me by his precocity and various +endowment. But he alarms me by his copiousness and haste. He should +shield his fire with both hands ‘and draw up all his strength and +sweetness in one ball.’ (‘Draw all his strength and all His sweetness up +into one ball’? I cannot remember Marvell’s words.) So the critics have +been saying to me; but I was never capable of—and surely never guilty +of—such a debauch of production. At this rate his works will soon fill +the habitable globe; and surely he was armed for better conflicts than +these succinct sketches and flying leaves of verse? I look on, I admire, +I rejoice for myself; but in a kind of ambition we all have for our +tongue and literature I am wounded. If I had this man’s fertility and +courage, it seems to me I could heave a pyramid. + +Well, we begin to be the old fogies now; and it was high time _something_ +rose to take our places. Certainly Kipling has the gifts; the fairy +godmothers were all tipsy at his christening: what will he do with them? + +Goodbye, my dear James; find an hour to write to us, and register your +letter.—Yours affectionately, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO RUDYARD KIPLING + + + [_Vailima_, 1891.] + +SIR,—I cannot call to mind having written you, but I am so throng with +occupation this may have fallen aside. I never heard tell I had any +friends in Ireland, and I am led to understand you are come of no +considerable family. The gentleman I now serve with assures me, however, +you are a very pretty fellow and your letter deserves to be remarked. +It’s true he is himself a man of a very low descent upon the one side; +though upon the other he counts cousinship with a gentleman, my very good +friend, the late Mr. Balfour of the Shaws, in the Lothian; which I should +be wanting in good fellowship to forget. He tells me besides you are a +man of your hands; I am not informed of your weapon; but if all be true +it sticks in my mind I would be ready to make exception in your favour, +and meet you like one gentleman with another. I suppose this’ll be your +purpose in your favour, which I could very ill make out; it’s one I would +be sweir to baulk you of. It seems, Mr. McIlvaine, which I take to be +your name, you are in the household of a gentleman of the name of +Coupling: for whom my friend is very much engaged. The distances being +very uncommodious, I think it will be maybe better if we leave it to +these two to settle all that’s necessary to honour. I would have you to +take heed it’s a very unusual condescension on my part, that bear a +King’s name; and for the matter of that I think shame to be mingled with +a person of the name of Coupling, which is doubtless a very good house +but one I never heard tell of, any more than Stevenson. But your purpose +being laudable, I would be sorry (as the word goes) to cut off my nose to +spite my face.—I am, Sir, your humble servant, + + A. STEWART, + _Chevalier de St. Louis_. + +_To Mr. M’Ilvaine_, + _Gentleman Private in a foot regiment_, + _under cover to Mr. Coupling_. + +He has read me some of your Barrack Room Ballants, which are not of so +noble a strain as some of mine in the Gaelic, but I could set some of +them to the pipes if this rencounter goes as it’s to be desired. Let’s +first, as I understand you to move, do each other this rational +courtesys; and if either will survive, we may grow better acquaint. For +your tastes for what’s martial and for poetry agree with mine. + + A. S. + + + +TO MARCEL SCHWOB + + + _Sydney_, _January_ 19_th_, 1891. + +MY DEAR SIR,—_Sapristi_, _comme vous y allez_! Richard III. and Dumas, +with all my heart; but not Hamlet. Hamlet is great literature; Richard +III. a big, black, gross, sprawling melodrama, writ with infinite spirit +but with no refinement or philosophy by a man who had the world, himself, +mankind, and his trade still to learn. I prefer the Vicomte de +Bragelonne to Richard III.; it is better done of its kind: I simply do +not mention the Vicomte in the same part of the building with Hamlet, or +Lear, or Othello, or any of those masterpieces that Shakespeare survived +to give us. + +Also, _comme vous y allez_ in my commendation! I fear my _solide +éducation classique_ had best be described, like Shakespeare’s, as +‘little Latin and no Greek,’ and I was educated, let me inform you, for +an engineer. I shall tell my bookseller to send you a copy of _Memories +and Portraits_, where you will see something of my descent and education, +as it was, and hear me at length on my dear Vicomte. I give you +permission gladly to take your choice out of my works, and translate what +you shall prefer, too much honoured that so clever a young man should +think it worth the pains. My own choice would lie between _Kidnapped_ +and the _Master of Ballantrae_. Should you choose the latter, pray do +not let Mrs. Henry thrust the sword up to the hilt in the frozen +ground—one of my inconceivable blunders, an exaggeration to stagger Hugo. +Say ‘she sought to thrust it in the ground.’ In both these works you +should be prepared for Scotticisms used deliberately. + +I fear my stepson will not have found time to get to Paris; he was +overwhelmed with occupation, and is already on his voyage back. We live +here in a beautiful land, amid a beautiful and interesting people. The +life is still very hard: my wife and I live in a two-roomed cottage, +about three miles and six hundred and fifty feet above the sea; we have +had to make the road to it; our supplies are very imperfect; in the wild +weather of this (the hurricane) season we have much discomfort: one night +the wind blew in our house so outrageously that we must sit in the dark; +and as the sound of the rain on the roof made speech inaudible, you may +imagine we found the evening long. All these things, however, are +pleasant to me. You say _l’artiste inconscient_ set off to travel: you +do not divide me right. 0.6 of me is artist; 0.4, adventurer. First, I +suppose, come letters; then adventure; and since I have indulged the +second part, I think the formula begins to change: 0.55 of an artist, +0.45 of the adventurer were nearer true. And if it had not been for my +small strength, I might have been a different man in all things. + +Whatever you do, do not neglect to send me what you publish on Villon: I +look forward to that with lively interest. I have no photograph at hand, +but I will send one when I can. It would be kind if you would do the +like, for I do not see much chance of our meeting in the flesh: and a +name, and a handwriting, and an address, and even a style? I know about +as much of Tacitus, and more of Horace; it is not enough between +contemporaries, such as we still are. I have just remembered another of +my books, which I re-read the other day, and thought in places +good—_Prince Otto_. It is not as good as either of the others; but it +has one recommendation—it has female parts, so it might perhaps please +better in France. + +I will ask Chatto to send you, then—_Prince Otto_, _Memories and +Portraits_, _Underwoods_, and _Ballads_, none of which you seem to have +seen. They will be too late for the New Year: let them be an Easter +present. + +You must translate me soon; you will soon have better to do than to +transverse the work of others.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, + With the worst pen in the South Pacific. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _SS._ ‘_Lübeck_,’ _at sea_ [_on the return voyage from Sydney_, _March_ + 1891]. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—Perhaps in my old days I do grow irascible; ‘the old man +virulent’ has long been my pet name for myself. Well, the temper is at +least all gone now; time is good at lowering these distemperatures; far +better is a sharp sickness, and I am just (and scarce) afoot again after +a smoking hot little malady at Sydney. And the temper being gone, I +still think the same. . . . We have not our parents for ever; we are +never very good to them; when they go and we have lost our front-file +man, we begin to feel all our neglects mighty sensibly. I propose a +proposal. My mother is here on board with me; to-day for once I mean to +make her as happy as I am able, and to do that which I know she likes. +You, on the other hand, go and see your father, and do ditto, and give +him a real good hour or two. We shall both be glad hereafter.—Yours +ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO H. B. BAILDON + + + _Vailima_, _Upolu_ [_Undated_, _but written in_ 1891]. + +MY DEAR BAILDON,—This is a real disappointment. It was so long since we +had met, I was anxious to see where time had carried and stranded us. +Last time we saw each other—it must have been all ten years ago, as we +were new to the thirties—it was only for a moment, and now we’re in the +forties, and before very long we shall be in our graves. Sick and well, +I have had a splendid life of it, grudge nothing, regret very little—and +then only some little corners of misconduct for which I deserve hanging, +and must infallibly be damned—and, take it all over, damnation and all, +would hardly change with any man of my time, unless perhaps it were +Gordon or our friend Chalmers: a man I admire for his virtues, love for +his faults, and envy for the really A1 life he has, with everything +heart—my heart, I mean—could wish. It is curious to think you will read +this in the grey metropolis; go the first grey, east-windy day into the +Caledonian Station, if it looks at all as it did of yore: I met Satan +there. And then go and stand by the cross, and remember the other +one—him that went down—my brother, Robert Fergusson. It is a pity you +had not made me out, and seen me as patriarch and planter. I shall look +forward to some record of your time with Chalmers: you can’t weary me of +that fellow, he is as big as a house and far bigger than any church, +where no man warms his hands. Do you know anything of Thomson? Of A—, +B—, C—, D—, E—, F—, at all? As I write C.’s name mustard rises my nose; +I have never forgiven that weak, amiable boy a little trick he played me +when I could ill afford it: I mean that whenever I think of it, some of +the old wrath kindles, not that I would hurt the poor soul, if I got the +world with it. And Old X—? Is he still afloat? Harmless bark! I +gather you ain’t married yet, since your sister, to whom I ask to be +remembered, goes with you. Did you see a silly tale, _John Nicholson’s +Predicament_, {220} or some such name, in which I made free with your +home at Murrayfield? There is precious little sense in it, but it might +amuse. Cassell’s published it in a thing called _Yule-Tide_ years ago, +and nobody that ever I heard of read or has ever seen _Yule-Tide_. It is +addressed to a class we never met—readers of Cassell’s series and that +class of conscientious chaff, and my tale was dull, though I don’t recall +that it was conscientious. Only, there’s the house at Murrayfield and a +dead body in it. Glad the _Ballads_ amused you. They failed to +entertain a coy public, at which I wondered, not that I set much account +by my verses, which are the verses of Prosator; but I do know how to tell +a yarn, and two of the yarns are great. _Rahero_ is for its length a +perfect folk-tale: savage and yet fine, full of tailforemost morality, +ancient as the granite rocks; if the historian, not to say the +politician, could get that yarn into his head, he would have learned some +of his A B C. But the average man at home cannot understand antiquity; he +is sunk over the ears in Roman civilisation; and a tale like that of +_Rahero_ falls on his ears inarticulate. The _Spectator_ said there was +no psychology in it; that interested me much: my grandmother (as I used +to call that able paper, and an able paper it is, and a fair one) cannot +so much as observe the existence of savage psychology when it is put +before it. I am at bottom a psychologist and ashamed of it; the tale +seized me one-third because of its picturesque features, two-thirds +because of its astonishing psychology, and the _Spectator_ says there’s +none. I am going on with a lot of island work, exulting in the knowledge +of a new world, ‘a new created world’ and new men; and I am sure my +income will DECLINE and FALL off; for the effort of comprehension is +death to the intelligent public, and sickness to the dull. + +I do not know why I pester you with all this trash, above all as you +deserve nothing. I give you my warm _talofa_ (‘my love to you,’ Samoan +salutation). Write me again when the spirit moves you. And some day, if +I still live, make out the trip again and let us hob-a-nob with our grey +pows on my verandah.—Yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. CRAIBE ANGUS + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _April_ 1891. + +DEAR MR. ANGUS,—Surely I remember you! It was W. C. Murray who made us +acquainted, and we had a pleasant crack. I see your poet is not yet +dead. I remember even our talk—or you would not think of trusting that +invaluable _Jolly Beggars_ to the treacherous posts, and the perils of +the sea, and the carelessness of authors. I love the idea, but I could +not bear the risk. However— + + ‘Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle—’ + +it was kindly thought upon. + +My interest in Burns is, as you suppose, perennial. I would I could be +present at the exhibition, with the purpose of which I heartily +sympathise; but the _Nancy_ has not waited in vain for me, I have +followed my chest, the anchor is weighed long ago, I have said my last +farewell to the hills and the heather and the lynns: like Leyden, I have +gone into far lands to die, not stayed like Burns to mingle in the end +with Scottish soil. I shall not even return like Scott for the last +scene. Burns Exhibitions are all over. ’Tis a far cry to Lochow from +tropical Vailima. + + ‘But still our hearts are true, our hearts are Highland, + And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.’ + +When your hand is in, will you remember our poor Edinburgh Robin? Burns +alone has been just to his promise; follow Burns, he knew best, he knew +whence he drew fire—from the poor, white-faced, drunken, vicious boy that +raved himself to death in the Edinburgh madhouse. Surely there is more +to be gleaned about Fergusson, and surely it is high time the task was +set about. I may tell you (because your poet is not dead) something of +how I feel: we are three Robins who have touched the Scots lyre this last +century. Well, the one is the world’s, he did it, he came off, he is for +ever; but I and the other—ah! what bonds we have—born in the same city; +both sickly, both pestered, one nearly to madness, one to the madhouse, +with a damnatory creed; both seeing the stars and the dawn, and wearing +shoe-leather on the same ancient stones, under the same pends, down the +same closes, where our common ancestors clashed in their armour, rusty or +bright. And the old Robin, who was before Burns and the flood, died in +his acute, painful youth, and left the models of the great things that +were to come; and the new, who came after, outlived his greensickness, +and has faintly tried to parody the finished work. If you will collect +the strays of Robin Fergusson, fish for material, collect any last +re-echoing of gossip, command me to do what you prefer—to write the +preface—to write the whole if you prefer: anything, so that another +monument (after Burns’s) be set up to my unhappy predecessor on the +causey of Auld Reekie. You will never know, nor will any man, how deep +this feeling is: I believe Fergusson lives in me. I do, but tell it not +in Gath; every man has these fanciful superstitions, coming, going, but +yet enduring; only most men are so wise (or the poet in them so dead) +that they keep their follies for themselves.—I am, yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Vailima_, _April_ 1891. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—I have to thank you and Mrs. Gosse for many mementoes, +chiefly for your _Life_ of your father. There is a very delicate task, +very delicately done. I noted one or two carelessnesses, which I meant +to point out to you for another edition; but I find I lack the time, and +you will remark them for yourself against a new edition. They were two, +or perhaps three, flabbinesses of style which (in your work) amazed me. +Am I right in thinking you were a shade bored over the last chapters? or +was it my own fault that made me think them susceptible of a more +athletic compression? (The flabbinesses were not there, I think, but in +the more admirable part, where they showed the bigger.) Take it all +together, the book struck me as if you had been hurried at the last, but +particularly hurried over the proofs, and could still spend a very +profitable fortnight in earnest revision and (towards the end) heroic +compression. The book, in design, subject, and general execution, is +well worth the extra trouble. And even if I were wrong in thinking it +specially wanted, it will not be lost; for do we not know, in Flaubert’s +dread confession, that ‘prose is never done’? What a medium to work in, +for a man tired, perplexed among different aims and subjects, and spurred +by the immediate need of ‘siller’! However, it’s mine for what it’s +worth; and it’s one of yours, the devil take it; and you know, as well as +Flaubert, and as well as me, that it is _never done_; in other words, it +is a torment of the pit, usually neglected by the bards who (lucky +beggars!) approached the Styx in measure. I speak bitterly at the +moment, having just detected in myself the last fatal symptom, three +blank verses in succession—and I believe, God help me, a hemistich at the +tail of them; hence I have deposed the labourer, come out of hell by my +private trap, and now write to you from my little place in purgatory. +But I prefer hell: would I could always dig in those red coals—or else be +at sea in a schooner, bound for isles unvisited: to be on shore and not +to work is emptiness—suicidal vacancy. + +I was the more interested in your _Life_ of your father, because I +meditate one of mine, or rather of my family. I have no such materials +as you, and (our objections already made) your attack fills me with +despair; it is direct and elegant, and your style is always admirable to +me—lenity, lucidity, usually a high strain of breeding, an elegance that +has a pleasant air of the accidental. But beware of purple passages. I +wonder if you think as well of your purple passages as I do of mine? I +wonder if you think as ill of mine as I do of yours? I wonder; I can +tell you at least what is wrong with yours—they are treated in the spirit +of verse. The spirit—I don’t mean the measure, I don’t mean you fall +into bastard cadences; what I mean is that they seem vacant and smoothed +out, ironed, if you like. And in a style which (like yours) aims more +and more successfully at the academic, one purple word is already much; +three—a whole phrase—is inadmissible. Wed yourself to a clean austerity: +that is your force. Wear a linen ephod, splendidly candid. Arrange its +folds, but do not fasten it with any brooch. I swear to you, in your +talking robes, there should be no patch of adornment; and where the +subject forces, let it force you no further than it must; and be ready +with a twinkle of your pleasantry. Yours is a fine tool, and I see so +well how to hold it; I wonder if you see how to hold mine? But then I am +to the neck in prose, and just now in the ‘dark _interstylar_ cave,’ all +methods and effects wooing me, myself in the midst impotent to follow +any. I look for dawn presently, and a full flowing river of expression, +running whither it wills. But these useless seasons, above all, when a +man _must_ continue to spoil paper, are infinitely weary. + +We are in our house after a fashion; without furniture, ’tis true, +camping there, like the family after a sale. But the bailiff has not yet +appeared; he will probably come after. The place is beautiful beyond +dreams; some fifty miles of the Pacific spread in front; deep woods all +round; a mountain making in the sky a profile of huge trees upon our +left; about us, the little island of our clearing, studded with brave old +gentlemen (or ladies, or ‘the twa o’ them’) whom we have spared. It is a +good place to be in; night and morning, we have Theodore Rousseaus +(always a new one) hung to amuse us on the walls of the world; and the +moon—this is our good season, we have a moon just now—makes the night a +piece of heaven. It amazes me how people can live on in the dirty north; +yet if you saw our rainy season (which is really a caulker for wind, wet, +and darkness—howling showers, roaring winds, pit-blackness at noon) you +might marvel how we could endure that. And we can’t. But there’s a +winter everywhere; only ours is in the summer. Mark my words: there will +be a winter in heaven—and in hell. _Cela rentre dans les procédés du bon +Dieu_; _et vous verrez_! There’s another very good thing about Vailima, +I am away from the little bubble of the literary life. It is not all +beer and skittles, is it? By the by, my _Ballads_ seem to have been dam +bad; all the crickets sing so in their crickety papers; and I have no +ghost of an idea on the point myself: verse is always to me the +unknowable. You might tell me how it strikes a professional bard: not +that it really matters, for, of course, good or bad, I don’t think I +shall get into _that_ galley any more. But I should like to know if you +join the shrill chorus of the crickets. The crickets are the devil in +all to you: ’tis a strange thing, they seem to rejoice like a strong man +in their injustice. I trust you got my letter about your Browning book. +In case it missed, I wish to say again that your publication of +Browning’s kind letter, as an illustration of _his_ character, was +modest, proper, and in radiant good taste.—In Witness whereof, etc., +etc., + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS RAWLINSON + + + _Vailima_, _Apia_, _Samoa_, _April_ 1891. + +MY DEAR MAY,—I never think of you by any more ceremonial name, so I will +not pretend. There is not much chance that I shall forget you until the +time comes for me to forget all this little turmoil in a corner (though +indeed I have been in several corners) of an inconsiderable planet. You +remain in my mind for a good reason, having given me (in so short a time) +the most delightful pleasure. I shall remember, and you must still be +beautiful. The truth is, you must grow more so, or you will soon be +less. It is not so easy to be a flower, even when you bear a flower’s +name. And if I admired you so much, and still remember you, it is not +because of your face, but because you were then worthy of it, as you must +still continue. + +Will you give my heartiest congratulations to Mr. S.? He has my +admiration; he is a brave man; when I was young, I should have run away +from the sight of you, pierced with the sense of my unfitness. He is +more wise and manly. What a good husband he will have to be! And +you—what a good wife! Carry your love tenderly. I will never forgive +him—or you—it is in both your hands—if the face that once gladdened my +heart should be changed into one sour or sorrowful. + +What a person you are to give flowers! It was so I first heard of you; +and now you are giving the May flower! + +Yes, Skerryvore has passed; it was, for us. But I wish you could see us +in our new home on the mountain, in the middle of great woods, and +looking far out over the Pacific. When Mr. S. is very rich, he must +bring you round the world and let you see it, and see the old gentleman +and the old lady. I mean to live quite a long while yet, and my wife +must do the same, or else I couldn’t manage it; so, you see, you will +have plenty of time; and it’s a pity not to see the most beautiful +places, and the most beautiful people moving there, and the real stars +and moon overhead, instead of the tin imitations that preside over +London. I do not think my wife very well; but I am in hopes she will now +have a little rest. It has been a hard business, above all for her; we +lived four months in the hurricane season in a miserable house, overborne +with work, ill-fed, continually worried, drowned in perpetual rain, +beaten upon by wind, so that we must sit in the dark in the evenings; and +then I ran away, and she had a month of it alone. Things go better now; +the back of the work is broken; and we are still foolish enough to look +forward to a little peace. I am a very different person from the +prisoner of Skerryvore. The other day I was three-and-twenty hours in an +open boat; it made me pretty ill; but fancy its not killing me half-way! +It is like a fairy story that I should have recovered liberty and +strength, and should go round again among my fellow-men, boating, riding, +bathing, toiling hard with a wood-knife in the forest. I can wish you +nothing more delightful than my fortune in life; I wish it you; and +better, if the thing be possible. + +Lloyd is tinkling below me on the typewriter; my wife has just left the +room; she asks me to say she would have written had she been well enough, +and hopes to do it still.—Accept the best wishes of your admirer, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + [_Vailima_, _May_ 1891.] + +MY DEAR ADELAIDE,—I will own you just did manage to tread on my gouty +toe; and I beg to assure you with most people I should simply have turned +away and said no more. My cudgelling was therefore in the nature of a +caress or testimonial. + +God forbid, I should seem to judge for you on such a point; it was what +you seemed to set forth as your reasons that fluttered my old +Presbyterian spirit—for, mind you, I am a child of the Covenanters—whom I +do not love, but they are mine after all, my father’s and my mother’s—and +they had their merits too, and their ugly beauties, and grotesque +heroisms, that I love them for, the while I laugh at them; but in their +name and mine do what you think right, and let the world fall. That is +the privilege and the duty of private persons; and I shall think the more +of you at the greater distance, because you keep a promise to your +fellow-man, your helper and creditor in life, by just so much as I was +tempted to think the less of you (O not much, or I would never have been +angry) when I thought you were the swallower of a (tinfoil) formula. + +I must say I was uneasy about my letter, not because it was too strong as +an expression of my unregenerate sentiments, but because I knew full well +it should be followed by something kinder. And the mischief has been in +my health. I fell sharply sick in Sydney, was put aboard the _Lübeck_ +pretty bad, got to Vailima, hung on a month there, and didn’t pick up as +well as my work needed; set off on a journey, gained a great deal, lost +it again; and am back at Vailima, still no good at my necessary work. I +tell you this for my imperfect excuse that I should not have written you +again sooner to remove the bad taste of my last. + +A road has been called Adelaide Road; it leads from the back of our house +to the bridge, and thence to the garden, and by a bifurcation to the pig +pen. It is thus much traversed, particularly by Fanny. An oleander, the +only one of your seeds that prospered in this climate, grows there; and +the name is now some week or ten days applied and published. ADELAIDE +ROAD leads also into the bush, to the banana patch, and by a second +bifurcation over the left branch of the stream to the plateau and the +right hand of the gorges. In short, it leads to all sorts of good, and +is, besides, in itself a pretty winding path, bound downhill among big +woods to the margin of the stream. + +What a strange idea, to think me a Jew-hater! Isaiah and David and Heine +are good enough for me; and I leave more unsaid. Were I of Jew blood, I +do not think I could ever forgive the Christians; the ghettos would get +in my nostrils like mustard or lit gunpowder. Just so you as being a +child of the Presbytery, I retain—I need not dwell on that. The +ascendant hand is what I feel most strongly; I am bound in and in with my +forbears; were he one of mine, I should not be struck at all by Mr. Moss +of Bevis Marks, I should still see behind him Moses of the Mount and the +Tables and the shining face. We are all nobly born; fortunate those who +know it; blessed those who remember. + +I am, my dear Adelaide, most genuinely yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Write by return to say you are better, and I will try to do the same. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Vailima_], _Tuesday_, 19_th_ _May_ ’91. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I don’t know what you think of me, not having written to +you at all during your illness. I find two sheets begun with your name, +but that is no excuse. . . . I am keeping bravely; getting about better, +every day, and hope soon to be in my usual fettle. My books begin to +come; and I fell once more on the Old Bailey session papers. I have +1778, 1784, and 1786. Should you be able to lay hands on any other +volumes, above all a little later, I should be very glad you should buy +them for me. I particularly want _one_ or _two_ during the course of the +Peninsular War. Come to think, I ought rather to have communicated this +want to Bain. Would it bore you to communicate to that effect with the +great man? The sooner I have them, the better for me. ’Tis for Henry +Shovel. But Henry Shovel has now turned into a work called ‘The Shovels +of Newton French: Including Memoirs of Henry Shovel, a Private in the +Peninsular War,’ which work is to begin in 1664 with the marriage of +Skipper, afterwards Alderman Shovel of Bristol, Henry’s +great-great-grandfather, and end about 1832 with his own second marriage +to the daughter of his runaway aunt. Will the public ever stand such an +opus? Gude kens, but it tickles me. Two or three historical personages +will just appear: Judge Jeffreys, Wellington, Colquhoun, Grant, and I +think Townsend the runner. I know the public won’t like it; let ’em lump +it then; I mean to make it good; it will be more like a saga.—Adieu, +yours ever affectionately, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima_ [_Summer_ 1891]. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—I find among my grandfather’s papers his own +reminiscences of his voyage round the north with Sir Walter, eighty years +ago, _labuntur anni_! They are not remarkably good, but he was not a bad +observer, and several touches seem to me speaking. It has occurred to me +you might like them to appear in the _Magazine_. If you would, kindly +let me know, and tell me how you would like it handled. My grandad’s MS. +runs to between six and seven thousand words, which I could abbreviate of +anecdotes that scarce touch Sir W. Would you like this done? Would you +like me to introduce the old gentleman? I had something of the sort in +my mind, and could fill a few columns rather _à propos_. I give you the +first offer of this, according to your request; for though it may +forestall one of the interests of my biography, the thing seems to me +particularly suited for prior appearance in a magazine. + +I see the first number of the _Wrecker_; I thought it went lively enough; +and by a singular accident, the picture is not unlike Tai-o-hae! + +Thus we see the age of miracles, etc.—Yours very sincerely, + + R. L. S. + +Proofs for next mail. + + + +TO W. CRAIBE ANGUS + + + [_Summer_ 1891.] + +DEAR MR. ANGUS,—You can use my letter as you will. The parcel has not +come; pray Heaven the next post bring it safe. Is it possible for me to +write a preface here? I will try if you like, if you think I must: +though surely there are Rivers in Assyria. Of course you will send me +sheets of the catalogue; I suppose it (the preface) need not be long; +perhaps it should be rather very short? Be sure you give me your views +upon these points. Also tell me what names to mention among those of +your helpers, and do remember to register everything, else it is not +safe. + +The true place (in my view) for a monument to Fergusson were the +churchyard of Haddington. But as that would perhaps not carry many +votes, I should say one of the two following sites:—First, either as near +the site of the old Bedlam as we could get, or, second, beside the Cross, +the heart of his city. Upon this I would have a fluttering butterfly, +and, I suggest, the citation, + + Poor butterfly, thy case I mourn. + +For the case of Fergusson is not one to pretend about. A more miserable +tragedy the sun never shone upon, or (in consideration of our climate) I +should rather say refused to brighten.—Yours truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Where Burns goes will not matter. He is no local poet, like your Robin +the First; he is general as the casing air. Glasgow, as the chief city +of Scottish men, would do well; but for God’s sake, don’t let it be like +the Glasgow memorial to Knox: I remember, when I first saw this, laughing +for an hour by Shrewsbury clock. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO H. C. IDE + + + [_Vailima_, _June_ 19, 1891.] + +DEAR MR. IDE,—Herewith please find the DOCUMENT, which I trust will prove +sufficient in law. It seems to me very attractive in its eclecticism; +Scots, English, and Roman law phrases are all indifferently introduced, +and a quotation from the works of Haynes Bayly can hardly fail to attract +the indulgence of the Bench.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +I, Robert Louis Stevenson, Advocate of the Scots Bar, author of _The +Master of Ballantrae_ and _Moral Emblems_, stuck civil engineer, sole +owner and patentee of the Palace and Plantation known as Vailima in the +island of Upolu, Samoa, a British Subject, being in sound mind, and +pretty well, I thank you, in body: + +In consideration that Miss Annie H. Ide, daughter of H. C. Ide, in the +town of Saint Johnsbury, in the county of Caledonia, in the state of +Vermont, United States of America, was born, out of all reason, upon +Christmas Day, and is therefore out of all justice denied the consolation +and profit of a proper birthday; + +And considering that I, the said Robert Louis Stevenson, have attained an +age when O, we never mention it, and that I have now no further use for a +birthday of any description; + +And in consideration that I have met H. C. Ide, the father of the said +Annie H. Ide, and found him about as white a land commissioner as I +require: + +_Have transferred_, and _do hereby transfer_, to the said Annie H. Ide, +_all and whole_ my rights and priviledges in the thirteenth day of +November, formerly my birthday, now, hereby, and henceforth, the birthday +of the said Annie H. Ide, to have, hold, exercise, and enjoy the same in +the customary manner, by the sporting of fine raiment, eating of rich +meats, and receipt of gifts, compliments, and copies of verse, according +to the manner of our ancestors; + +_And I direct_ the said Annie H. Ide to add to the said name of Annie H. +Ide the name Louisa—at least in private; and I charge her to use my said +birthday with moderation and humanity, _et tamquam bona filia familiæ_, +the said birthday not being so young as it once was, and having carried +me in a very satisfactory manner since I can remember; + +And in case the said Annie H. Ide shall neglect or contravene either of +the above conditions, I hereby revoke the donation and transfer my rights +in the said birthday to the President of the United States of America for +the time being: + +In witness whereof I have hereto set my hand and seal this nineteenth day +of June in the year of grace eighteen hundred and ninety-one. + + [Picture: Circle with word ‘seal’ in it] + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_Witness_, LLOYD OSBOURNE, + +_Witness_, HAROLD WATTS. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + [_Vailima_, _October_ 1891.] + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—From this perturbed and hunted being expect but a +line, and that line shall be but a whoop for Adela. O she’s delicious, +delicious; I could live and die with Adela—die, rather the better of the +two; you never did a straighter thing, and never will. + +_David Balfour_, second part of _Kidnapped_, is on the stocks at last; +and is not bad, I think. As for _The Wrecker_, it’s a machine, you +know—don’t expect aught else—a machine, and a police machine; but I +believe the end is one of the most genuine butcheries in literature; and +we point to our machine with a modest pride, as the only police machine +without a villain. Our criminals are a most pleasing crew, and leave the +dock with scarce a stain upon their character. + +What a different line of country to be trying to draw Adela, and trying +to write the last four chapters of _The Wrecker_! Heavens, it’s like two +centuries; and ours is such rude, transpontine business, aiming only at a +certain fervour of conviction and sense of energy and violence in the +men; and yours is so neat and bright and of so exquisite a surface! +Seems dreadful to send such a book to such an author; but your name is on +the list. And we do modestly ask you to consider the chapters on the +_Norah Creina_ with the study of Captain Nares, and the forementioned +last four, with their brutality of substance and the curious (and perhaps +unsound) technical manœuvre of running the story together to a point as +we go along, the narrative becoming more succinct and the details fining +off with every page.—Sworn affidavit of + + R. L. S. + +_No person now alive has beaten Adela_: _I adore Adela and her maker_. +_Sic subscrib._ + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +A Sublime Poem to follow. + + Adela, Adela, Adela Chart, + What have you done to my elderly heart? + Of all the ladies of paper and ink + I count you the paragon, call you the pink. + The word of your brother depicts you in part: + ‘You raving maniac!’ Adela Chart; + But in all the asylums that cumber the ground, + So delightful a maniac was ne’er to be found. + + I pore on you, dote on you, clasp you to heart, + I laud, love, and laugh at you, Adela Chart, + And thank my dear maker the while I admire + That I can be neither your husband nor sire. + + Your husband’s, your sire’s were a difficult part; + You’re a byway to suicide, Adela Chart; + But to read of, depicted by exquisite James, + O, sure you’re the flower and quintessence of dames. + + R. L. S. + + _Eructavit cor meum._ + +My heart was inditing a goodly matter about Adela Chart. + + Though oft I’ve been touched by the volatile dart, + To none have I grovelled but Adela Chart, + There are passable ladies, no question, in art— + But where is the marrow of Adela Chart? + I dreamed that to Tyburn I passed in the cart— + I dreamed I was married to Adela Chart: + From the first I awoke with a palpable start, + The second dumfoundered me, Adela Chart! + +Another verse bursts from me, you see; no end to the violence of the +Muse. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _October_ 8_th_, 1891. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—All right, you shall have the _Tales of my +Grandfather_ soon, but I guess we’ll try and finish off _The Wrecker_ +first. _À propos_ of whom, please send some advanced sheets to +Cassell’s—away ahead of you—so that they may get a dummy out. + +Do you wish to illustrate _My Grandfather_? He mentions as excellent a +portrait of Scott by Basil Hall’s brother. I don’t think I ever saw this +engraved; would it not, if you could get track of it, prove a taking +embellishment? I suggest this for your consideration and inquiry. A new +portrait of Scott strikes me as good. There is a hard, tough, +constipated old portrait of my grandfather hanging in my aunt’s house, +Mrs. Alan Stevenson, 16 St. Leonard’s Terrace, Chelsea, which has never +been engraved—the better portrait, Joseph’s bust has been reproduced, I +believe, twice—and which, I am sure, my aunt would let you have a copy +of. The plate could be of use for the book when we get so far, and thus +to place it in the _Magazine_ might be an actual saving. + +I am swallowed up in politics for the first, I hope for the last, time in +my sublunary career. It is a painful, thankless trade; but one thing +that came up I could not pass in silence. Much drafting, addressing, +deputationising has eaten up all my time, and again (to my contrition) I +leave you Wreckerless. As soon as the mail leaves I tackle it +straight.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima_ [_Autumn_ 1891]. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—The time draws nigh, the mail is near due, and I +snatch a moment of collapse so that you may have at least some sort of a +scratch of note along with the + + end + + of + + The + + Wrecker. + + Hurray! + +which I mean to go herewith. It has taken me a devil of a pull, but I +think it’s going to be ready. If I did not know you were on the stretch +waiting for it and trembling for your illustrations, I would keep it for +another finish; but things being as they are, I will let it go the best +way I can get it. I am now within two pages of the end of Chapter XXV., +which is the last chapter, the end with its gathering up of loose +threads, being the dedication to Low, and addressed to him: this is my +last and best expedient for the knotting up of these loose cards. ’Tis +possible I may not get that finished in time, in which case you’ll +receive only Chapters XXII. to XXV. by this mail, which is all that can +be required for illustration. + +I wish you would send me _Memoirs of Baron Marbot_ (French); +_Introduction to the Study of the History of Language_, Strong, Logeman & +Wheeler; _Principles of Psychology_, William James; Morris & Magnusson’s +_Saga Library_, any volumes that are out; George Meredith’s _One of our +Conquerors_; _Là Bas_, by Huysmans (French); O’Connor Morris’s _Great +Commanders of Modern Times_; _Life’s Handicap_, by Kipling; of Taine’s +_Origines de la France Contemporaine_, I have only as far as _la +Révolution_, vol. iii.; if another volume is out, please add that. There +is for a book-box. + +I hope you will like the end; I think it is rather strong meat. I have +got into such a deliberate, dilatory, expansive turn, that the effort to +compress this last yarn was unwelcome; but the longest yarn has to come +to an end sometime. Please look it over for carelessnesses, and tell me +if it had any effect upon your jaded editorial mind. I’ll see if ever I +have time to add more. + +I add to my book-box list Adams’ _Historical Essays_; the Plays of A. W. +Pinero—all that have appeared, and send me the rest in course as they do +appear; _Noughts and Crosses_ by Q.; Robertson’s _Scotland under her +Early Kings_. + + _Sunday_. + +The deed is done, didst thou not hear a noise? ‘The end’ has been +written to this endless yarn, and I am once more a free man. What will +he do with it? + + + +TO W. CRAIBE ANGUS + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _November_ 1891. + +MY DEAR MR. ANGUS,—Herewith the invaluable sheets. They came months +after your letter, and I trembled; but here they are, and I have scrawled +my vile name on them, and ‘thocht shame’ as I did it. I am expecting the +sheets of your catalogue, so that I may attack the preface. Please give +me all the time you can. The sooner the better; you might even send me +early proofs as they are sent out, to give me more incubation. I used to +write as slow as judgment; now I write rather fast; but I am still ‘a +slow study,’ and sit a long while silent on my eggs. Unconscious +thought, there is the only method: macerate your subject, let it boil +slow, then take the lid off and look in—and there your stuff is, good or +bad. But the journalist’s method is the way to manufacture lies; it is +will-worship—if you know the luminous quaker phrase; and the will is only +to be brought in the field for study, and again for revision. The +essential part of work is not an act, it is a state. + +I do not know why I write you this trash. + +Many thanks for your handsome dedication. I have not yet had time to do +more than glance at Mrs. Begg; it looks interesting.—Yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS ANNIE H. IDE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_ [_November_ 1891]. + +MY DEAR LOUISA,—Your picture of the church, the photograph of yourself +and your sister, and your very witty and pleasing letter, came all in a +bundle, and made me feel I had my money’s worth for that birthday. I am +now, I must be, one of your nearest relatives; exactly what we are to +each other, I do not know, I doubt if the case has ever happened +before—your papa ought to know, and I don’t believe he does; but I think +I ought to call you in the meanwhile, and until we get the advice of +counsel learned in the law, my name-daughter. Well, I was extremely +pleased to see by the church that my name-daughter could draw; by the +letter, that she was no fool; and by the photograph, that she was a +pretty girl, which hurts nothing. See how virtues are rewarded! My +first idea of adopting you was entirely charitable; and here I find that +I am quite proud of it, and of you, and that I chose just the kind of +name-daughter I wanted. For I can draw too, or rather I mean to say I +could before I forgot how; and I am very far from being a fool myself, +however much I may look it; and I am as beautiful as the day, or at least +I once hoped that perhaps I might be going to be. And so I might. So +that you see we are well met, and peers on these important points. I am +_very_ glad also that you are older than your sister. So should I have +been, if I had had one. So that the number of points and virtues which +you have inherited from your name-father is already quite surprising. + +I wish you would tell your father—not that I like to encourage my +rival—that we have had a wonderful time here of late, and that they are +having a cold day on Mulinuu, and the consuls are writing reports, and I +am writing to the _Times_, and if we don’t get rid of our friends this +time I shall begin to despair of everything but my name-daughter. + +You are quite wrong as to the effect of the birthday on your age. From +the moment the deed was registered (as it was in the public press with +every solemnity), the 13th of November became your own _and only_ +birthday, and you ceased to have been born on Christmas Day. Ask your +father: I am sure he will tell you this is sound law. You are thus +become a month and twelve days younger than you were, but will go on +growing older for the future in the regular and human manner from one +13th November to the next. The effect on me is more doubtful; I may, as +you suggest, live for ever; I might, on the other hand, come to pieces +like the one-horse shay at a moment’s notice; doubtless the step was +risky, but I do not the least regret that which enables me to sign myself +your revered and delighted name-father, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO FRED ORR + + + _Vailima_, _Upolu_, _Samoa_, _November_ 28_th_, 1891. + +DEAR SIR,—Your obliging communication is to hand. I am glad to find that +you have read some of my books, and to see that you spell my name right. +This is a point (for some reason) of great difficulty; and I believe that +a gentleman who can spell Stevenson with a v at sixteen, should have a +show for the Presidency before fifty. By that time + + I, nearer to the wayside inn, + +predict that you will have outgrown your taste for autographs, but +perhaps your son may have inherited the collection, and on the morning of +the great day will recall my prophecy to your mind. And in the papers of +1921 (say) this letter may arouse a smile. + +Whatever you do, read something else besides novels and newspapers; the +first are good enough when they are good; the second, at their best, are +worth nothing. Read great books of literature and history; try to +understand the Roman Empire and the Middle Ages; be sure you do not +understand when you dislike them; condemnation is non-comprehension. And +if you know something of these two periods, you will know a little more +about to-day, and may be a good President. + +I send you my best wishes, and am yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, + _Author of a vast quantity of little books_. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + [_Vailima_, _December_ 1891.] + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—The end of _The Wrecker_ having but just come in, you +will, I dare say, be appalled to receive three (possibly four) chapters +of a new book of the least attractive sort: a history of nowhere in a +corner, for no time to mention, running to a volume! Well, it may very +likely be an illusion; it is very likely no one could possibly wish to +read it, but I wish to publish it. If you don’t cotton to the idea, +kindly set it up at my expense, and let me know your terms for +publishing. The great affair to me is to have per return (if it might +be) four or five—better say half a dozen—sets of the roughest proofs that +can be drawn. There are a good many men here whom I want to read the +blessed thing, and not one would have the energy to read MS. At the same +time, if you care to glance at it, and have the time, I should be very +glad of your opinion as to whether I have made any step at all towards +possibly inducing folk at home to read matter so extraneous and +outlandish. I become heavy and owlish; years sit upon me; it begins to +seem to me to be a man’s business to leave off his damnable faces and say +his say. Else I could have made it pungent and light and lively. In +considering, kindly forget that I am R. L. S.; think of the four chapters +as a book you are reading, by an inhabitant of our ‘lovely but fatil’ +islands; and see if it could possibly amuse the hebetated public. I have +to publish anyway, you understand; I have a purpose beyond; I am +concerned for some of the parties to this quarrel. What I want to hear +is from curiosity; what I want you to judge of is what we are to do with +the book in a business sense. To me it is not business at all; I had +meant originally to lay all the profits to the credit of Samoa; when it +comes to the pinch of writing, I judge this unfair—I give too much—and I +mean to keep (if there be any profit at all) one-half for the artisan; +the rest I shall hold over to give to the Samoans _for that which I +choose and against work done_. I think I have never heard of greater +insolence than to attempt such a subject; yet the tale is so strange and +mixed, and the people so oddly charactered—above all, the whites—and the +high note of the hurricane and the warships is so well prepared to take +popular interest, and the latter part is so directly in the day’s +movement, that I am not without hope but some may read it; and if they +don’t, a murrain on them! Here is, for the first time, a tale of +Greeks—Homeric Greeks—mingled with moderns, and all true; Odysseus +alongside of Rajah Brooke, _proportion gardée_; and all true. Here is +for the first time since the Greeks (that I remember) the history of a +handful of men, where all know each other in the eyes, and live close in +a few acres, narrated at length, and with the seriousness of history. +Talk of the modern novel; here is a modern history. And if I had the +misfortune to found a school, the legitimate historian might lie down and +die, for he could never overtake his material. Here is a little tale +that has not ‘caret’-ed its ‘vates’; ‘sacer’ is another point. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _December_ 7_th_, 1891. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—Thanks for yours; your former letter was lost; so it +appears was my long and masterly treatise on the _Tragic Muse_. I +remember sending it very well, and there went by the same mail a long and +masterly tractate to Gosse about his daddy’s life, for which I have been +long expecting an acknowledgment, and which is plainly gone to the bottom +with the other. If you see Gosse, please mention it. These gems of +criticism are now lost literature, like the tomes of Alexandria. I could +not do ’em again. And I must ask you to be content with a dull head, a +weary hand, and short commons, for to-day, as I am physically tired with +hard work of every kind, the labours of the planter and the author both +piled upon me mountain deep. I am delighted beyond expression by +Bourget’s book: he has phrases which affect me almost like Montaigne; I +had read ere this a masterly essay of his on Pascal; this book does it; I +write for all his essays by this mail, and shall try to meet him when I +come to Europe. The proposal is to pass a summer in France, I think in +Royat, where the faithful could come and visit me; they are now not many. +I expect Henry James to come and break a crust or two with us. I believe +it will be only my wife and myself; and she will go over to England, but +not I, or possibly incog. to Southampton, and then to Boscombe to see +poor Lady Shelley. I am writing—trying to write in a Babel fit for the +bottomless pit; my wife, her daughter, her grandson and my mother, all +shrieking at each other round the house—not in war, thank God! but the +din is ultra martial, and the note of Lloyd joins in occasionally, and +the cause of this to-do is simply cacao, whereof chocolate comes. You +may drink of our chocolate perhaps in five or six years from now, and not +know it. It makes a fine bustle, and gives us some hard work, out of +which I have slunk for to-day. + +I have a story coming out: God knows when or how; it answers to the name +of the _Beach of Falesà_, and I think well of it. I was delighted with +the _Tragic Muse_; I thought the Muse herself one of your best works; I +was delighted also to hear of the success of your piece, as you know I am +a dam failure, {245} and might have dined with the dinner club that +Daudet and these parties frequented. + + _Next day_. + +I have just been breakfasting at Baiae and Brindisi, and the charm of +Bourget hag-rides me. I wonder if this exquisite fellow, all made of +fiddle-strings and scent and intelligence, could bear any of my bald +prose. If you think he could, ask Colvin to send him a copy of these +last essays of mine when they appear; and tell Bourget they go to him +from a South Sea Island as literal homage. I have read no new book for +years that gave me the same literary thrill as his _Sensations d’Italie_. +If (as I imagine) my cut-and-dry literature would be death to him, and +worse than death—journalism—be silent on the point. For I have a great +curiosity to know him, and if he doesn’t know my work, I shall have the +better chance of making his acquaintance. I read _The Pupil_ the other +day with great joy; your little boy is admirable; why is there no little +boy like that unless he hails from the Great Republic? + +Here I broke off, and wrote Bourget a dedication; no use resisting; it’s +a love affair. O, he’s exquisite, I bless you for the gift of him. I +have really enjoyed this book as I—almost as I—used to enjoy books when I +was going twenty—twenty-three; and these are the years for reading! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + [_Vailima_] _Jan._ 2_nd_, ’92. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—Overjoyed you were pleased with _Wrecker_, and shall +consider your protests. There is perhaps more art than you think for in +the peccant chapter, where I have succeeded in packing into one a +dedication, an explanation, and a termination. Surely you had not +recognised the phrase about boodle? It was a quotation from Jim +Pinkerton, and seemed to me agreeably skittish. However, all shall be +prayerfully considered. + +To come to a more painful subject. Herewith go three more chapters of +the wretched _History_; as you see, I approach the climax. I expect the +book to be some 70,000 words, of which you have now 45. Can I finish it +for next mail? I am going to try! ’Tis a long piece of journalism, and +full of difficulties here and there, of this kind and that, and will make +me a power of friends to be sure. There is one Becker who will probably +put up a window to me in the church where he was baptized; and I expect a +testimonial from Captain Hand. + +Sorry to let the mail go without the Scott; this has been a bad month +with me, and I have been below myself. I shall find a way to have it +come by next, or know the reason why. The mail after, anyway. + +A bit of a sketch map appears to me necessary for my _History_; perhaps +two. If I do not have any, ’tis impossible any one should follow; and I, +even when not at all interested, demand that I shall be able to follow; +even a tourist book without a map is a cross to me; and there must be +others of my way of thinking. I inclose the very artless one that I +think needful. Vailima, in case you are curious, is about as far again +behind Tanugamanono as that is from the sea. + +M‘Clure is publishing a short story of mine, some 50,000 words, I think, +_The Beach of Falesà_; when he’s done with it, I want you and Cassell to +bring it out in a little volume; I shall send you a dedication for it; I +believe it good; indeed, to be honest, very good. Good gear that pleases +the merchant. + +The other map that I half threaten is a chart for the hurricane. Get me +Kimberley’s report of the hurricane: not to be found here. It is of most +importance; I _must_ have it with my proofs of that part, if I cannot +have it earlier, which now seems impossible.—Yours in hot haste, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO J. M. BARRIE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _February_ 1892. + +DEAR MR. BARRIE,—This is at least the third letter I have written you, +but my correspondence has a bad habit of not getting so far as the post. +That which I possess of manhood turns pale before the business of the +address and envelope. But I hope to be more fortunate with this: for, +besides the usual and often recurrent desire to thank you for your +work-you are one of four that have come to the front since I was watching +and had a corner of my own to watch, and there is no reason, unless it be +in these mysterious tides that ebb and flow, and make and mar and murder +the works of poor scribblers, why you should not do work of the best +order. The tides have borne away my sentence, of which I was weary at +any rate, and between authors I may allow myself so much freedom as to +leave it pending. We are both Scots besides, and I suspect both rather +Scotty Scots; my own Scotchness tends to intermittency, but is at times +erisypelitous—if that be rightly spelt. Lastly, I have gathered we had +both made our stages in the metropolis of the winds: our Virgil’s ‘grey +metropolis,’ and I count that a lasting bond. No place so brands a man. + +Finally, I feel it a sort of duty to you to report progress. This may be +an error, but I believed I detected your hand in an article—it may be an +illusion, it may have been by one of those industrious insects who catch +up and reproduce the handling of each emergent man—but I’ll still hope it +was yours—and hope it may please you to hear that the continuation of +_Kidnapped_ is under way. I have not yet got to Alan, so I do not know +if he is still alive, but David seems to have a kick or two in his +shanks. I was pleased to see how the Anglo-Saxon theory fell into the +trap: I gave my Lowlander a Gaelic name, and even commented on the fact +in the text; yet almost all critics recognised in Alan and David a Saxon +and a Celt. I know not about England; in Scotland at least, where Gaelic +was spoken in Fife little over the century ago, and in Galloway not much +earlier, I deny that there exists such a thing as a pure Saxon, and I +think it more than questionable if there be such a thing as a pure Celt. + +But what have you to do with this? and what have I? Let us continue to +inscribe our little bits of tales, and let the heathen rage! Yours, with +sincere interest in your career, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO WILLIAM MORRIS + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _Feb._ 1892. + +MASTER,—A plea from a place so distant should have some weight, and from +a heart so grateful should have some address. I have been long in your +debt, Master, and I did not think it could be so much increased as you +have now increased it. I was long in your debt and deep in your debt for +many poems that I shall never forget, and for _Sigurd_ before all, and +now you have plunged me beyond payment by the Saga Library. And so now, +true to human nature, being plunged beyond payment, I come and bark at +your heels. + +For surely, Master, that tongue that we write, and that you have +illustrated so nobly, is yet alive. She has her rights and laws, and is +our mother, our queen, and our instrument. Now in that living tongue +_where_ has one sense, _whereas_ another. In the _Heathslayings Story_, +p. 241, line 13, it bears one of its ordinary senses. Elsewhere and +usually through the two volumes, which is all that has yet reached me of +this entrancing publication, _whereas_ is made to figure for _where_. + +For the love of God, my dear and honoured Morris, use _where_, and let us +know _whereas_ we are, wherefore our gratitude shall grow, whereby you +shall be the more honoured wherever men love clear language, whereas now, +although we honour, we are troubled. + +Whereunder, please find inscribed to this very impudent but yet very +anxious document, the name of one of the most distant but not the +youngest or the coldest of those who honour you. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. CHARLES FAIRCHILD + + + [_Vailima_, _March_ 1892.] + +MY DEAR MRS. FAIRCHILD,—I am guilty in your sight, but my affairs besiege +me. The chief-justiceship of a family of nineteen persons is in +itself no sinecure, and sometimes occupies me for days: two weeks ago for +four days almost entirely, and for two days entirely. Besides which, I +have in the last few months written all but one chapter of a _History of +Samoa_ for the last eight or nine years; and while I was unavoidably +delayed in the writing of this, awaiting material, put in one-half of +_David Balfour_, the sequel to _Kidnapped_. Add the ordinary impediments +of life, and admire my busyness. I am now an old, but healthy skeleton, +and degenerate much towards the machine. By six at work: stopped at +half-past ten to give a history lesson to a step-grandson; eleven, lunch; +after lunch we have a musical performance till two; then to work again; +bath, 4.40, dinner, five; cards in the evening till eight; and then to +bed—only I have no bed, only a chest with a mat and blankets—and read +myself to sleep. This is the routine, but often sadly interrupted. Then +you may see me sitting on the floor of my verandah haranguing and being +harangued by squatting chiefs on a question of a road; or more privately +holding an inquiry into some dispute among our familiars, myself on my +bed, the boys on the floor—for when it comes to the judicial I play +dignity—or else going down to Apia on some more or less unsatisfactory +errand. Altogether it is a life that suits me, but it absorbs me like an +ocean. That is what I have always envied and admired in Scott; with all +that immensity of work and study, his mind kept flexible, glancing to all +points of natural interest. But the lean hot spirits, such as mine, +become hypnotised with their bit occupations—if I may use Scotch to +you—it is so far more scornful than any English idiom. Well, I can’t +help being a skeleton, and you are to take this devious passage for an +apology. + +I thought _Aladdin_ capital fun; but why, in fortune, did he pretend it +was moral at the end? The so-called nineteenth century, _où va-t-il se +nicher_? ’Tis a trifle, but Pyle would do well to knock the passage out, +and leave his boguey tale a boguey tale, and a good one at that. + +The arrival of your box was altogether a great success to the castaways. +You have no idea where we live. Do you know, in all these islands there +are not five hundred whites, and no postal delivery, and only one +village—it is no more—and would be a mean enough village in Europe? We +were asked the other day if Vailima were the name of our post town, and +we laughed. Do you know, though we are but three miles from the village +metropolis, we have no road to it, and our goods are brought on the +pack-saddle? And do you know—or I should rather say, can you believe—or +(in the famous old Tichborne trial phrase) would you be surprised to +learn, that all you have read of Vailima—or Subpriorsford, as I call +it—is entirely false, and we have no ice-machine, and no electric light, +and no water supply but the cistern of the heavens, and but one public +room, and scarce a bedroom apiece? But, of course, it is well known that +I have made enormous sums by my evanescent literature, and you will smile +at my false humility. The point, however, is much on our minds just now. +We are expecting an invasion of Kiplings; very glad we shall be to see +them; but two of the party are ladies, and I tell you we had to hold a +council of war to stow them. You European ladies are so particular; with +all of mine, sleeping has long become a public function, as with natives +and those who go down much into the sea in ships. + +Dear Mrs. Fairchild, I must go to my work. I have but two words to say +in conclusion. + +First, civilisation is rot. + +Second, console a savage with more of the milk of that over civilised +being, your adorable schoolboy. + +As I wrote these remarkable words, I was called down to eight o’clock +prayers, and have just worked through a chapter of Joshua and five +verses, with five treble choruses of a Samoan hymn; but the music was +good, our boys and precentress (’tis always a woman that leads) did +better than I ever heard them, and to my great pleasure I understood it +all except one verse. This gave me the more time to try and identify +what the parts were doing, and further convict my dull ear. Beyond the +fact that the soprano rose to the tonic above, on one occasion I could +recognise nothing. This is sickening, but I mean to teach my ear better +before I am done with it or this vile carcase. + +I think it will amuse you (for a last word) to hear that our +precentress—she is the washerwoman—is our shame. She is a good, healthy, +comely, strapping young wench, full of energy and seriousness, a splendid +workwoman, delighting to train our chorus, delighting in the poetry of +the hymns, which she reads aloud (on the least provocation) with a great +sentiment of rhythm. Well, then, what is curious? Ah, we did not know! +but it was told us in a whisper from the cook-house—she is not of good +family. Don’t let it get out, please; everybody knows it, of course, +here; there is no reason why Europe and the States should have the +advantage of me also. And the rest of my housefolk are all chief-people, +I assure you. And my late overseer (far the best of his race) is a +really serious chief with a good ‘name.’ Tina is the name; it is not in +the Almanach de Gotha, it must have got dropped at press. The odd thing +is, we rather share the prejudice. I have almost always—though not quite +always—found the higher the chief the better the man through all the +islands; or, at least, that the best man came always from a highish rank. +I hope Helen will continue to prove a bright exception. + +With love to Fairchild and the Huge Schoolboy, I am, my dear Mrs. +Fairchild, yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + [_Vailima_, _March_ 1892.] + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—Herewith Chapters IX. and X., and I am left face to +face with the horrors and dilemmas of the present regimen: pray for those +that go down to the sea in ships. I have promised Henley shall have a +chance to publish the hurricane chapter if he like, so please let the +slips be sent _quam primum_ to C. Baxter, W.S., 11 S. Charlotte Street, +Edinburgh. I got on mighty quick with that chapter—about five days of +the toughest kind of work. God forbid I should ever have such another +pirn to wind! When I invent a language, there shall be a direct and an +indirect pronoun differently declined—then writing would be some fun. + +DIRECT INDIRECT + He Tu + Him Tum + His Tus + +Ex.: _He_ seized _tum_ by _tus_ throat; but _tu_ at the same moment +caught _him_ by _his_ hair. A fellow could write hurricanes with an +inflection like that! Yet there would he difficulties too. + +Do what you please about _The Beach_; and I give you _carte blanche_ to +write in the matter to Baxter—or telegraph if the time press—to delay the +English contingent. Herewith the two last slips of _The Wrecker_. I +cannot go beyond. By the way, pray compliment the printers on the proofs +of the Samoa racket, but hint to them that it is most unbusiness-like and +unscholarly to clip the edges of the galleys; these proofs should really +have been sent me on large paper; and I and my friends here are all put +to a great deal of trouble and confusion by the mistake. For, as you +must conceive, in a matter so contested and complicated, the number of +corrections and the length of explanations is considerable. + +Please add to my former orders— + +_Le Chevalier Des Touches_ by Barbey d’Aurévilly. +_Les Diaboliques_ +_Correspondance de Henri Beyle_ (Stendahl). + +Yours sincerely, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO T. W. DOVER + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Upolu_, _Samoa_, _June_ 20_th_, 1892. + +SIR,—In reply to your very interesting letter, I cannot fairly say that I +have ever been poor, or known what it was to want a meal. I have been +reduced, however, to a very small sum of money, with no apparent prospect +of increasing it; and at that time I reduced myself to practically one +meal a day, with the most disgusting consequences to my health. At this +time I lodged in the house of a working man, and associated much with +others. At the same time, from my youth up, I have always been a good +deal and rather intimately thrown among the working-classes, partly as a +civil engineer in out-of-the-way places, partly from a strong and, I +hope, not ill-favoured sentiment of curiosity. But the place where, +perhaps, I was most struck with the fact upon which you comment was the +house of a friend, who was exceedingly poor, in fact, I may say +destitute, and who lived in the attic of a very tall house entirely +inhabited by persons in varying stages of poverty. As he was also in +ill-health, I made a habit of passing my afternoon with him, and when +there it was my part to answer the door. The steady procession of people +begging, and the expectant and confident manner in which they presented +themselves, struck me more and more daily; and I could not but remember +with surprise that though my father lived but a few streets away in a +fine house, beggars scarce came to the door once a fortnight or a month. +From that time forward I made it my business to inquire, and in the +stories which I am very fond of hearing from all sorts and conditions of +men, learned that in the time of their distress it was always from the +poor they sought assistance, and almost always from the poor they got it. + +Trusting I have now satisfactorily answered your question, which I thank +you for asking, I remain, with sincere compliments, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima_, _Summer_ 1892. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—First of all, _you have all the corrections on_ ‘_The +Wrecker_.’ I found I had made what I meant and forgotten it, and was so +careless as not to tell you. + +Second, of course, and by all means, charge corrections on the Samoa book +to me; but there are not near so many as I feared. The Lord hath dealt +bountifully with me, and I believe all my advisers were amazed to see how +nearly correct I had got the truck, at least I was. With this you will +receive the whole revise and a typewritten copy of the last chapter. And +the thing now is Speed, to catch a possible revision of the treaty. I +believe Cassells are to bring it out, but Baxter knows, and the thing has +to be crammed through _prestissimo_, _à la chasseur_. + +You mention the belated Barbeys; what about the equally belated Pineros? +And I hope you will keep your bookshop alive to supplying me continuously +with the _Saga Library_. I cannot get enough of _Sagas_; I wish there +were nine thousand; talk about realism! + +All seems to flourish with you; I also prosper; none the less for being +quit of that abhorred task, Samoa. I could give a supper party here were +there any one to sup. Never was such a disagreeable task, but the thing +had to be told. . . . + +There, I trust I am done with this cursed chapter of my career, bar the +rotten eggs and broken bottles that may follow, of course. Pray +remember, speed is now all that can be asked, hoped, or wished. I give +up all hope of proofs, revises, proof of the map, or sic like; and you on +your side will try to get it out as reasonably seemly as may be. + +Whole Samoa book herewith. Glory be to God.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Upolu_, _Samoan Islands_, 18_th_ _July_ 1892. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—. . . I have been now for some time contending with +powers and principalities, and I have never once seen one of my own +letters to the _Times_. So when you see something in the papers that you +think might interest the exiles of Upolu, do not think twice, out with +your saxpence, and send it flying to Vailima. Of what you say of the +past, eh, man, it was a queer time, and awful miserable, but there’s no +sense in denying it was awful fun. Do you mind the youth in Highland +garb and the tableful of coppers? Do you mind the SIGNAL of Waterloo +Place?—Hey, how the blood stands to the heart at such a memory!—Hae ye +the notes o’t? Gie’s them.—Gude’s sake, man, gie’s the notes o’t; I mind +ye made a tune o’t an’ played it on your pinanny; gie’s the notes. Dear +Lord, that past. + +Glad to hear Henley’s prospects are fair: his new volume is the work of a +real poet. He is one of those who can make a noise of his own with +words, and in whom experience strikes an individual note. There is +perhaps no more genuine poet living, bar the Big Guns. In case I cannot +overtake an acknowledgment to himself by this mail, please let him hear +of my pleasure and admiration. How poorly—compares! He is all smart +journalism and cleverness: it is all bright and shallow and limpid, like +a business paper—a good one, _s’entend_; but there is no blot of heart’s +blood and the Old Night: there are no harmonics, there is scarce harmony +to his music; and in Henley—all of these; a touch, a sense within sense, +a sound outside the sound, the shadow of the inscrutable, eloquent beyond +all definition. The First London Voluntary knocked me wholly.—Ever yours +affectionately, my dear Charles, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Kind memories to your father and all friends. + + + +TO W. E. HENLEY + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Upolu_, _Samoa_, _August_ 1_st_, 1892. + +MY DEAR HENLEY,—It is impossible to let your new volume pass in silence. +I have not received the same thrill of poetry since G. M.’s _Joy of +Earth_ volume and _Love in a Valley_; and I do not know that even that +was so intimate and deep. Again and again, I take the book down, and +read, and my blood is fired as it used to be in youth. _Andante con +moto_ in the _Voluntaries_, and the thing about the trees at night (No. +XXIV. I think) are up to date my favourites. I did not guess you were so +great a magician; these are new tunes, this is an undertone of the true +Apollo; these are not verse, they are poetry—inventions, creations, in +language. I thank you for the joy you have given me, and remain your old +friend and present huge admirer, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +The hand is really the hand of Esau, but under a course of threatened +scrivener’s cramp. + +For the next edition of the Book of Verses, pray accept an emendation. +Last three lines of Echoes No. XLIV. read— + + ‘But life in act? How should the grave + Be victor over these, + Mother, a mother of men?’ + +The two vocatives scatter the effect of this inimitable close. If you +insist on the longer line, equip ‘grave’ with an epithet. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima_, _Upolu_, _August_ 1_st_, ’92. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—Herewith _My Grandfather_. I have had rather a bad +time suppressing the old gentleman, who was really in a very garrulous +stage; as for getting him _in order_, I could do but little towards that; +however, there are one or two points of interest which may justify us in +printing. The swinging of his stick and not knowing the sailor of +Coruiskin, in particular, and the account of how he wrote the lives in +the Bell Book particularly please me. I hope my own little introduction +is not egoistic; or rather I do not care if it is. It was that old +gentleman’s blood that brought me to Samoa. + +By the by, vols. vii., viii., and ix. of Adams’s _History_ have never +come to hand; no more have the dictionaries. + +Please send me _Stonehenge on Horse_, _Stories and Interludes_ by Barry +Pain, and _Edinburgh Sketches and Memoirs_ by David Masson. _The +Wrecker_ has turned up. So far as I have seen, it is very satisfactory, +but on pp. 548, 549, there has been a devil of a miscarriage. The two +Latin quotations instead of following each other being separated +(doubtless for printing considerations) by a line of prose. My +compliments to the printers; there is doubtless such a thing as good +printing, but there is such a thing as good sense. + +The sequel to _Kidnapped_, _David Balfour_ by name, is about +three-quarters done and gone to press for serial publication. By what I +can find out it ought to be through hand with that and ready for volume +form early next spring.—Yours very sincerely, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO ANDREW LANG + + + [_Vailima_, _August_ 1892.] + +MY DEAR LANG,—I knew you would prove a trusty purveyor. The books you +have sent are admirable. I got the name of my hero out of Brown—Blair of +Balmyle—Francie Blair. But whether to call the story _Blair of Balmyle_, +or whether to call it _The Young Chevalier_, I have not yet decided. The +admirable Cameronian tract—perhaps you will think this a cheat—is to be +boned into _David Balfour_, where it will fit better, and really +furnishes me with a desired foothold over a boggy place. + +_Later_; no, it won’t go in, and I fear I must give up ‘the idolatrous +occupant upon the throne,’ a phrase that overjoyed me beyond expression. +I am in a deuce of a flutter with politics, which I hate, and in which I +certainly do not shine; but a fellow cannot stand aside and look on at +such an exhibition as our government. ’Taint decent; no gent can hold a +candle to it. But it’s a grind to be interrupted by midnight messengers +and pass your days writing proclamations (which are never proclaimed) and +petitions (which ain’t petited) and letters to the _Times_, which it +makes my jaws yawn to re-read, and all your time have your heart with +David Balfour: he has just left Glasgow this morning for Edinburgh, James +More has escaped from the castle; it is far more real to me than the +Behring Sea or the Baring brothers either—he got the news of James More’s +escape from the Lord Advocate, and started off straight to comfort +Catriona. You don’t know her; she’s James More’s daughter, and a +respectable young wumman; the Miss Grants think so—the Lord Advocate’s +daughters—so there can’t be anything really wrong. Pretty soon we all go +to Holland, and be hanged; thence to Dunkirk, and be damned; and the tale +concludes in Paris, and be Poll-parrotted. This is the last authentic +news. You are not a real hard-working novelist; not a practical +novelist; so you don’t know the temptation to let your characters +maunder. Dumas did it, and lived. But it is not war; it ain’t +sportsmanlike, and I have to be stopping their chatter all the time. +Brown’s appendix is great reading. + + My only grief is that I can’t + Use the idolatrous occupant. + +Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + +Blessing and praising you for a useful (though idolatrous) occupant of +Kensington. + + + + +TO THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY + + + _August_ 14, 1745. + +TO MISS AMELIA BALFOUR—MY DEAR COUSIN,—We are going an expedition to +leeward on Tuesday morning. If a lady were perhaps to be encountered on +horseback—say, towards the Gasi-gasi river—about six A.M., I think we +should have an episode somewhat after the style of the ’45. What a +misfortune, my dear cousin, that you should have arrived while your +cousin Graham was occupying my only guest-chamber—for Osterley Park is +not so large in Samoa as it was at home—but happily our friend Haggard +has found a corner for you! + +The King over the Water—the Gasi-gasi water—will be pleased to see the +clan of Balfour mustering so thick around his standard. + +I have (one serious word) been so lucky as to get a really secret +interpreter, so all is for the best in our little adventure into the +_Waverley Novels_.—I am your affectionate cousin, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Observe the stealth with which I have blotted my signature, but we must +be political _à outrance_. + + + +TO THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY + + +MY DEAR COUSIN,—I send for your information a copy of my last letter to +the gentleman in question. ’Tis thought more wise, in consideration of +the difficulty and peril of the enterprise, that we should leave the town +in the afternoon, and by several detachments. If you would start for a +ride with the Master of Haggard and Captain Lockhart of Lee, say at three +o’clock of the afternoon, you would make some rencounters by the wayside +which might be agreeable to your political opinions. All present will be +staunch. + +The Master of Haggard might extend his ride a little, and return through +the marsh and by the nuns’ house (I trust that has the proper flavour), +so as a little to diminish the effect of separation.—I remain, your +affectionate cousin to command, + + O TUSITALA. + +_P.S._—It is to be thought this present year of grace will be historical. + + + +TO MRS. CHARLES FAIRCHILD + + + [_Vailima_, _August_ 1892.] + +MY DEAR MRS. FAIRCHILD,—Thank you a thousand times for your letter. You +are the Angel of (the sort of) Information (that I care about); I appoint +you successor to the newspaper press; and I beg of you, whenever you wish +to gird at the age, or think the bugs out of proportion to the roses, or +despair, or enjoy any cosmic or epochal emotion, to sit down again and +write to the Hermit of Samoa. What do I think of it all? Well, I love +the romantic solemnity of youth; and even in this form, although not +without laughter, I have to love it still. They are such ducks! But +what are they made of? We were just as solemn as that about atheism and +the stars and humanity; but we were all for belief anyway—we held atheism +and sociology (of which none of us, nor indeed anybody, knew anything) +for a gospel and an iron rule of life; and it was lucky enough, or there +would have been more windows broken. What is apt to puzzle one at first +sight in the New Youth is that, with such rickety and risky problems +always at heart, they should not plunge down a Niagara of Dissolution. +But let us remember the high practical timidity of youth. I was a +particularly brave boy—this I think of myself, looking back—and plunged +into adventures and experiments, and ran risks that it still surprises me +to recall. But, dear me, what a fear I was in of that strange blind +machinery in the midst of which I stood; and with what a compressed heart +and what empty lungs I would touch a new crank and await developments! I +do not mean to say I do not fear life still; I do; and that terror (for +an adventurer like myself) is still one of the chief joys of living. + +But it was different indeed while I was yet girt with the priceless robes +of inexperience; then the fear was exquisite and infinite. And so, when +you see all these little Ibsens, who seem at once so dry and so +excitable, and faint in swathes over a play (I suppose—for a wager) that +would seem to me merely tedious, smile behind your hand, and remember the +little dears are all in a blue funk. It must be very funny, and to a +spectator like yourself I almost envy it. But never get desperate; human +nature is human nature; and the Roman Empire, since the Romans founded it +and made our European human nature what it is, bids fair to go on and to +be true to itself. These little bodies will all grow up and become men +and women, and have heaps of fun; nay, and are having it now; and +whatever happens to the fashion of the age, it makes no difference—there +are always high and brave and amusing lives to be lived; and a change of +key, however exotic, does not exclude melody. Even Chinamen, hard as we +find it to believe, enjoy being Chinese. And the Chinaman stands alone +to be unthinkable; natural enough, as the representative of the only +other great civilisation. Take my people here at my doors; their life is +a very good one; it is quite thinkable, quite acceptable to us. And the +little dears will be soon skating on the other foot; sooner or later, in +each generation, the one-half of them at least begin to remember all the +material they had rejected when first they made and nailed up their +little theory of life; and these become reactionaries or conservatives, +and the ship of man begins to fill upon the other tack. + +Here is a sermon, by your leave! It is your own fault, you have amused +and interested me so much by your breath of the New Youth, which comes to +me from so far away, where I live up here in my mountain, and secret +messengers bring me letters from rebels, and the government sometimes +seizes them, and generally grumbles in its beard that Stevenson should +really be deported. O, my life is the more lively, never fear! + +It has recently been most amusingly varied by a visit from Lady Jersey. +I took her over mysteriously (under the pseudonym of my cousin, Miss +Amelia Balfour) to visit Mataafa, our rebel; and we had great fun, and +wrote a Ouida novel on our life here, in which every author had to +describe himself in the Ouida glamour, and of which—for the Jerseys +intend printing it—I must let you have a copy. My wife’s chapter, and my +description of myself, should, I think, amuse you. But there were finer +touches still; as when Belle and Lady Jersey came out to brush their +teeth in front of the rebel King’s palace, and the night guard squatted +opposite on the grass and watched the process; or when I and my +interpreter, and the King with his secretary, mysteriously disappeared to +conspire.—Ever yours sincerely, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO GORDON BROWNE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _Autumn_ 1892. + + _To the Artist who did the illustrations to_ ‘_Uma_.’ + +DEAR SIR,—I only know you under the initials G. B., but you have done +some exceedingly spirited and satisfactory illustrations to my story _The +Beach of Falesà_, and I wish to write and thank you expressly for the +care and talent shown. Such numbers of people can do good black and +whites! So few can illustrate a story, or apparently read it. You have +shown that you can do both, and your creation of Wiltshire is a real +illumination of the text. It was exactly so that Wiltshire dressed and +looked, and you have the line of his nose to a nicety. His nose is an +inspiration. Nor should I forget to thank you for Case, particularly in +his last appearance. It is a singular fact—which seems to point still +more directly to inspiration in your case—that your missionary actually +resembles the flesh-and-blood person from whom Mr. Tarleton was drawn. +The general effect of the islands is all that could be wished; indeed I +have but one criticism to make, that in the background of Case taking the +dollar from Mr. Tarleton’s head—head—not hand, as the fools have printed +it—the natives have a little too much the look of Africans. + +But the great affair is that you have been to the pains to illustrate my +story instead of making conscientious black and whites of people sitting +talking. I doubt if you have left unrepresented a single pictorial +incident. I am writing by this mail to the editor in the hopes that I +may buy from him the originals, and I am, dear sir, your very much +obliged, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS MORSE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoan Islands_, _October_ 7_th_, 1892. + +DEAR MADAM,—I have a great diffidence in answering your valued letter. +It would be difficult for me to express the feelings with which I read +it—and am now trying to re-read it as I dictate this. + +You ask me to forgive what you say ‘must seem a liberty,’ and I find that +I cannot thank you sufficiently or even find a word with which to qualify +your letter. Dear Madam, such a communication even the vainest man would +think a sufficient reward for a lifetime of labour. That I should have +been able to give so much help and pleasure to your sister is the subject +of my grateful wonder. + +That she, being dead, and speaking with your pen, should be able to repay +the debt with such a liberal interest, is one of those things that +reconcile us with the world and make us take hope again. I do not know +what I have done to deserve so beautiful and touching a compliment; and I +feel there is but one thing fit for me to say here, that I will try with +renewed courage to go on in the same path, and to deserve, if not to +receive, a similar return from others. + +You apologise for speaking so much about yourselves. Dear Madam, I +thought you did so too little. I should have wished to have known more +of those who were so sympathetic as to find a consolation in my work, and +so graceful and so tactful as to acknowledge it in such a letter as was +yours. + +Will you offer to your mother the expression of a sympathy which (coming +from a stranger) must seem very airy, but which yet is genuine; and +accept for yourself my gratitude for the thought which inspired you to +write to me and the words which you found to express it. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Samoan Islands_, _Oct._ 10_th_, 1892. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—It is now, as you see, the 10th of October, and there +has not reached the Island of Upolu one single copy, or rag of a copy, of +the Samoa book. I lie; there has come one, and that in the pocket of a +missionary man who is at daggers drawn with me, who lends it to all my +enemies, conceals it from all my friends, and is bringing a lawsuit +against me on the strength of expressions in the same which I have +forgotten, and now cannot see. This is pretty tragic, I think you will +allow; and I was inclined to fancy it was the fault of the Post Office. +But I hear from my sister-in-law Mrs. Sanchez that she is in the same +case, and has received no ‘Footnote.’ I have also to consider that I had +no letter from you last mail, although you ought to have received by that +time ‘My Grandfather and Scott,’ and ‘Me and my Grandfather.’ Taking one +consideration with another, therefore, I prefer to conceive that No. 743 +Broadway has fallen upon gentle and continuous slumber, and is become an +enchanted palace among publishing houses. If it be not so, if the +‘Footnotes’ were really sent, I hope you will fall upon the Post Office +with all the vigour you possess. How does _The Wrecker_ go in the +States? It seems to be doing exceptionally well in England.—Yours +sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO J. M. BARRIE + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Samoan Islands_, _November_ 1_st_, 1892. + +DEAR MR. BARRIE,—I can scarce thank you sufficiently for your extremely +amusing letter. No, _The Auld Licht Idyls_ never reached me—I wish it +had, and I wonder extremely whether it would not be good for me to have a +pennyworth of the Auld Licht pulpit. It is a singular thing that I +should live here in the South Seas under conditions so new and so +striking, and yet my imagination so continually inhabit that cold old +huddle of grey hills from which we come. I have just finished _David +Balfour_; I have another book on the stocks, _The Young Chevalier_, which +is to be part in France and part in Scotland, and to deal with Prince +Charlie about the year 1749; and now what have I done but begun a third +which is to be all moorland together, and is to have for a centrepiece a +figure that I think you will appreciate—that of the immortal +Braxfield—Braxfield himself is my _grand premier_, or, since you are so +much involved in the British drama, let me say my heavy lead. . . . + +Your descriptions of your dealings with Lord Rintoul are frightfully +unconscientious. You should never write about anybody until you persuade +yourself at least for the moment that you love him, above all anybody on +whom your plot revolves. It will always make a hole in the book; and, if +he has anything to do with the mechanism, prove a stick in your +machinery. But you know all this better than I do, and it is one of your +most promising traits that you do not take your powers too seriously. +The _Little Minister_ ought to have ended badly; we all know it did; and +we are infinitely grateful to you for the grace and good feeling with +which you lied about it. If you had told the truth, I for one could +never have forgiven you. As you had conceived and written the earlier +parts, the truth about the end, though indisputably true to fact, would +have been a lie, or what is worse, a discord in art. If you are going to +make a book end badly, it must end badly from the beginning. Now your +book began to end well. You let yourself fall in love with, and fondle, +and smile at your puppets. Once you had done that, your honour was +committed—at the cost of truth to life you were bound to save them. It +is the blot on _Richard Feverel_, for instance, that it begins to end +well; and then tricks you and ends ill. But in that case there is worse +behind, for the ill-ending does not inherently issue from the plot—the +story _had_, in fact, _ended well_ after the great last interview between +Richard and Lucy—and the blind, illogical bullet which smashes all has no +more to do between the boards than a fly has to do with the room into +whose open window it comes buzzing. It _might_ have so happened; it +needed not; and unless needs must, we have no right to pain our readers. +I have had a heavy case of conscience of the same kind about my Braxfield +story. Braxfield—only his name is Hermiston—has a son who is condemned +to death; plainly, there is a fine tempting fitness about this; and I +meant he was to hang. But now on considering my minor characters, I saw +there were five people who would—in a sense who must—break prison and +attempt his rescue. They were capable, hardy folks, too, who might very +well succeed. Why should they not then? Why should not young Hermiston +escape clear out of the country? and be happy, if he could, with his— +But soft! I will not betray my secret of my heroine. Suffice it to +breathe in your ear that she was what Hardy calls (and others in their +plain way don’t) a Pure Woman. Much virtue in a capital letter, such as +yours was. + +Write to me again in my infinite distance. Tell me about your new book. +No harm in telling _me_; I am too far off to be indiscreet; there are too +few near me who would care to hear. I am rushes by the riverside, and +the stream is in Babylon: breathe your secrets to me fearlessly; and if +the Trade Wind caught and carried them away, there are none to catch them +nearer than Australia, unless it were the Tropic Birds. In the +unavoidable absence of my amanuensis, who is buying eels for dinner, I +have thus concluded my despatch, like St. Paul, with my own hand. + +And in the inimitable words of Lord Kames, Faur ye weel, ye bitch.—Yours +very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO E. L. BURLINGAME + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Nov._ 2_nd_, 1892. + +MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—In the first place, I have to acknowledge receipt of +your munificent cheque for three hundred and fifty dollars. Glad you +liked the Scott voyage; rather more than I did upon the whole. As the +proofs have not turned up at all, there can be no question of returning +them, and I am therefore very much pleased to think you have arranged not +to wait. The volumes of Adams arrived along with yours of October 6th. +One of the dictionaries has also blundered home, apparently from the +Colonies; the other is still to seek. I note and sympathise with your +bewilderment as to _Falesà_. My own direct correspondence with Mr. +Baxter is now about three months in abeyance. Altogether you see how +well it would be if you could do anything to wake up the Post Office. +Not a single copy of the ‘Footnote’ has yet reached Samoa, but I hear of +one having come to its address in Hawaii. Glad to hear good news of +Stoddard.—Yours sincerely, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—Since the above was written an aftermath of post matter came in, +among which were the proofs of _My Grandfather_. I shall correct and +return them, but as I have lost all confidence in the Post Office, I +shall mention here: first galley, 4th line from the bottom, for ‘AS’ read +‘OR.’ + +Should I ever again have to use my work without waiting for proofs, bear +in mind this golden principle. From a congenital defect, I must suppose, +I am unable to write the word OR—wherever I write it the printer +unerringly puts AS—and those who read for me had better, wherever it is +possible, substitute _or_ for _as_. This the more so since many writers +have a habit of using _as_ which is death to my temper and confusion to +my face. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO LIEUTENANT EELES + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Upolu_, _Samoan Islands_, _November_ 15_th_, 1892. + +DEAR EELES,—In the first place, excuse me writing to you by another hand, +as that is the way in which alone all my correspondence gets effected. +Before I took to this method, or rather before I found a victim, it +_simply_ didn’t get effected. + +Thank you again and again, first for your kind thought of writing to me, +and second for your extremely amusing and interesting letter. You can +have no guess how immediately interesting it was to our family. First of +all, the poor soul at Nukufetau is an old friend of ours, and we have +actually treated him ourselves on a former visit to the island. I don’t +know if Hoskin would approve of our treatment; it consisted, I believe, +mostly in a present of stout and a recommendation to put nails in his +water-tank. We also (as you seem to have done) recommended him to leave +the island; and I remember very well how wise and kind we thought his +answer. He had half-caste children (he said) who would suffer and +perhaps be despised if he carried them elsewhere; if he left them there +alone, they would almost certainly miscarry; and the best thing was that +he should stay and die with them. But the cream of the fun was your +meeting with Burn. We not only know him, but (as the French say) we +don’t know anybody else; he is our intimate and adored original; +and—prepare your mind—he was, is, and ever will be, TOMMY HADDON! {271} +As I don’t believe you to be inspired, I suspect you to have suspected +this. At least it was a mighty happy suspicion. You are quite right: +Tommy is really ‘a good chap,’ though about as comic as they make them. + +I was extremely interested in your Fiji legend, and perhaps even more so +in your capital account of the _Curaçoa’s_ misadventure. Alas! we have +nothing so thrilling to relate. All hangs and fools on in this isle of +misgovernment, without change, though not without novelty, but wholly +without hope, unless perhaps you should consider it hopeful that I am +still more immediately threatened with arrest. The confounded thing is, +that if it comes off, I shall be sent away in the Ringarooma instead of +the _Curaçoa_. The former ship burst upon by the run—she had been sent +off by despatch and without orders—and to make me a little more easy in +my mind she brought newspapers clamouring for my incarceration. Since +then I have had a conversation with the German Consul. He said he had +read a review of my Samoa book, and if the review were fair, must regard +it as an insult, and one that would have to be resented. At the same +time, I learn that letters addressed to the German squadron lie for them +here in the Post Office. Reports are current of other English ships +being on the way—I hope to goodness yours will be among the number. And +I gather from one thing and another that there must be a holy row going +on between the powers at home, and that the issue (like all else +connected with Samoa) is on the knees of the gods. One thing, however, +is pretty sure—if that issue prove to be a German Protectorate, I shall +have to tramp. Can you give us any advice as to a fresh field of energy? +We have been searching the atlas, and it seems difficult to fill the +bill. How would Rarotonga do? I forget if you have been there. The +best of it is that my new house is going up like winking, and I am +dictating this letter to the accompaniment of saws and hammers. A +hundred black boys and about a score draught-oxen perished, or at least +barely escaped with their lives, from the mud-holes on our road, bringing +up the materials. It will be a fine legacy to H.I.G.M.’s Protectorate, +and doubtless the Governor will take it for his country-house. The +Ringarooma people, by the way, seem very nice. I liked Stansfield +particularly. + +Our middy {272} has gone up to San Francisco in pursuit of the phantom +Education. We have good word of him, and I hope he will not be in +disgrace again, as he was when the hope of the British Navy—need I say +that I refer to Admiral Burney?—honoured us last. The next time you +come, as the new house will be finished, we shall be able to offer you a +bed. Nares and Meiklejohn may like to hear that our new room is to be +big enough to dance in. It will be a very pleasant day for me to see the +Curaçoa in port again and at least a proper contingent of her officers +‘skipping in my ’all.’ + +We have just had a feast on my birthday at which we had three of the +Ringaromas, and I wish they had been three _Curaçoas_—say yourself, +Hoskin, and Burney the ever Great. (Consider this an invitation.) Our +boys had got the thing up regardless. There were two huge sows—oh, +brutes of animals that would have broken down a hansom cab—four smaller +pigs, two barrels of beef, and a horror of vegetables and fowls. We sat +down between forty and fifty in a big new native house behind the kitchen +that you have never seen, and ate and public spoke till all was blue. +Then we had about half an hour’s holiday with some beer and sherry and +brandy and soda to restrengthen the European heart, and then out to the +old native house to see a siva. Finally, all the guests were packed off +in a trackless black night and down a road that was rather fitted for the +_Curaçoa_ than any human pedestrian, though to be sure I do not know the +draught of the _Curaçoa_. My ladies one and all desire to be +particularly remembered to our friends on board, and all look forward, as +I do myself, in the hope of your return.—Yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +And let me hear from you again! + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + 1_st_ _Dec._ ’92. + +. . . I have a novel on the stocks to be called _The Justice-Clerk_. It +is pretty Scotch, the Grand Premier is taken from Braxfield—(Oh, by the +by, send me Cockburn’s _Memorials_)—and some of the story is—well—queer. +The heroine is seduced by one man, and finally disappears with the other +man who shot him. . . . Mind you, I expect the _Justice-Clerk_ to be my +masterpiece. My Braxfield is already a thing of beauty and a joy for +ever, and so far as he has gone _far_ my best character. + + [_Later_.] + +Second thought. I wish Pitcairn’s _Criminal Trials quam primum_. Also, +an absolutely correct text of the Scots judiciary oath. + +Also, in case Pitcairn does not come down late enough, I wish as full a +report as possible of a Scotch murder trial between 1790–1820. +Understand, _the fullest possible_. + +Is there any book which would guide me as to the following facts? + +The Justice-Clerk tries some people capitally on circuit. Certain +evidence cropping up, the charge is transferred to the J.-C.’s own son. +Of course, in the next trial the J.-C. is excluded, and the case is +called before the Lord-Justice General. + +Where would this trial have to be? I fear in Edinburgh, which would not +suit my view. Could it be again at the circuit town? + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. JENKIN + + + _December_ 5_th_, 1892. + +MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—. . . So much said, I come with guilty speed to what +more immediately concerns myself. Spare us a month or two for old sake’s +sake, and make my wife and me happy and proud. We are only fourteen days +from San Francisco, just about a month from Liverpool; we have our new +house almost finished. The thing _can_ be done; I believe we can make +you almost comfortable. It is the loveliest climate in the world, our +political troubles seem near an end. It can be done, it must! Do, +please, make a virtuous effort, come and take a glimpse of a new world I +am sure you do not dream of, and some old friends who do often dream of +your arrival. + +Alas, I was just beginning to get eloquent, and there goes the lunch +bell, and after lunch I must make up the mail. + +Do come. You must not come in February or March—bad months. From April +on it is delightful.—Your sincere friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _December_ 5_th_, 1892. + +MY DEAR JAMES,—How comes it so great a silence has fallen? The still +small voice of self-approval whispers me it is not from me. I have +looked up my register, and find I have neither written to you nor heard +from you since June 22nd, on which day of grace that invaluable work +began. This is not as it should be. How to get back? I remember +acknowledging with rapture the — of the _Master_, and I remember +receiving _Marbot_: was that our last relation? + +Hey, well! anyway, as you may have probably gathered from the papers, I +have been in devilish hot water, and (what may be new to you) devilish +hard at work. In twelve calendar months I finished _The Wrecker_, wrote +all of _Falesà_ but the first chapter (well, much of), the _History of +Samoa_, did something here and there to my _Life of my Grandfather_, and +began And Finished _David Balfour_. What do you think of it for a year? +Since then I may say I have done nothing beyond draft three chapters of +another novel, _The Justice-Clerk_, which ought to be shorter and a +blower—at least if it don’t make a spoon, it will spoil the horn of an +Aurochs (if that’s how it should be spelt). + +On the hot water side it may entertain you to know that I have been +actually sentenced to deportation by my friends on Mulinuu, C. J. +Cedercrantz, and Baron Senfft von Pilsach. The awful doom, however, +declined to fall, owing to Circumstances over Which. I only heard of it +(so to speak) last night. I mean officially, but I had walked among +rumours. The whole tale will be some day put into my hand, and I shall +share it with humorous friends. + +It is likely, however, by my judgment, that this epoch of gaiety in Samoa +will soon cease; and the fierce white light of history will beat no +longer on Yours Sincerely and his fellows here on the beach. We ask +ourselves whether the reason will more rejoice over the end of a +disgraceful business, or the unregenerate man more sorrow over the +stoppage of the fun. For, say what you please, it has been a deeply +interesting time. You don’t know what news is, nor what politics, nor +what the life of man, till you see it on so small a scale and with your +own liberty on the board for stake. I would not have missed it for much. +And anxious friends beg me to stay at home and study human nature in +Brompton drawing-rooms! _Farceurs_! And anyway you know that such is +not my talent. I could never be induced to take the faintest interest in +Brompton _qua_ Brompton or a drawing-room _qua_ a drawing-room. I am an +Epick Writer with a k to it, but without the necessary genius. + +Hurry up with another book of stories. I am now reduced to two of my +contemporaries, you and Barrie—O, and Kipling—you and Barrie and Kipling +are now my Muses Three. And with Kipling, as you know, there are +reservations to be made. And you and Barrie don’t write enough. I +should say I also read Anstey when he is serious, and can almost always +get a happy day out of Marion Crawford—_ce n’est pas toujours la guerre_, +but it’s got life to it and guts, and it moves. Did you read the _Witch +of Prague_? Nobody could read it twice, of course; and the first time +even it was necessary to skip. _E pur si muove_. But Barrie is a +beauty, the _Little Minister_ and the _Window in Thrums_, eh? Stuff in +that young man; but he must see and not be too funny. Genius in him, but +there’s a journalist at his elbow—there’s the risk. Look, what a page is +the glove business in the _Window_! knocks a man flat; that’s guts, if +you please. + +Why have I wasted the little time that is left with a sort of naked +review article? I don’t know, I’m sure. I suppose a mere ebullition of +congested literary talk I am beginning to think a visit from friends +would be due. Wish you could come! + +Let us have your news anyway, and forgive this silly stale +effusion.—Yours ever, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO J. M. BARRIE + + + [_Vailima_, _December_ 1892.] + +DEAR J. M. BARRIE,—You will be sick of me soon; I cannot help it. I have +been off my work for some time, and re-read the _Edinburgh Eleven_, and +had a great mind to write a parody and give you all your sauce back +again, and see how you would like it yourself. And then I read (for the +first time—I know not how) the _Window in Thrums_; I don’t say that it is +better than _The Minister_; it’s less of a tale—and there is a beauty, a +material beauty, of the tale _ipse_, which clever critics nowadays long +and love to forget; it has more real flaws; but somehow it is—well, I +read it last anyway, and it’s by Barrie. And he’s the man for my money. +The glove is a great page; it is startlingly original, and as true as +death and judgment. Tibbie Birse in the Burial is great, but I think it +was a journalist that got in the word ‘official.’ The same character +plainly had a word to say to Thomas Haggard. Thomas affects me as a +lie—I beg your pardon; doubtless he was somebody you knew, that leads +people so far astray. The actual is not the true. + +I am proud to think you are a Scotchman—though to be sure I know nothing +of that country, being only an English tourist, quo’ Gavin Ogilvy. I +commend the hard case of Mr. Gavin Ogilvy to J. M. Barrie, whose work is +to me a source of living pleasure and heartfelt national pride. There +are two of us now that the Shirra might have patted on the head. And +please do not think when I thus seem to bracket myself with you, that I +am wholly blinded with vanity. Jess is beyond my frontier line; I could +not touch her skirt; I have no such glamour of twilight on my pen. I am +a capable artist; but it begins to look to me as if you were a man of +genius. Take care of yourself, for my sake. It’s a devilish hard thing +for a man who writes so many novels as I do, that I should get so few to +read. And I can read yours, and I love them. + +A pity for you that my amanuensis is not on stock to-day, and my own hand +perceptibly worse than usual.—Yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + _December_ 5_th_, 1892. + +_P.S._—They tell me your health is not strong. Man, come out here and +try the Prophet’s chamber. There’s only one bad point to us—we do rise +early. The Amanuensis states that you are a lover of silence—and that +ours is a noisy house—and she is a chatterbox—I am not answerable for +these statements, though I do think there is a touch of garrulity about +my premises. We have so little to talk about, you see. The house is +three miles from town, in the midst of great silent forests. There is a +burn close by, and when we are not talking you can hear the burn, and the +birds, and the sea breaking on the coast three miles away and six hundred +feet below us, and about three times a month a bell—I don’t know where +the bell is, nor who rings it; it may be the bell in Hans Andersen’s +story for all I know. It is never hot here—86 in the shade is about our +hottest—and it is never cold except just in the early mornings. Take it +for all in all, I suppose this island climate to be by far the healthiest +in the world—even the influenza entirely lost its sting. Only two +patients died, and one was a man nearly eighty, and the other a child +below four months. I won’t tell you if it is beautiful, for I want you +to come here and see for yourself. Everybody on the premises except my +wife has some Scotch blood in their veins—I beg your pardon—except the +natives—and then my wife is a Dutchwoman—and the natives are the next +thing conceivable to Highlanders before the forty-five. We would have +some grand cracks! + + R. L. S. + +COME, it will broaden your mind, and be the making of me. + + + + +XII +LIFE IN SAMOA, +_Continued_ +JANUARY 1893–DECEMBER 1894 + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_April_, 1893.] + +. . . About _The Justice-Clerk_, I long to go at it, but will first try +to get a short story done. Since January I have had two severe +illnesses, my boy, and some heart-breaking anxiety over Fanny; and am +only now convalescing. I came down to dinner last night for the first +time, and that only because the service had broken down, and to relieve +an inexperienced servant. Nearly four months now I have rested my +brains; and if it be true that rest is good for brains, I ought to be +able to pitch in like a giant refreshed. Before the autumn, I hope to +send you some _Justice-Clerk_, or _Weir of Hermiston_, as Colvin seems to +prefer; I own to indecision. Received _Syntax_, _Dance of Death_, and +_Pitcairn_, which last I have read from end to end since its arrival, +with vast improvement. What a pity it stops so soon! I wonder is there +nothing that seems to prolong the series? Why doesn’t some young man +take it up? How about my old friend Fountainhall’s _Decisions_? I +remember as a boy that there was some good reading there. Perhaps you +could borrow me that, and send it on loan; and perhaps Laing’s +_Memorials_ therewith; and a work I’m ashamed to say I have never read, +_Balfour’s Letters_. . . . I have come by accident, through a +correspondent, on one very curious and interesting fact—namely, that +Stevenson was one of the names adopted by the MacGregors at the +proscription. The details supplied by my correspondent are both +convincing and amusing; but it would be highly interesting to find out +more of this. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO A. CONAN DOYLE + + + _Vailima_, _Apia_, _Samoa_, _April_ 5_th_, 1893. + +DEAR SIR,—You have taken many occasions to make yourself very agreeable +to me, for which I might in decency have thanked you earlier. It is now +my turn; and I hope you will allow me to offer you my compliments on your +very ingenious and very interesting adventures of Sherlock Holmes. That +is the class of literature that I like when I have the toothache. As a +matter of fact, it was a pleurisy I was enjoying when I took the volume +up; and it will interest you as a medical man to know that the cure was +for the moment effectual. Only the one thing troubles me: can this be my +old friend Joe Bell?—I am, yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—And lo, here is your address supplied me here in Samoa! But do +not take mine, O frolic fellow Spookist, from the same source; mine is +wrong. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO S. R. CROCKETT + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _May_ 17_th_, 1893. + +DEAR MR. CROCKETT,—I do not owe you two letters, nor yet nearly one, sir! +The last time I heard of you, you wrote about an accident, and I sent you +a letter to my lawyer, Charles Baxter, which does not seem to have been +presented, as I see nothing of it in his accounts. Query, was that lost? +I should not like you to think I had been so unmannerly and so inhuman. +If you have written since, your letter also has miscarried, as is much +the rule in this part of the world, unless you register. + +Your book is not yet to hand, but will probably follow next month. I +detected you early in the _Bookman_, which I usually see, and noted you +in particular as displaying a monstrous ingratitude about the footnote. +Well, mankind is ungrateful; ‘Man’s ingratitude to man makes countless +thousands mourn,’ quo’ Rab—or words to that effect. By the way, an +anecdote of a cautious sailor: ‘Bill, Bill,’ says I to him, ‘_or words to +that effect_.’ + +I shall never take that walk by the Fisher’s Tryst and Glencorse. I +shall never see Auld Reekie. I shall never set my foot again upon the +heather. Here I am until I die, and here will I be buried. The word is +out and the doom written. Or, if I do come, it will be a voyage to a +further goal, and in fact a suicide; which, however, if I could get my +family all fixed up in the money way, I might, perhaps, perform, or +attempt. But there is a plaguey risk of breaking down by the way; and I +believe I shall stay here until the end comes like a good boy, as I am. +If I did it, I should put upon my trunks: ‘Passenger to—Hades.’ How +strangely wrong your information is! In the first place, I should never +carry a novel to Sydney; I should post it from here. In the second +place, _Weir of Hermiston_ is as yet scarce begun. It’s going to be +excellent, no doubt; but it consists of about twenty pages. I have a +tale, a shortish tale in length, but it has proved long to do, _The Ebb +Tide_, some part of which goes home this mail. It is by me and Mr. +Osbourne, and is really a singular work. There are only four characters, +and three of them are bandits—well, two of them are, and the third is +their comrade and accomplice. It sounds cheering, doesn’t it? Barratry, +and drunkenness, and vitriol, and I cannot tell you all what, are the +beams of the roof. And yet—I don’t know—I sort of think there’s +something in it. You’ll see (which is more than I ever can) whether +Davis and Attwater come off or not. + +_Weir of Hermiston_ is a much greater undertaking, and the plot is not +good, I fear; but Lord Justice-Clerk Hermiston ought to be a plum. Of +other schemes, more or less executed, it skills not to speak. + +I am glad to hear so good an account of your activity and interests, and +shall always hear from you with pleasure; though I am, and must continue, +a mere sprite of the inkbottle, unseen in the flesh. Please remember me +to your wife and to the four-year-old sweetheart, if she be not too +engrossed with higher matters. Do you know where the road crosses the +burn under Glencorse Church? Go there, and say a prayer for me: +_moriturus salutat_. See that it’s a sunny day; I would like it to be a +Sunday, but that’s not possible in the premises; and stand on the +right-hand bank just where the road goes down into the water, and shut +your eyes, and if I don’t appear to you! well, it can’t be helped, and +will be extremely funny. + +I have no concern here but to work and to keep an eye on this distracted +people. I live just now wholly alone in an upper room of my house, +because the whole family are down with influenza, bar my wife and myself. +I get my horse up sometimes in the afternoon and have a ride in the +woods; and I sit here and smoke and write, and rewrite, and destroy, and +rage at my own impotence, from six in the morning till eight at night, +with trifling and not always agreeable intervals for meals. + +I am sure you chose wisely to keep your country charge. There a minister +can be something, not in a town. In a town, the most of them are empty +houses—and public speakers. Why should you suppose your book will be +slated because you have no friends? A new writer, if he is any good, +will be acclaimed generally with more noise than he deserves. But by +this time you will know for certain.—I am, yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—Be it known to this fluent generation that I R. L. S., in the +forty-third of my age and the twentieth of my professional life, wrote +twenty-four pages in twenty-one days, working from six to eleven, and +again in the afternoon from two to four or so, without fail or +interruption. Such are the gifts the gods have endowed us withal: such +was the facility of this prolific writer! + + R. L. S. + + + +TO AUGUSTUS ST. GAUDENS + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _May_ 29_th_, 1893 + +MY DEAR GOD-LIKE SCULPTOR,—I wish in the most delicate manner in the +world to insinuate a few commissions:— + +No. 1. Is for a couple of copies of my medallion, as gilt-edged and +high-toned as it is possible to make them. One is for our house here, +and should be addressed as above. The other is for my friend Sidney +Colvin, and should be addressed—Sidney Colvin, Esq., Keeper of the Print +Room, British Museum, London. + +No. 2. This is a rather large order, and demands some explanation. Our +house is lined with varnished wood of a dark ruddy colour, very beautiful +to see; at the same time, it calls very much for gold; there is a limit +to picture frames, and really you know there has to be a limit to the +pictures you put inside of them. Accordingly, we have had an idea of a +certain kind of decoration, which, I think, you might help us to make +practical. What we want is an alphabet of gilt letters (very much such +as people play with), and all mounted on spikes like drawing-pins; say +two spikes to each letter, one at top, and one at bottom. Say that they +were this height, [Picture: large letter capital I about 4 times bigger +than normal size] and that you chose a model of some really exquisitely +fine, clear type from some Roman monument, and that they were made either +of metal or some composition gilt—the point is, could not you, in your +land of wooden houses, get a manufacturer to take the idea and +manufacture them at a venture, so that I could get two or three hundred +pieces or so at a moderate figure? You see, suppose you entertain an +honoured guest, when he goes he leaves his name in gilt letters on your +walls; an infinity of fun and decoration can be got out of hospitable and +festive mottoes; and the doors of every room can be beautified by the +legend of their names. I really think there is something in the idea, +and you might be able to push it with the brutal and licentious +manufacturer, using my name if necessary, though I should think the name +of the god-like sculptor would be more germane. In case you should get +it started, I should tell you that we should require commas in order to +write the Samoan language, which is full of words written thus: la’u, +ti’e ti’e. As the Samoan language uses but a very small proportion of +the consonants, we should require a double or treble stock of all vowels +and of F, G, L, U, N, P, S, T, and V. + +The other day in Sydney, I think you might be interested to hear, I was +sculpt a second time by a man called —, as well as I can remember and +read. I mustn’t criticise a present, and he had very little time to do +it in. It is thought by my family to be an excellent likeness of Mark +Twain. This poor fellow, by the by, met with the devil of an accident. +A model of a statue which he had just finished with a desperate effort +was smashed to smithereens on its way to exhibition. + +Please be sure and let me know if anything is likely to come of this +letter business, and the exact cost of each letter, so that I may count +the cost before ordering.—Yours sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _June_ 10_th_, 1893. + +MY DEAR GOSSE,—My mother tells me you never received the very long and +careful letter that I sent you more than a year ago; or is it two years? + +I was indeed so much surprised at your silence that I wrote to Henry +James and begged him to inquire if you had received it; his reply was an +(if possible) higher power of the same silence; whereupon I bowed my head +and acquiesced. But there is no doubt the letter was written and sent; +and I am sorry it was lost, for it contained, among other things, an +irrecoverable criticism of your father’s _Life_, with a number of +suggestions for another edition, which struck me at the time as +excellent. + +Well, suppose we call that cried off, and begin as before? It is +fortunate indeed that we can do so, being both for a while longer in the +day. But, alas! when I see ‘works of the late J. A. S.,’ {292} I can +see no help and no reconciliation possible. I wrote him a letter, I +think, three years ago, heard in some roundabout way that he had received +it, waited in vain for an answer (which had probably miscarried), and in +a humour between frowns and smiles wrote to him no more. And now the +strange, poignant, pathetic, brilliant creature is gone into the night, +and the voice is silent that uttered so much excellent discourse; and I +am sorry that I did not write to him again. Yet I am glad for him; light +lie the turf! The _Saturday_ is the only obituary I have seen, and I +thought it very good upon the whole. I should be half tempted to write +an _In Memoriam_, but I am submerged with other work. Are you going to +do it? I very much admire your efforts that way; you are our only +academician. + +So you have tried fiction? I will tell you the truth: when I saw it +announced, I was so sure you would send it to me, that I did not order +it! But the order goes this mail, and I will give you news of it. Yes, +honestly, fiction is very difficult; it is a terrible strain to _carry_ +your characters all that time. And the difficulty of according the +narrative and the dialogue (in a work in the third person) is extreme. +That is one reason out of half a dozen why I so often prefer the first. +It is much in my mind just now, because of my last work, just off the +stocks three days ago, _The Ebb Tide_: a dreadful, grimy business in the +third person, where the strain between a vilely realistic dialogue and a +narrative style pitched about (in phrase) ‘four notes higher’ than it +should have been, has sown my head with grey hairs; or I believe so—if my +head escaped, my heart has them. + +The truth is, I have a little lost my way, and stand bemused at the +cross-roads. A subject? Ay, I have dozens; I have at least four novels +begun, they are none good enough; and the mill waits, and I’ll have to +take second best. _The Ebb Tide_ I make the world a present of; I +expect, and, I suppose, deserve to be torn to pieces; but there was all +that good work lying useless, and I had to finish it! + +All your news of your family is pleasant to hear. My wife has been very +ill, but is now better; I may say I am ditto, _The Ebb Tide_ having left +me high and dry, which is a good example of the mixed metaphor. Our +home, and estate, and our boys, and the politics of the island, keep us +perpetually amused and busy; and I grind away with an odd, dogged, down +sensation—and an idea _in petto_ that the game is about played out. I +have got too realistic, and I must break the trammels—I mean I would if I +could; but the yoke is heavy. I saw with amusement that Zola says the +same thing; and truly the _Débâcle_ was a mighty big book, I have no need +for a bigger, though the last part is a mere mistake in my opinion. But +the Emperor, and Sedan, and the doctor at the ambulance, and the horses +in the field of battle, Lord, how gripped it is! What an epical +performance! According to my usual opinion, I believe I could go over +that book and leave a masterpiece by blotting and no ulterior art. But +that is an old story, ever new with me. Taine gone, and Renan, and +Symonds, and Tennyson, and Browning; the suns go swiftly out, and I see +no suns to follow, nothing but a universal twilight of the +demi-divinities, with parties like you and me and Lang beating on toy +drums and playing on penny whistles about glow-worms. But Zola is big +anyway; he has plenty in his belly; too much, that is all; he wrote the +_Débâcle_ and he wrote _La Bête humaine_, perhaps the most excruciatingly +silly book that I ever read to an end. And why did I read it to an end, +W. E. G.? Because the animal in me was interested in the lewdness. Not +sincerely, of course, my mind refusing to partake in it; but the flesh +was slightly pleased. And when it was done, I cast it from me with a +peal of laughter, and forgot it, as I would forget a Montépin. Taine is +to me perhaps the chief of these losses; I did luxuriate in his +_Origines_; it was something beyond literature, not quite so good, if you +please, but so much more systematic, and the pages that had to be +‘written’ always so adequate. Robespierre, Napoleon, were both excellent +good. + + _June_ 18_th_, ’93 + +Well, I have left fiction wholly, and gone to my _Grandfather_, and on +the whole found peace. By next month my _Grandfather_ will begin to be +quite grown up. I have already three chapters about as good as done; by +which, of course, as you know, I mean till further notice or the next +discovery. I like biography far better than fiction myself: fiction is +too free. In biography you have your little handful of facts, little +bits of a puzzle, and you sit and think, and fit ’em together this way +and that, and get up and throw ’em down, and say damn, and go out for a +walk. And it’s real soothing; and when done, gives an idea of finish to +the writer that is very peaceful. Of course, it’s not really so finished +as quite a rotten novel; it always has and always must have the incurable +illogicalities of life about it, the fathoms of slack and the miles of +tedium. Still, that’s where the fun comes in; and when you have at last +managed to shut up the castle spectre (dulness), the very outside of his +door looks beautiful by contrast. There are pages in these books that +may seem nothing to the reader; but you _remember what they were_, _you +know what they might have been_, and they seem to you witty beyond +comparison. In my _Grandfather_ I’ve had (for instance) to give up the +temporal order almost entirely; doubtless the temporal order is the great +foe of the biographer; it is so tempting, so easy, and lo! there you are +in the bog!—Ever yours, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +With all kind messages from self and wife to you and yours. My wife is +very much better, having been the early part of this year alarmingly ill. +She is now all right, only complaining of trifles, annoying to her, but +happily not interesting to her friends. I am in a hideous state, having +stopped drink and smoking; yes, both. No wine, no tobacco; and the +dreadful part of it is that—looking forward—I have—what shall I +say?—nauseating intimations that it ought to be for ever. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Vailima Plantation_, _Samoan Islands_, _June_ 17_th_, 1893. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—I believe I have neglected a mail in answering +yours. You will be very sorry to hear that my wife was exceedingly ill, +and very glad to hear that she is better. I cannot say that I feel any +more anxiety about her. We shall send you a photograph of her taken in +Sydney in her customary island habit as she walks and gardens and shrilly +drills her brown assistants. She was very ill when she sat for it, which +may a little explain the appearance of the photograph. It reminds me of +a friend of my grandmother’s who used to say when talking to younger +women, ‘Aweel, when I was young, I wasnae just exactly what ye wad call +_bonny_, but I was pale, penetratin’, and interestin’.’ I would not +venture to hint that Fanny is ‘no bonny,’ but there is no doubt but that +in this presentment she is ‘pale, penetratin’, and interesting.’ + +As you are aware, I have been wading deep waters and contending with the +great ones of the earth, not wholly without success. It is, you may be +interested to hear, a dreary and infuriating business. If you can get +the fools to admit one thing, they will always save their face by denying +another. If you can induce them to take a step to the right hand, they +generally indemnify themselves by cutting a caper to the left. I always +held (upon no evidence whatever, from a mere sentiment or intuition) that +politics was the dirtiest, the most foolish, and the most random of human +employments. I always held, but now I know it! Fortunately, you have +nothing to do with anything of the kind, and I may spare you the horror +of further details. + +I received from you a book by a man by the name of Anatole France. Why +should I disguise it? I have no use for Anatole. He writes very +prettily, and then afterwards? Baron Marbot was a different pair of +shoes. So likewise is the Baron de Vitrolles, whom I am now perusing +with delight. His escape in 1814 is one of the best pages I remember +anywhere to have read. But Marbot and Vitrolles are dead, and what has +become of the living? It seems as if literature were coming to a stand. +I am sure it is with me; and I am sure everybody will say so when they +have the privilege of reading _The Ebb Tide_. My dear man, the grimness +of that story is not to be depicted in words. There are only four +characters, to be sure, but they are such a troop of swine! And their +behaviour is really so deeply beneath any possible standard, that on a +retrospect I wonder I have been able to endure them myself until the yarn +was finished. Well, there is always one thing; it will serve as a +touchstone. If the admirers of Zola admire him for his pertinent +ugliness and pessimism, I think they should admire this; but if, as I +have long suspected, they neither admire nor understand the man’s art, +and only wallow in his rancidness like a hound in offal, then they will +certainly be disappointed in _The Ebb Tide_. _Alas_! poor little tale, +it is not _even_ rancid. + +By way of an antidote or febrifuge, I am going on at a great rate with my +_History of the Stevensons_, which I hope may prove rather amusing, in +some parts at least. The excess of materials weighs upon me. My +grandfather is a delightful comedy part; and I have to treat him besides +as a serious and (in his way) a heroic figure, and at times I lose my +way, and I fear in the end will blur the effect. However, _à la grâce de +Dieu_! I’ll make a spoon or spoil a horn. You see, I have to do the +Building of the Bell Rock by cutting down and packing my grandsire’s +book, which I rather hope I have done, but do not know. And it makes a +huge chunk of a very different style and quality between Chapters II. and +IV. And it can’t be helped! It is just a delightful and exasperating +necessity. You know, the stuff is really excellent narrative: only, +perhaps there’s too much of it! There is the rub. Well, well, it will +be plain to you that my mind is affected; it might be with less. _The +Ebb Tide_ and _Northern Lights_ are a full meal for any plain man. + +I have written and ordered your last book, _The Real Thing_, so be sure +and don’t send it. What else are you doing or thinking of doing? News I +have none, and don’t want any. I have had to stop all strong drink and +all tobacco, and am now in a transition state between the two, which +seems to be near madness. You never smoked, I think, so you can never +taste the joys of stopping it. But at least you have drunk, and you can +enter perhaps into my annoyance when I suddenly find a glass of claret or +a brandy-and-water give me a splitting headache the next morning. No +mistake about it; drink anything, and there’s your headache. Tobacco +just as bad for me. If I live through this breach of habit, I shall be a +white-livered puppy indeed. Actually I am so made, or so twisted, that I +do not like to think of a life without the red wine on the table and the +tobacco with its lovely little coal of fire. It doesn’t amuse me from a +distance. I may find it the Garden of Eden when I go in, but I don’t +like the colour of the gate-posts. Suppose somebody said to you, you are +to leave your home, and your books, and your clubs, and go out and camp +in mid-Africa, and command an expedition, you would howl, and kick, and +flee. I think the same of a life without wine and tobacco; and if this +goes on, I’ve got to go and do it, sir, in the living flesh! + +I thought Bourget was a friend of yours? And I thought the French were a +polite race? He has taken my dedication with a stately silence that has +surprised me into apoplexy. Did I go and dedicate my book {298a} to the +nasty alien, and the ’norrid Frenchman, and the Bloody Furrineer? Well, +I wouldn’t do it again; and unless his case is susceptible of +explanation, you might perhaps tell him so over the walnuts and the wine, +by way of speeding the gay hours. Sincerely, I thought my dedication +worth a letter. + +If anything be worth anything here below! Do you know the story of the +man who found a button in his hash, and called the waiter? ‘What do you +call that?’ says he. ‘Well,’ said the waiter, ‘what d’you expect? +Expect to find a gold watch and chain?’ Heavenly apologue, is it not? I +expected (rather) to find a gold watch and chain; I expected to be able +to smoke to excess and drink to comfort all the days of my life; and I am +still indignantly staring on this button! It’s not even a button; it’s a +teetotal badge!—Ever yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Apia_, _July_ 1893. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—Yes. _Les Trophées_, on the whole, a book. {298b} +It is excellent; but is it a life’s work? I always suspect _you_ of a +volume of sonnets up your sleeve; when is it coming down? I am in one of +my moods of wholesale impatience with all fiction and all verging on it, +reading instead, with rapture, _Fountainhall’s Decisions_. You never +read it: well, it hasn’t much form, and is inexpressibly dreary, I should +suppose, to others—and even to me for pages. It’s like walking in a mine +underground, and with a damned bad lantern, and picking out pieces of +ore. This, and war, will be my excuse for not having read your +(doubtless) charming work of fiction. The revolving year will bring me +round to it; and I know, when fiction shall begin to feel a little +_solid_ to me again, that I shall love it, because it’s James. Do you +know, when I am in this mood, I would rather try to read a bad book? +It’s not so disappointing, anyway. And _Fountainhall_ is prime, two big +folio volumes, and all dreary, and all true, and all as terse as an +obituary; and about one interesting fact on an average in twenty pages, +and ten of them unintelligible for technicalities. There’s literature, +if you like! It feeds; it falls about you genuine like rain. Rain: +nobody has done justice to rain in literature yet: surely a subject for a +Scot. But then you can’t do rain in that ledger-book style that I am +trying for—or between a ledger-book and an old ballad. How to get over, +how to escape from, the besotting _particularity_ of fiction. ‘Roland +approached the house; it had green doors and window blinds; and there was +a scraper on the upper step.’ To hell with Roland and the scraper!—Yours +ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO A. CONAN DOYLE + + + _Vailima_, _July_ 12, 1893. + +MY DEAR DR. CONAN DOYLE,—The _White Company_ has not yet turned up; but +when it does—which I suppose will be next mail—you shall hear news of me. +I have a great talent for compliment, accompanied by a hateful, even a +diabolic frankness. + +Delighted to hear I have a chance of seeing you and Mrs. Doyle; Mrs. +Stevenson bids me say (what is too true) that our rations are often +spare. Are you Great Eaters? Please reply. + +As to ways and means, here is what you will have to do. Leave San +Francisco by the down mail, get off at Samoa, and twelve days or a +fortnight later, you can continue your journey to Auckland per Upolu, +which will give you a look at Tonga and possibly Fiji by the way. Make +this a _first part of your plans_. A fortnight, even of Vailima diet, +could kill nobody. + +We are in the midst of war here; rather a nasty business, with the +head-taking; and there seem signs of other trouble. But I believe you +need make no change in your design to visit us. All should be well over; +and if it were not, why! you need not leave the steamer.—Yours very +truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + 19_th_ _July_ ’93. + +. . . We are in the thick of war—see _Illustrated London News_—we have +only two outside boys left to us. Nothing is doing, and _per contra_ +little paying. . . My life here is dear; but I can live within my income +for a time at least—so long as my prices keep up—and it seems a clear +duty to waste none of it on gadding about. . . . My life of my family +fills up intervals, and should be an excellent book when it is done, but +big, damnably big. + +My dear old man, I perceive by a thousand signs that we grow old, and are +soon to pass away! I hope with dignity; if not, with courage at least. +I am myself very ready; or would be—will be—when I have made a little +money for my folks. The blows that have fallen upon you are truly +terrifying; I wish you strength to bear them. It is strange, I must seem +to you to blaze in a Birmingham prosperity and happiness; and to myself I +seem a failure. The truth is, I have never got over the last influenza +yet, and am miserably out of heart and out of kilter. Lungs pretty +right, stomach nowhere, spirits a good deal overshadowed; but we’ll come +through it yet, and cock our bonnets. (I confess with sorrow that I am +not yet quite sure about the _intellects_; but I hope it is only one of +my usual periods of non-work. They are more unbearable now, because I +cannot rest. _No rest but the grave for Sir Walter_! O the words ring +in a man’s head.) + + R. L. S. + + + +TO A. CONAN DOYLE + + + _Vailima_, _August_ 23_rd_, 1893. + +MY DEAR DR. CONAN DOYLE,—I am reposing after a somewhat severe experience +upon which I think it my duty to report to you. Immediately after dinner +this evening it occurred to me to re-narrate to my native overseer Simelè +your story of _The Engineer’s Thumb_. And, sir, I have done it. It was +necessary, I need hardly say, to go somewhat farther afield than you have +done. To explain (for instance) what a railway is, what a steam hammer, +what a coach and horse, what coining, what a criminal, and what the +police. I pass over other and no less necessary explanations. But I did +actually succeed; and if you could have seen the drawn, anxious features +and the bright, feverish eyes of Simelè, you would have (for the moment +at least) tasted glory. You might perhaps think that, were you to come +to Samoa, you might be introduced as the Author of _The Engineer’s +Thumb_. Disabuse yourself. They do not know what it is to make up a +story. _The Engineer’s Thumb_ (God forgive me) was narrated as a piece +of actual and factual history. Nay, and more, I who write to you have +had the indiscretion to perpetrate a trifling piece of fiction entitled +_The Bottle Imp_. Parties who come up to visit my unpretentious mansion, +after having admired the ceilings by Vanderputty and the tapestry by +Gobbling, manifest towards the end a certain uneasiness which proves them +to be fellows of an infinite delicacy. They may be seen to shrug a brown +shoulder, to roll up a speaking eye, and at last secret bursts from them: +‘Where is the bottle?’ Alas, my friends (I feel tempted to say), you +will find it by the Engineer’s Thumb! Talofa-soifuia. + +Oa’u, O lau no moni, O Tusitala. + +More commonly known as, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + +Have read the _Refugees_; Condé and old P. Murat very good; Louis XIV. +and Louvois with the letter bag very rich. You have reached a trifle +wide perhaps; too _many_ celebrities? Though I was delighted to +re-encounter my old friend Du Chaylu. Old Murat is perhaps your high +water mark; ’tis excellently human, cheerful and real. Do it again. +Madame de Maintenon struck me as quite good. Have you any document for +the decapitation? It sounds steepish. The devil of all that first part +is that you see old Dumas; yet your Louis XIV. is _distinctly good_. I +am much interested with this book, which fulfils a good deal, and +promises more. Question: How far a Historical Novel should be wholly +episodic? I incline to that view, with trembling. I shake hands with +you on old Murat. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO GEORGE MEREDITH + + + _Sept._ 5_th_, 1893, _Vailima Plantation_, _Upolu_, _Samoa_. + +MY DEAR MEREDITH,—I have again and again taken up the pen to write to +you, and many beginnings have gone into the waste paper basket (I have +one now—for the second time in my life—and feel a big man on the strength +of it). And no doubt it requires some decision to break so long a +silence. My health is vastly restored, and I am now living patriarchally +in this place six hundred feet above the sea on the shoulder of a +mountain of 1500. Behind me, the unbroken bush slopes up to the backbone +of the island (3 to 4000) without a house, with no inhabitants save a few +runaway black boys, wild pigs and cattle, and wild doves and flying +foxes, and many parti-coloured birds, and many black, and many white: a +very eerie, dim, strange place and hard to travel. I am the head of a +household of five whites, and of twelve Samoans, to all of whom I am the +chief and father: my cook comes to me and asks leave to marry—and his +mother, a fine old chief woman, who has never lived here, does the same. +You may be sure I granted the petition. It is a life of great interest, +complicated by the Tower of Babel, that old enemy. And I have all the +time on my hands for literary work. My house is a great place; we have a +hall fifty feet long with a great red-wood stair ascending from it, where +we dine in state—myself usually dressed in a singlet and a pair of +trousers—and attended on by servants in a single garment, a kind of +kilt—also flowers and leaves—and their hair often powdered with lime. +The European who came upon it suddenly would think it was a dream. We +have prayers on Sunday night—I am a perfect pariah in the island not to +have them oftener, but the spirit is unwilling and the flesh proud, and I +cannot go it more. It is strange to see the long line of the brown folk +crouched along the wall with lanterns at intervals before them in the big +shadowy hall, with an oak cabinet at one end of it and a group of Rodin’s +(which native taste regards as _prodigieusement leste_) presiding over +all from the top—and to hear the long rambling Samoan hymn rolling up +(God bless me, what style! But I am off business to-day, and this is not +meant to be literature.). + +I have asked Colvin to send you a copy of _Catriona_, which I am +sometimes tempted to think is about my best work. I hear word +occasionally of the _Amazing Marriage_. It will be a brave day for me +when I get hold of it. Gower Woodseer is now an ancient, lean, grim, +exiled Scot, living and labouring as for a wager in the tropics; still +active, still with lots of fire in him, but the youth—ah, the youth where +is it? For years after I came here, the critics (those genial gentlemen) +used to deplore the relaxation of my fibre and the idleness to which I +had succumbed. I hear less of this now; the next thing is they will tell +me I am writing myself out! and that my unconscientious conduct is +bringing their grey hairs with sorrow to the dust. I do not know—I mean +I do know one thing. For fourteen years I have not had a day’s real +health; I have wakened sick and gone to bed weary; and I have done my +work unflinchingly. I have written in bed, and written out of it, +written in hemorrhages, written in sickness, written torn by coughing, +written when my head swam for weakness; and for so long, it seems to me I +have won my wager and recovered my glove. I am better now, have been +rightly speaking since first I came to the Pacific; and still, few are +the days when I am not in some physical distress. And the battle goes +on—ill or well, is a trifle; so as it goes. I was made for a contest, +and the Powers have so willed that my battlefield should be this dingy, +inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle. At least I have not +failed, but I would have preferred a place of trumpetings and the open +air over my head. + +This is a devilish egotistical yarn. Will you try to imitate me in that +if the spirit ever moves you to reply? And meantime be sure that away in +the midst of the Pacific there is a house on a wooded island where the +name of George Meredith is very dear, and his memory (since it must be no +more) is continually honoured.—Ever your friend, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Remember me to Mariette, if you please; and my wife sends her most kind +remembrances to yourself. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO AUGUSTUS ST. GAUDENS + + + _Vailima_, _September_ 1893. + +MY DEAR ST. GAUDENS,—I had determined not to write to you till I had seen +the medallion, but it looks as if that might mean the Greek Kalends or +the day after to-morrow. Reassure yourself, your part is done, it is +ours that halts—the consideration of conveyance over our sweet little +road on boys’ backs, for we cannot very well apply the horses to this +work; there is only one; you cannot put it in a panier; to put it on the +horse’s back we have not the heart. Beneath the beauty of R. L. S., to +say nothing of his verses, which the publishers find heavy enough, and +the genius of the god-like sculptor, the spine would snap and the +well-knit limbs of the (ahem) cart-horse would be loosed by death. So +you are to conceive me, sitting in my house, dubitative, and the +medallion chuckling in the warehouse of the German firm, for some days +longer; and hear me meanwhile on the golden letters. + +Alas! they are all my fancy painted, but the price is prohibitive. I +cannot do it. It is another day-dream burst. Another gable of +Abbotsford has gone down, fortunately before it was builded, so there’s +nobody injured—except me. I had a strong conviction that I was a great +hand at writing inscriptions, and meant to exhibit and test my genius on +the walls of my house; and now I see I can’t. It is generally thus. The +Battle of the Golden Letters will never be delivered. On making +preparation to open the campaign, the King found himself face to face +with invincible difficulties, in which the rapacity of a mercenary +soldiery and the complaints of an impoverished treasury played an equal +part.—Ever yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +I enclose a bill for the medallion; have been trying to find your letter, +quite in vain, and therefore must request you to pay for the bronze +letters yourself and let me know the damage. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO J. HORNE STEVENSON + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _November_ 5_th_, 1893. + +MY DEAR STEVENSON,—A thousand thanks for your voluminous and delightful +collections. Baxter—so soon as it is ready—will let you see a proof of +my introduction, which is only sent out as a sprat to catch whales. And +you will find I have a good deal of what you have, only mine in a +perfectly desultory manner, as is necessary to an exile. My uncle’s +pedigree is wrong; there was never a Stevenson of Caldwell, of course, +but they were tenants of the Muirs; the farm held by them is in my +introduction; and I have already written to Charles Baxter to have a +search made in the Register House. I hope he will have had the +inspiration to put it under your surveillance. Your information as to +your own family is intensely interesting, and I should not wonder but +what you and we and old John Stevenson, ‘land labourer in the parish of +Dailly,’ came all of the same stock. Ayrshire—and probably +Cunningham—seems to be the home of the race—our part of it. From the +distribution of the name—which your collections have so much extended +without essentially changing my knowledge of—we seem rather pointed to a +British origin. What you say of the Engineers is fresh to me, and must +be well thrashed out. This introduction of it will take a long while to +walk about!—as perhaps I may be tempted to let it become long; after all, +I am writing _this_ for my own pleasure solely. Greetings to you and +other Speculatives of our date, long bygone, alas!—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—I have a different version of my grandfather’s arms—or my father +had if I could find it. + + R. L. S. + + + + +TO JOHN P—N + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 3_rd_, 1893. + +DEAR JOHNNIE,—Well, I must say you seem to be a tremendous fellow! +Before I was eight I used to write stories—or dictate them at least—and I +had produced an excellent history of Moses, for which I got £1 from an +uncle; but I had never gone the length of a play, so you have beaten me +fairly on my own ground. I hope you may continue to do so, and thanking +you heartily for your nice letter, I shall beg you to believe me yours +truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO RUSSELL P—N + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 3_rd_, 1893. + +DEAR RUSSELL,—I have to thank you very much for your capital letter, +which came to hand here in Samoa along with your mother’s. When you +‘grow up and write stories like me,’ you will be able to understand that +there is scarce anything more painful than for an author to hold a pen; +he has to do it so much that his heart sickens and his fingers ache at +the sight or touch of it; so that you will excuse me if I do not write +much, but remain (with compliments and greetings from one Scot to +another—though I was not born in Ceylon—you’re ahead of me there).—Yours +very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + _Vailima_, _December_ 5, 1893. + +MY DEAREST CUMMY,—This goes to you with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New +Year. The Happy New Year anyway, for I think it should reach you about +_Noor’s Day_. I dare say it may be cold and frosty. Do you remember +when you used to take me out of bed in the early morning, carry me to the +back windows, show me the hills of Fife, and quote to me. + + ‘A’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw, + An’ winter’s noo come fairly’? + +There is not much chance of that here! I wonder how my mother is going +to stand the winter. If she can, it will be a very good thing for her. +We are in that part of the year which I like the best—the Rainy or +Hurricane Season. ‘When it is good, it is very, very good; and when it +is bad, it is horrid,’ and our fine days are certainly fine like heaven; +such a blue of the sea, such green of the trees, and such crimson of the +hibiscus flowers, you never saw; and the air as mild and gentle as a +baby’s breath, and yet not hot! + +The mail is on the move, and I must let up.—With much love, I am, your +laddie, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + 6_th_ _December_ 1893. + + ‘_October_ 25, 1685.—At Privy Council, George Murray, Lieutenant of + the King’s Guard, and others, did, on the 21st of September last, + obtain a clandestine order of Privy Council to apprehend the person + of Janet Pringle, daughter to the late Clifton, and she having + retired out of the way upon information, he got an order against + Andrew Pringle, her uncle, to produce her. . . . But she having + married Andrew Pringle, her uncle’s son (to disappoint all their + designs of selling her), a boy of thirteen years old.’ But my boy is + to be fourteen, so I extract no further.—FOUNTAINHALL, i. 320. + + ‘_May_ 6, 1685.—Wappus Pringle of Clifton was still alive after all, + and in prison for debt, and transacts with Lieutenant Murray, giving + security for 7000 marks.’—i. 372. + +No, it seems to have been _her_ brother who had succeeded. + + * * * * * + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—The above is my story, and I wonder if any light can be +thrown on it. I prefer the girl’s father dead; and the question is, How +in that case could Lieutenant George Murray get his order to ‘apprehend’ +and his power to ‘sell’ her in marriage? + +Or—might Lieutenant G. be her tutor, and she fugitive to the Pringles, +and on the discovery of her whereabouts hastily married? + +A good legal note on these points is very ardently desired by me; it will +be the corner-stone of my novel. + +This is for—I am quite wrong to tell you—for you will tell others—and +nothing will teach you that all my schemes are in the air, and vanish and +reappear again like shapes in the clouds—it is for _Heathercat_: whereof +the first volume will be called _The Killing Time_, and I believe I have +authorities ample for that. But the second volume is to be called (I +believe) _Darien_, and for that I want, I fear, a good deal of truck:— + + _Darien Papers_, + _Carstairs Papers_, + _Marchmont Papers_, + _Jerviswoode Correspondence_, + +I hope may do me. Some sort of general history of the Darien affair (if +there is a decent one, which I misdoubt), it would also be well to +have—the one with most details, if possible. It is singular how obscure +to me this decade of Scots history remains, 1690–1700—a deuce of a want +of light and grouping to it! However, I believe I shall be mostly out of +Scotland in my tale; first in Carolina, next in Darien. I want also—I am +the daughter of the horse-leech truly—‘Black’s new large map of +Scotland,’ sheets 3, 4, and 5, a 7s. 6d. touch. I believe, if you can +get the + + _Caldwell Papers_, + +they had better come also; and if there be any reasonable work—but no, I +must call a halt. . . . + +I fear the song looks doubtful, but I’ll consider of it, and I can +promise you some reminiscences which it will amuse me to write, whether +or not it will amuse the public to read of them. But it’s an unco +business to _supply_ deid-heid coapy. + + + +TO J. M. BARRIE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 7_th_, 1893. + +MY DEAR BARRIE,—I have received duly the _magnum opus_, and it really is +a _magnum opus_. {311} It is a beautiful specimen of Clark’s printing, +paper sufficient, and the illustrations all my fancy painted. But the +particular flower of the flock to whom I have hopelessly lost my heart is +Tibby Birse. I must have known Tibby Birse when she was a servant’s +mantua-maker in Edinburgh and answered to the name of Miss _Broddie_. +She used to come and sew with my nurse, sitting with her legs crossed in +a masculine manner; and swinging her foot emphatically, she used to pour +forth a perfectly unbroken stream of gossip. I didn’t hear it, I was +immersed in far more important business with a box of bricks, but the +recollection of that thin, perpetual, shrill sound of a voice has echoed +in my ears sinsyne. I am bound to say she was younger than Tibbie, but +there is no mistaking that and the indescribable and eminently Scottish +expression. + +I have been very much prevented of late, having carried out thoroughly to +my own satisfaction two considerable illnesses, had a birthday, and +visited Honolulu, where politics are (if possible) a shade more +exasperating than they are with us. I am told that it was just when I +was on the point of leaving that I received your superlative epistle +about the cricket eleven. In that case it is impossible I should have +answered it, which is inconsistent with my own recollection of the fact. +What I remember is, that I sat down under your immediate inspiration and +wrote an answer in every way worthy. If I didn’t, as it seems proved +that I couldn’t, it will never be done now. However, I did the next best +thing, I equipped my cousin Graham Balfour with a letter of introduction, +and from him, if you know how—for he is rather of the Scottish +character—you may elicit all the information you can possibly wish to +have as to us and ours. Do not be bluffed off by the somewhat stern and +monumental first impression that he may make upon you. He is one of the +best fellows in the world, and the same sort of fool that we are, only +better-looking, with all the faults of Vailimans and some of his own—I +say nothing about virtues. + +I have lately been returning to my wallowing in the mire. When I was a +child, and indeed until I was nearly a man, I consistently read +Covenanting books. Now that I am a grey-beard—or would be, if I could +raise the beard—I have returned, and for weeks back have read little else +but Wodrow, Walker, Shields, etc. Of course this is with an idea of a +novel, but in the course of it I made a very curious discovery. I have +been accustomed to hear refined and intelligent critics—those who know so +much better what we are than we do ourselves,—trace down my literary +descent from all sorts of people, including Addison, of whom I could +never read a word. Well, laigh i’ your lug, sir—the clue was found. My +style is from the Covenanting writers. Take a particular case—the +fondness for rhymes. I don’t know of any English prose-writer who rhymes +except by accident, and then a stone had better be tied around his neck +and himself cast into the sea. But my Covenanting buckies rhyme all the +time—a beautiful example of the unconscious rhyme above referred to. + +Do you know, and have you really tasted, these delightful works? If not, +it should be remedied; there is enough of the Auld Licht in you to be +ravished. + +I suppose you know that success has so far attended my banners—my +political banners I mean, and not my literary. In conjunction with the +Three Great Powers I have succeeded in getting rid of My President and My +Chief-Justice. They’ve gone home, the one to Germany, the other to +Souwegia. I hear little echoes of footfalls of their departing footsteps +through the medium of the newspapers. . . . + +Whereupon I make you my salute with the firm remark that it is time to be +done with trifling and give us a great book, and my ladies fall into line +with me to pay you a most respectful courtesy, and we all join in the +cry, ‘Come to Vailima!’ + +My dear sir, your soul’s health is in it—you will never do the great +book, you will never cease to work in L., etc., till you come to Vailima. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO R. LE GALLIENNE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 28_th_, 1893. + +DEAR MR. LE GALLIENNE,—I have received some time ago, through our friend +Miss Taylor, a book of yours. But that was by no means my first +introduction to your name. The same book had stood already on my +shelves; I had read articles of yours in the _Academy_; and by a piece of +constructive criticism (which I trust was sound) had arrived at the +conclusion that you were ‘Log-roller.’ Since then I have seen your +beautiful verses to your wife. You are to conceive me, then, as only too +ready to make the acquaintance of a man who loved good literature and +could make it. I had to thank you, besides, for a triumphant exposure of +a paradox of my own: the literary-prostitute disappeared from view at a +phrase of yours—‘The essence is not in the pleasure but the sale.’ True: +you are right, I was wrong; the author is not the whore, but the +libertine; and yet I shall let the passage stand. It is an error, but it +illustrated the truth for which I was contending, that +literature—painting—all art, are no other than pleasures, which we turn +into trades. + +And more than all this, I had, and I have to thank you for the intimate +loyalty you have shown to myself; for the eager welcome you give to what +is good—for the courtly tenderness with which you touch on my defects. I +begin to grow old; I have given my top note, I fancy;—and I have written +too many books. The world begins to be weary of the old booth; and if +not weary, familiar with the familiarity that breeds contempt. I do not +know that I am sensitive to criticism, if it be hostile; I am sensitive +indeed, when it is friendly; and when I read such criticism as yours, I +am emboldened to go on and praise God. + +You are still young, and you may live to do much. The little, artificial +popularity of style in England tends, I think, to die out; the British +pig returns to his true love, the love of the styleless, of the +shapeless, of the slapdash and the disorderly. There is trouble coming, +I think; and you may have to hold the fort for us in evil days. + +Lastly, let me apologise for the crucifixion that I am inflicting on you +(_bien à contre-cœur_) by my bad writing. I was once the best of +writers; landladies, puzzled as to my ‘trade,’ used to have their honest +bosoms set at rest by a sight of a page of manuscript.—‘Ah,’ they would +say, ‘no wonder they pay you for that’;—and when I sent it in to the +printers, it was given to the boys! I was about thirty-nine, I think, +when I had a turn of scrivener’s palsy; my hand got worse; and for the +first time, I received clean proofs. But it has gone beyond that now, I +know I am like my old friend James Payn, a terror to correspondents; and +you would not believe the care with which this has been written.—Believe +me to be, very sincerely yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. A. BAKER + + + _December_ 1893. + +DEAR MADAM,—There is no trouble, and I wish I could help instead. As it +is, I fear I am only going to put you to trouble and vexation. This +Braille writing is a kind of consecration, and I would like if I could to +have your copy perfect. The two volumes are to be published as Vols. I. +and II. of _The Adventures of David Balfour_. 1st, _Kidnapped_; 2nd, +_Catriona_. I am just sending home a corrected _Kidnapped_ for this +purpose to Messrs. Cassell, and in order that I may if possible be in +time, I send it to you first of all. Please, as soon as you have noted +the changes, forward the same to Cassell and Co., La Belle Sauvage Yard, +Ludgate Hill. + +I am writing to them by this mail to send you _Catriona_. + +You say, dear madam, you are good enough to say, it is ‘a keen pleasure’ +to you to bring my book within the reach of the blind. + +Conceive then what it is to me! and believe me, sincerely yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + I was a barren tree before, + I blew a quenchèd coal, + I could not, on their midnight shore, + The lonely blind console. + + A moment, lend your hand, I bring + My sheaf for you to bind, + And you can teach my words to sing + In the darkness of the blind. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Apia_, _December_ 1893. + +MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—The mail has come upon me like an armed man three +days earlier than was expected; and the Lord help me! It is impossible I +should answer anybody the way they should be. Your jubilation over +_Catriona_ did me good, and still more the subtlety and truth of your +remark on the starving of the visual sense in that book. ’Tis true, and +unless I make the greater effort—and am, as a step to that, convinced of +its necessity—it will be more true I fear in the future. I _hear_ people +talking, and I _feel_ them acting, and that seems to me to be fiction. +My two aims may be described as— + + 1_st_. War to the adjective. + + 2_nd_. Death to the optic nerve. + +Admitted we live in an age of the optic nerve in literature. For how +many centuries did literature get along without a sign of it? However, +I’ll consider your letter. + +How exquisite is your character of the critic in _Essays in London_! I +doubt if you have done any single thing so satisfying as a piece of style +and of insight.—Yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + 1_st_ _January_ ’94. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—I am delighted with your idea, and first, I will here +give an amended plan and afterwards give you a note of some of the +difficulties. + + [Plan of the Edinburgh edition—14 vols.] + +. . . It may be a question whether my _Times_ letters might not be +appended to the ‘Footnote’ with a note of the dates of discharge of +Cedercrantz and Pilsach. + +I am particularly pleased with this idea of yours, because I am come to a +dead stop. I never can remember how bad I have been before, but at any +rate I am bad enough just now, I mean as to literature; in health I am +well and strong. I take it I shall be six months before I’m heard of +again, and this time I could put in to some advantage in revising the +text and (if it were thought desirable) writing prefaces. I do not know +how many of them might be thought desirable. I have written a paper on +_Treasure Island_, which is to appear shortly. _Master of Ballantrae_—I +have one drafted. _The Wrecker_ is quite sufficiently done already with +the last chapter, but I suppose an historic introduction to _David +Balfour_ is quite unavoidable. _Prince Otto_ I don’t think I could say +anything about, and _Black Arrow_ don’t want to. But it is probable I +could say something to the volume of _Travels_. In the verse business I +can do just what I like better than anything else, and extend +_Underwoods_ with a lot of unpublished stuff. _Apropos_, if I were to +get printed off a very few poems which are somewhat too intimate for the +public, could you get them run up in some luxuous manner, so that fools +might be induced to buy them in just a sufficient quantity to pay +expenses and the thing remain still in a manner private? We could supply +photographs of the illustrations—and the poems are of Vailima and the +family—I should much like to get this done as a surprise for Fanny. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO H. B. BAILDON + + + _Vailima_, _January_ 15_th_, 1894. + +MY DEAR BAILDON,—Last mail brought your book and its Dedication. +‘Frederick Street and the gardens, and the short-lived Jack o’ Lantern,’ +are again with me—and the note of the east wind, and Froebel’s voice, and +the smell of soup in Thomson’s stair. Truly, you had no need to put +yourself under the protection of any other saint, were that saint our +Tamate himself! Yourself were enough, and yourself coming with so rich a +sheaf. + +For what is this that you say about the Muses? They have certainly never +better inspired you than in ‘Jael and Sisera,’ and ‘Herodias and John the +Baptist,’ good stout poems, fiery and sound. ‘’Tis but a mask and behind +it chuckles the God of the Garden,’ I shall never forget. By the by, an +error of the press, page 49, line 4, ‘No infant’s lesson are the ways of +God.’ _The_ is dropped. + +And this reminds me you have a bad habit which is to be comminated in my +theory of letters. Same page, two lines lower: ‘But the vulture’s track’ +is surely as fine to the ear as ‘But vulture’s track,’ and this latter +version has a dreadful baldness. The reader goes on with a sense of +impoverishment, of unnecessary sacrifice; he has been robbed by footpads, +and goes scouting for his lost article! Again, in the second Epode, +these fine verses would surely sound much finer if they began, ‘As a +hardy climber who has set his heart,’ than with the jejune ‘As hardy +climber.’ I do not know why you permit yourself this license with +grammar; you show, in so many pages, that you are superior to the paltry +sense of rhythm which usually dictates it—as though some poetaster had +been suffered to correct the poet’s text. By the way, I confess to a +heartfelt weakness for _Auriculas_.—Believe me the very grateful and +characteristic pick-thank, but still sincere and affectionate, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. H. LOW. + + + _Vailima_, _January_ 15th, 1894. + +MY DEAR LOW,—. . . Pray you, stoop your proud head, and sell yourself to +some Jew magazine, and make the visit out. I assure you, this is the +spot for a sculptor or painter. This, and no other—I don’t say to stay +there, but to come once and get the living colour into them. I am used +to it; I do not notice it; rather prefer my grey, freezing recollections +of Scotland; but there it is, and every morning is a thing to give thanks +for, and every night another—bar when it rains, of course. + +About _The Wrecker_—rather late days, and I still suspect I had somehow +offended you; however, all’s well that ends well, and I am glad I am +forgiven—did you not fail to appreciate the attitude of Dodd? He was a +fizzle and a stick, he knew it, he knew nothing else, and there is an +undercurrent of bitterness in him. And then the problem that Pinkerton +laid down: why the artist can _do nothing else_? is one that continually +exercises myself. He cannot: granted. But Scott could. And Montaigne. +And Julius Cæsar. And many more. And why can’t R. L. S.? Does it not +amaze you? It does me. I think of the Renaissance fellows, and their +all-round human sufficiency, and compare it with the ineffable smallness +of the field in which we labour and in which we do so little. I think +_David Balfour_ a nice little book, and very artistic, and just the thing +to occupy the leisure of a busy man; but for the top flower of a man’s +life it seems to me inadequate. Small is the word; it is a small age, +and I am of it. I could have wished to be otherwise busy in this world. +I ought to have been able to build lighthouses and write _David Balfours_ +too. _Hinc illae lacrymae_. I take my own case as most handy, but it is +as illustrative of my quarrel with the age. We take all these pains, and +we don’t do as well as Michael Angelo or Leonardo, or even Fielding, who +was an active magistrate, or Richardson, who was a busy bookseller. +_J’ai honte pour nous_; my ears burn. + +I am amazed at the effect which this Chicago exhibition has produced upon +you and others. It set Mrs. Fairchild literally mad—to judge by her +letters. And I wish I had seen anything so influential. I suppose there +was an aura, a halo, some sort of effulgency about the place; for here I +find you louder than the rest. Well, it may be there is a time coming; +and I wonder, when it comes, whether it will be a time of little, +exclusive, one-eyed rascals like you and me, or parties of the old stamp +who can paint and fight, and write and keep books of double entry, and +sculp, and scalp. It might be. You have a lot of stuff in the kettle, +and a great deal of it Celtic. I have changed my mind progressively +about England, practically the whole of Scotland is Celtic, and the +western half of England, and all Ireland, and the Celtic blood makes a +rare blend for art. If it is stiffened up with Latin blood, you get the +French. We were less lucky: we had only Scandinavians, themselves +decidedly artistic, and the Low-German lot. However, that is a good +starting-point, and with all the other elements in your crucible, it may +come to something great very easily. I wish you would hurry up and let +me see it. Here is a long while I have been waiting for something _good_ +in art; and what have I seen? Zola’s _Débâcle_ and a few of Kipling’s +tales. Are you a reader of Barbey d’Aurevilly? He is a never-failing +source of pleasure to me, for my sins, I suppose. What a work is the +_Rideau Cramoisi_! and _L’Ensorcelée_! and _Le Chevalier Des Touches_! + +This is degenerating into mere twaddle. So please remember us all most +kindly to Mrs. Low, and believe me ever yours, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—Were all your privateers voiceless in the war of 1812? Did _no +one_ of them write memoirs? I shall have to do my privateer from chic, +if you can’t help me. {320} My application to Scribner has been quite in +vain. See if you can get hold of some historic sharp in the club, and +tap him; they must some of them have written memoirs or notes of some +sort; perhaps still unprinted; if that be so, get them copied for me. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO H. B. BAILDON + + + _Vailima_, _January_ 30_th_, 1894. + +MY DEAR BAILDON,—‘Call not blessed.’—Yes, if I could die just now, or say +in half a year, I should have had a splendid time of it on the whole. +But it gets a little stale, and my work will begin to senesce; and +parties to shy bricks at me; and now it begins to look as if I should +survive to see myself impotent and forgotten. It’s a pity suicide is not +thought the ticket in the best circles. + +But your letter goes on to congratulate me on having done the one thing I +am a little sorry for; a little—not much—for my father himself lived to +think that I had been wiser than he. But the cream of the jest is that I +have lived to change my mind; and think that he was wiser than I. Had I +been an engineer, and literature my amusement, it would have been better +perhaps. I pulled it off, of course, I won the wager, and it is pleasant +while it lasts; but how long will it last? I don’t know, say the Bells +of Old Bow. + +All of which goes to show that nobody is quite sane in judging himself. +Truly, had I given way and gone in for engineering, I should be dead by +now. Well, the gods know best. + +. . . I hope you got my letter about the _Rescue_.—Adieu, + + R. L. S. + +True for you about the benefit: except by kisses, jests, song, _et hoc +genus omne_, man _cannot_ convey benefit to another. The universal +benefactor has been there before him. + + + +TO J. H. BATES + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _March_ 25_th_, 1894. + +MY DEAR MR. JOE H. BATES,—I shall have the greatest pleasure in acceding +to your complimentary request. I shall think it an honour to be +associated with your chapter, and I need not remind you (for you have +said it yourself) how much depends upon your own exertions whether to +make it to me a real honour or only a derision. This is to let you know +that I accept the position that you have seriously offered to me in a +quite serious spirit. I need scarce tell you that I shall always be +pleased to receive reports of your proceedings; and if I do not always +acknowledge them, you are to remember that I am a man very much occupied +otherwise, and not at all to suppose that I have lost interest in my +chapter. + +In this world, which (as you justly say) is so full of sorrow and +suffering, it will always please me to remember that my name is connected +with some efforts after alleviation, nor less so with purposes of +innocent recreation which, after all, are the only certain means at our +disposal for bettering human life. + +With kind regards, to yourself, to Mr. L. C. Congdon, to E. M. G. Bates, +and to Mr. Edward Hugh Higlee Bates, and the heartiest wishes for the +future success of the chapter, believe me, yours cordially, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO WILLIAM ARCHER + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _March_ 27_th_, 1894. + +MY DEAR ARCHER,—Many thanks for your _Theatrical World_. Do you know, it +strikes me as being really very good? I have not yet read much of it, +but so far as I have looked, there is not a dull and not an empty page in +it. Hazlitt, whom you must often have thought of, would have been +pleased. Come to think of it, I shall put this book upon the Hazlitt +shelf. You have acquired a manner that I can only call august; +otherwise, I should have to call it such amazing impudence. The _Bauble +Shop_ and _Becket_ are examples of what I mean. But it ‘sets you weel.’ + +Marjorie Fleming I have known, as you surmise, for long. She was +possibly—no, I take back possibly—she was one of the greatest works of +God. Your note about the resemblance of her verses to mine gave me great +joy, though it only proved me a plagiarist. By the by, was it not over +_The Child’s Garden of Verses_ that we first scraped acquaintance? I am +sorry indeed to hear that my esteemed correspondent Tomarcher has such +poor taste in literature. {323} I fear he cannot have inherited this +trait from his dear papa. Indeed, I may say I know it, for I remember +the energy of papa’s disapproval when the work passed through his hands +on its way to a second birth, which none regrets more than myself. It is +an odd fact, or perhaps a very natural one; I find few greater pleasures +than reading my own works, but I never, O I never read _The Black Arrow_. +In that country Tomarcher reigns supreme. Well, and after all, if +Tomarcher likes it, it has not been written in vain. + +We have just now a curious breath from Europe. A young fellow just +beginning letters, and no fool, turned up here with a letter of +introduction in the well-known blue ink and decorative hieroglyphs of +George Meredith. His name may be known to you. It is Sidney Lysaght. +He is staying with us but a day or two, and it is strange to me and not +unpleasant to hear all the names, old and new, come up again. But oddly +the new are so much more in number. If I revisited the glimpses of the +moon on your side of the ocean, I should know comparatively few of them. + +My amanuensis deserts me—I should have said you, for yours is the loss, +my script having lost all bond with humanity. One touch of nature makes +the whole world kin: that nobody can read my hand. It is a humiliating +circumstance that thus evens us with printers! + +You must sometimes think it strange—or perhaps it is only I that should +so think it—to be following the old round, in the gas lamps and the +crowded theatres, when I am away here in the tropical forest and the vast +silences! + +My dear Archer, my wife joins me in the best wishes to yourself and Mrs. +Archer, not forgetting Tom; and I am yours very cordially, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO W. B. YEATS + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _April_ 14, 1894. + +DEAR SIR,—Long since when I was a boy I remember the emotions with which +I repeated Swinburne’s poems and ballads. Some ten years ago, a similar +spell was cast upon me by Meredith’s _Love in the Valley_; the stanzas +beginning ‘When her mother tends her’ haunted me and made me drunk like +wine; and I remember waking with them all the echoes of the hills about +Hyères. It may interest you to hear that I have a third time fallen in +slavery: this is to your poem called the _Lake Isle of Innisfrae_. It is +so quaint and airy, simple, artful, and eloquent to the heart—but I seek +words in vain. Enough that ‘always night and day I hear lake water +lapping with low sounds on the shore,’ and am, yours gratefully, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO GEORGE MEREDITH + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _April_ 17_th_, 1894. + +MY DEAR MEREDITH,—Many good things have the gods sent to me of late. +First of all there was a letter from you by the kind hand of Mariette, if +she is not too great a lady to be remembered in such a style; and then +there came one Lysaght with a charming note of introduction in the +well-known hand itself. We had but a few days of him, and liked him +well. There was a sort of geniality and inward fire about him at which I +warmed my hands. It is long since I have seen a young man who has left +in me such a favourable impression; and I find myself telling myself, ‘O, +I must tell this to Lysaght,’ or, ‘This will interest him,’ in a manner +very unusual after so brief an acquaintance. The whole of my family +shared in this favourable impression, and my halls have re-echoed ever +since, I am sure he will be amused to know, with _Widdicombe Fair_. + +He will have told you doubtless more of my news than I could tell you +myself; he has your European perspective, a thing long lost to me. I +heard with a great deal of interest the news of Box Hill. And so I +understand it is to be enclosed! Allow me to remark, that seems a far +more barbaric trait of manners than the most barbarous of ours. We +content ourselves with cutting off an occasional head. + +I hear we may soon expect the _Amazing Marriage_. You know how long, and +with how much curiosity, I have looked forward to the book. Now, in so +far as you have adhered to your intention, Gower Woodsere will be a +family portrait, age twenty-five, of the highly respectable and slightly +influential and fairly aged _Tusitala_. You have not known that +gentleman; console yourself, he is not worth knowing. At the same time, +my dear Meredith, he is very sincerely yours—for what he is worth, for +the memories of old times, and in the expectation of many pleasures still +to come. I suppose we shall never see each other again; flitting youths +of the Lysaght species may occasionally cover these unconscionable +leagues and bear greetings to and fro. But we ourselves must be content +to converse on an occasional sheet of notepaper, and I shall never see +whether you have grown older, and you shall never deplore that Gower +Woodsere should have declined into the pantaloon _Tusitala_. It is +perhaps better so. Let us continue to see each other as we were, and +accept, my dear Meredith, my love and respect. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—My wife joins me in the kindest messages to yourself and Mariette. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Vailima_], _April_ 17, ’94. + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—_St. Ives_ is now well on its way into the second +volume. There remains no mortal doubt that it will reach the three +volume standard. + +I am very anxious that you should send me— + +1_st_. _Tom and Jerry_, a cheap edition. + +2nd. The book by Ashton—the _Dawn of the Century_, I think it was +called—which Colvin sent me, and which has miscarried, and + +3rd. If it is possible, a file of the _Edinburgh Courant_ for the years +1811, 1812, 1813, or 1814. I should not care for a whole year. If it +were possible to find me three months, winter months by preference, it +would do my business not only for _St. Ives_, but for the _Justice-Clerk_ +as well. Suppose this to be impossible, perhaps I could get the loan of +it from somebody; or perhaps it would be possible to have some one read a +file for me and make notes. This would be extremely bad, as unhappily +one man’s food is another man’s poison, and the reader would probably +leave out everything I should choose. But if you are reduced to that, +you might mention to the man who is to read for me that balloon +ascensions are in the order of the day. + +4th. It might be as well to get a book on balloon ascension, +particularly in the early part of the century. + + . . . . . + +III. At last this book has come from Scribner, and, alas! I have the +first six or seven chapters of _St. Ives_ to recast entirely. Who could +foresee that they clothed the French prisoners in yellow? But that one +fatal fact—and also that they shaved them twice a week—damns the whole +beginning. If it had been sent in time, it would have saved me a deal of +trouble. . . . + +I have had a long letter from Dr. Scott Dalgleish, 25 Mayfield Terrace, +asking me to put my name down to the Ballantyne Memorial Committee. I +have sent him a pretty sharp answer in favour of cutting down the +memorial and giving more to the widow and children. If there is to be +any foolery in the way of statues or other trash, please send them a +guinea; but if they are going to take my advice and put up a simple +tablet with a few heartfelt words, and really devote the bulk of the +subscriptions to the wife and family, I will go to the length of twenty +pounds, if you will allow me (and if the case of the family be at all +urgent), and at least I direct you to send ten pounds. I suppose you had +better see Scott Dalgleish himself on the matter. I take the opportunity +here to warn you that my head is simply spinning with a multitude of +affairs, and I shall probably forget a half of my business at last. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MRS. SITWELL + + + _Vailima_, _April_ 1894. + +MY DEAR FRIEND,—I have at last got some photographs, and hasten to send +you, as you asked, a portrait of Tusitala. He is a strange person; not +so lean, say experts, but infinitely battered; mighty active again on the +whole; going up and down our break-neck road at all hours of the day and +night on horseback; holding meetings with all manner of chiefs; quite a +political personage—God save the mark!—in a small way, but at heart very +conscious of the inevitable flat failure that awaits every one. I shall +never do a better book than _Catriona_, that is my high-water mark, and +the trouble of production increases on me at a great rate—and mighty +anxious about how I am to leave my family: an elderly man, with elderly +preoccupations, whom I should be ashamed to show you for your old friend; +but not a hope of my dying soon and cleanly, and ‘winning off the stage.’ +Rather I am daily better in physical health. I shall have to see this +business out, after all; and I think, in that case, they should have—they +might have—spared me all my ill-health this decade past, if it were not +to unbar the doors. I have no taste for old age, and my nose is to be +rubbed in it in spite of my face. I was meant to die young, and the gods +do not love me. + +This is very like an epitaph, bar the handwriting, which is anything but +monumental, and I dare say I had better stop. Fanny is down at her own +cottage planting or deplanting or replanting, I know not which, and she +will not be home till dinner, by which time the mail will be all closed, +else she would join me in all good messages and remembrances of love. I +hope you will congratulate Burne Jones from me on his baronetcy. I +cannot make out to be anything but raspingly, harrowingly sad; so I will +close, and not affect levity which I cannot feel. Do not altogether +forget me; keep a corner of your memory for the exile + + LOUIS. + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Vailima_, _May_ 1894.] + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—My dear fellow, I wish to assure you of the greatness of +the pleasure that this Edinburgh Edition gives me. I suppose it was your +idea to give it that name. No other would have affected me in the same +manner. Do you remember, how many years ago—I would be afraid to hazard +a guess—one night when I communicated to you certain intimations of early +death and aspirations after fame? I was particularly maudlin; and my +remorse the next morning on a review of my folly has written the matter +very deeply in my mind; from yours it may easily have fled. If any one +at that moment could have shown me the Edinburgh Edition, I suppose I +should have died. It is with gratitude and wonder that I consider ‘the +way in which I have been led.’ Could a more preposterous idea have +occurred to us in those days when we used to search our pockets for +coppers, too often in vain, and combine forces to produce the threepence +necessary for two glasses of beer, or wander down the Lothian Road +without any, than that I should be strong and well at the age of +forty-three in the island of Upolu, and that you should be at home +bringing out the Edinburgh Edition? If it had been possible, I should +almost have preferred the Lothian Road Edition, say, with a picture of +the old Dutch smuggler on the covers. I have now something heavy on my +mind. I had always a great sense of kinship with poor Robert +Fergusson—so clever a boy, so wild, of such a mixed strain, so +unfortunate, born in the same town with me, and, as I always felt, rather +by express intimation than from evidence, so like myself. Now the +injustice with which the one Robert is rewarded and the other left out in +the cold sits heavy on me, and I wish you could think of some way in +which I could do honour to my unfortunate namesake. Do you think it +would look like affectation to dedicate the whole edition to his memory? +I think it would. The sentiment which would dictate it to me is too +abstruse; and besides, I think my wife is the proper person to receive +the dedication of my life’s work. At the same time, it is very odd—it +really looks like the transmigration of souls—I feel that I must do +something for Fergusson; Burns has been before me with the gravestone. +It occurs to me you might take a walk down the Canongate and see in what +condition the stone is. If it be at all uncared for, we might repair it, +and perhaps add a few words of inscription. + +I must tell you, what I just remembered in a flash as I was walking about +dictating this letter—there was in the original plan of the _Master of +Ballantrae_ a sort of introduction describing my arrival in Edinburgh on +a visit to yourself and your placing in my hands the papers of the story. +I actually wrote it, and then condemned the idea—as being a little too +like Scott, I suppose. Now I must really find the MS. and try to finish +it for the E. E. It will give you, what I should so much like you to +have, another corner of your own in that lofty monument. + +Suppose we do what I have proposed about Fergusson’s monument, I wonder +if an inscription like this would look arrogant— + + This stone originally erected + by Robert Burns has been + repaired at the + charges of Robert Louis Stevenson, + and is by him re-dedicated to + the memory of Robert Fergusson, + as the gift of one Edinburgh + lad to another. + +In spacing this inscription I would detach the names of Fergusson and +Burns, but leave mine in the text. + +Or would that look like sham modesty, and is it better to bring out the +three Roberts? + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + _Vailima_, _June_ 1894. + +MY DEAR BOB,—I must make out a letter this mail or perish in the attempt. +All the same, I am deeply stupid, in bed with a cold, deprived of my +amanuensis, and conscious of the wish but not the furnished will. You +may be interested to hear how the family inquiries go. It is now quite +certain that we are a second-rate lot, and came out of Cunningham or +Clydesdale, therefore _British_ folk; so that you are Cymry on both +sides, and I Cymry and Pict. We may have fought with King Arthur and +known Merlin. The first of the family, Stevenson of Stevenson, was quite +a great party, and dates back to the wars of Edward First. The last male +heir of Stevenson of Stevenson died 1670, £220, 10s. to the bad, from +drink. About the same time the Stevensons, who were mostly in Cunningham +before, crop up suddenly in the parish of Neilston, over the border in +Renfrewshire. Of course, they may have been there before, but there is +no word of them in that parish till 1675 in any extracts I have. Our +first traceable ancestor was a tenant farmer of Muir of Cauldwells—James +in Nether-Carsewell. Presently two families of maltmen are found in +Glasgow, both, by re-duplicated proofs, related to James (the son of +James) in Nether Carsewell. We descend by his second marriage from +Robert; one of these died 1733. It is not very romantic up to now, but +has interested me surprisingly to fish out, always hoping for more—and +occasionally getting at least a little clearness and confirmation. But +the earliest date, 1655, apparently the marriage of James in Nether +Carsewell, cannot as yet be pushed back. From which of any number of +dozen little families in Cunningham we should derive, God knows! Of +course, it doesn’t matter a hundred years hence, an argument fatal to all +human enterprise, industry, or pleasure. And to me it will be a deadly +disappointment if I cannot roll this stone away! One generation further +might be nothing, but it is my present object of desire, and we are so +near it! There is a man in the same parish called Constantine; if I +could only trace to him, I could take you far afield by that one talisman +of the strange Christian name of Constantine. But no such luck! And I +kind of fear we shall stick at James. + +So much, though all inchoate, I trouble you with, knowing that you, at +least, must take an interest in it. So much is certain of that strange +Celtic descent, that the past has an interest for it apparently +gratuitous, but fiercely strong. I wish to trace my ancestors a thousand +years, if I trace them by gallowses. It is not love, not pride, not +admiration; it is an expansion of the identity, intimately pleasing, and +wholly uncritical; I can expend myself in the person of an inglorious +ancestor with perfect comfort; or a disgraced, if I could find one. I +suppose, perhaps, it is more to me who am childless, and refrain with a +certain shock from looking forwards. But, I am sure, in the solid +grounds of race, that you have it also in some degree. {332} + + I. JAMES, a tenant of the Muirs, in Nether-Carsewell, Neilston, + married (1665?) Jean Keir. + + II. ROBERT (Maltman in Glasgow), died 1733, married 1st; married + second, Elizabeth Cumming. + + [Of ROBERT and 1st marriage: William (Maltman in Glasgow), of him: + ROBERT, MARION and ELIZABETH] + + III. ROBERT [of Robert and Elizabeth Cumming] (Maltman in Glasgow), + married Margaret Fulton (had a large family). + + IV. ALAN, West India merchant, married Jean Lillie. + + V. ROBERT, married Jean Smith. + + VI. ALAN.—Margaret Jones. + + VII. R. A. M. S. + + NOTE.—Between 1730–1766 flourished in Glasgow Alan the Coppersmith, who + acts as a kind of a pin to the whole Stevenson system there. He was + caution to Robert the Second’s will, and to William’s will, and to the + will of a John, another maltman. + +Enough genealogy. I do not know if you will be able to read my hand. +Unhappily, Belle, who is my amanuensis, is out of the way on other +affairs, and I have to make the unwelcome effort. (O this is beautiful, +I am quite pleased with myself.) Graham has just arrived last night (my +mother is coming by the other steamer in three days), and has told me of +your meeting, and he said you looked a little older than I did; so that I +suppose we keep step fairly on the downward side of the hill. He thought +you looked harassed, and I could imagine that too. I sometimes feel +harassed. I have a great family here about me, a great anxiety. The +loss (to use my grandfather’s expression), the ‘loss’ of our family is +that we are disbelievers in the morrow—perhaps I should say, rather, in +next year. The future is _always_ black to us; it was to Robert +Stevenson; to Thomas; I suspect to Alan; to R. A. M. S. it was so almost +to his ruin in youth; to R. L. S., who had a hard hopeful strain in him +from his mother, it was not so much so once, but becomes daily more so. +Daily so much more so, that I have a painful difficulty in believing I +can ever finish another book, or that the public will ever read it. + +I have so huge a desire to know exactly what you are doing, that I +suppose I should tell you what I am doing by way of an example. I have a +room now, a part of the twelve-foot verandah sparred in, at the most +inaccessible end of the house. Daily I see the sunrise out of my bed, +which I still value as a tonic, a perpetual tuning fork, a look of God’s +face once in the day. At six my breakfast comes up to me here, and I +work till eleven. If I am quite well, I sometimes go out and bathe in +the river before lunch, twelve. In the afternoon I generally work again, +now alone drafting, now with Belle dictating. Dinner is at six, and I am +often in bed by eight. This is supposing me to stay at home. But I must +often be away, sometimes all day long, sometimes till twelve, one, or two +at night, when you might see me coming home to the sleeping house, +sometimes in a trackless darkness, sometimes with a glorious tropic moon, +everything drenched with dew—unsaddling and creeping to bed; and you +would no longer be surprised that I live out in this country, and not in +Bournemouth—in bed. + +My great recent interruptions have (as you know) come from politics; not +much in my line, you will say. But it is impossible to live here and not +feel very sorely the consequences of the horrid white mismanagement. I +tried standing by and looking on, and it became too much for me. They +are such illogical fools; a logical fool in an office, with a lot of red +tape, is conceivable. Furthermore, he is as much as we have any reason +to expect of officials—a thoroughly common-place, unintellectual lot. +But these people are wholly on wires; laying their ears down, skimming +away, pausing as though shot, and presto! full spread on the other tack. +I observe in the official class mostly an insane jealousy of the smallest +kind, as compared to which the artist’s is of a grave, modest +character—the actor’s, even; a desire to extend his little authority, and +to relish it like a glass of wine, that is _impayable_. Sometimes, when +I see one of these little kings strutting over one of his +victories—wholly illegal, perhaps, and certain to be reversed to his +shame if his superiors ever heard of it—I could weep. The strange thing +is that they _have nothing else_. I auscultate them in vain; no real +sense of duty, no real comprehension, no real attempt to comprehend, no +wish for information—you cannot offend one of them more bitterly than by +offering information, though it is certain that you have _more_, and +obvious that you have _other_, information than they have; and talking of +policy, they could not play a better stroke than by listening to you, and +it need by no means influence their action. _Tenez_, you know what a +French post office or railway official is? That is the diplomatic card +to the life. Dickens is not in it; caricature fails. + +All this keeps me from my work, and gives me the unpleasant side of the +world. When your letters are disbelieved it makes you angry, and that is +rot; and I wish I could keep out of it with all my soul. But I have just +got into it again, and farewell peace! + +My work goes along but slowly. I have got to a crossing place, I +suppose; the present book, _Saint Ives_, is nothing; it is in no style in +particular, a tissue of adventures, the central character not very well +done, no philosophic pith under the yarn; and, in short, if people will +read it, that’s all I ask; and if they won’t, damn them! I like doing it +though; and if you ask me why!—after that I am on _Weir of Hermiston_ and +_Heathercat_, two Scotch stories, which will either be something +different, or I shall have failed. The first is generally designed, and +is a private story of two or three characters in a very grim vein. The +second—alas! the thought—is an attempt at a real historical novel, to +present a whole field of time; the race—our own race—the west land and +Clydesdale blue bonnets, under the influence of their last trial, when +they got to a pitch of organisation in madness that no other peasantry +has ever made an offer at. I was going to call it _The Killing Time_, +but this man Crockett has forestalled me in that. Well, it’ll be a big +smash if I fail in it; but a gallant attempt. All my weary reading as a +boy, which you remember well enough, will come to bear on it; and if my +mind will keep up to the point it was in a while back, perhaps I can pull +it through. + +For two months past, Fanny, Belle, Austin (her child), and I have been +alone; but yesterday, as I mentioned, Graham Balfour arrived, and on +Wednesday my mother and Lloyd will make up the party to its full +strength. I wish you could drop in for a month or a week, or two hours. +That is my chief want. On the whole, it is an unexpectedly pleasant +corner I have dropped into for an end of it, which I could scarcely have +foreseen from Wilson’s shop, or the Princes Street Gardens, or the +Portobello Road. Still, I would like to hear what my _alter ego_ thought +of it; and I would sometimes like to have my old _maître ès arts_ express +an opinion on what I do. I put this very tamely, being on the whole a +quiet elderly man; but it is a strong passion with me, though +intermittent. Now, try to follow my example and tell me something about +yourself, Louisa, the Bab, and your work; and kindly send me some +specimens of what you’re about. I have only seen one thing by you, about +Notre Dame in the _Westminster_ or _St. James’s_, since I left England, +now I suppose six years ago. + +I have looked this trash over, and it is not at all the letter I wanted +to write—not truck about officials, ancestors, and the like +rancidness—but you have to let your pen go in its own broken-down gait, +like an old butcher’s pony, stop when it pleases, and go on again as it +will.—Ever, my dear Bob, your affectionate cousin, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO HENRY JAMES + + + _Vailima_, _July_ 7_th_, 1894. + +DEAR HENRY JAMES,—I am going to try and dictate to you a letter or a +note, and begin the same without any spark of hope, my mind being +entirely in abeyance. This malady is very bitter on the literary man. I +have had it now coming on for a month, and it seems to get worse instead +of better. If it should prove to be softening of the brain, a melancholy +interest will attach to the present document. I heard a great deal about +you from my mother and Graham Balfour; the latter declares that you could +take a First in any Samoan subject. If that be so, I should like to hear +you on the theory of the constitution. Also to consult you on the force +of the particles _o lo ’o_ and _ua_, which are the subject of a dispute +among local pundits. You might, if you ever answer this, give me your +opinion on the origin of the Samoan race, just to complete the favour. + +They both say that you are looking well, and I suppose I may conclude +from that that you are feeling passably. I wish I was. Do not suppose +from this that I am ill in body; it is the numskull that I complain of. +And when that is wrong, as you must be very keenly aware, you begin every +day with a smarting disappointment, which is not good for the temper. I +am in one of the humours when a man wonders how any one can be such an +ass as to embrace the profession of letters, and not get apprenticed to a +barber or keep a baked-potato stall. But I have no doubt in the course +of a week, or perhaps to-morrow, things will look better. + +We have at present in port the model warship of Great Britain. She is +called the _Curaçoa_, and has the nicest set of officers and men +conceivable. They, the officers, are all very intimate with us, and the +front verandah is known as the Curaçoa Club, and the road up to Vailima +is known as the Curaçoa Track. It was rather a surprise to me; many +naval officers have I known, and somehow had not learned to think +entirely well of them, and perhaps sometimes ask myself a little uneasily +how that kind of men could do great actions? and behold! the answer comes +to me, and I see a ship that I would guarantee to go anywhere it was +possible for men to go, and accomplish anything it was permitted man to +attempt. I had a cruise on board of her not long ago to Manu’a, and was +delighted. The goodwill of all on board; the grim playfulness of — {337} +quarters, with the wounded falling down at the word; the ambulances +hastening up and carrying them away; the Captain suddenly crying, ‘Fire +in the ward-room!’ and the squad hastening forward with the hose; and, +last and most curious spectacle of all, all the men in their +dust-coloured fatigue clothes, at a note of the bugle, falling +simultaneously flat on deck, and the ship proceeding with its prostrate +crew—_quasi_ to ram an enemy; our dinner at night in a wild open +anchorage, the ship rolling almost to her gunwales, and showing us +alternately her bulwarks up in the sky, and then the wild broken cliffy +palm-crested shores of the island with the surf thundering and leaping +close aboard. We had the ward-room mess on deck, lit by pink wax tapers, +everybody, of course, in uniform but myself, and the first lieutenant +(who is a rheumaticky body) wrapped in a boat cloak. Gradually the +sunset faded out, the island disappeared from the eye, though it remained +menacingly present to the ear with the voice of the surf; and then the +captain turned on the searchlight and gave us the coast, the beach, the +trees, the native houses, and the cliffs by glimpses of daylight, a kind +of deliberate lightning. About which time, I suppose, we must have come +as far as the dessert, and were probably drinking our first glass of port +to Her Majesty. We stayed two days at the island, and had, in addition, +a very picturesque snapshot at the native life. The three islands of +Manu’a are independent, and are ruled over by a little slip of a +half-caste girl about twenty, who sits all day in a pink gown, in a +little white European house with about a quarter of an acre of roses in +front of it, looking at the palm-trees on the village street, and +listening to the surf. This, so far as I could discover, was all she had +to do. ‘This is a very dull place,’ she said. It appears she could go +to no other village for fear of raising the jealousy of her own people in +the capital. And as for going about ‘tafatafaoing,’ as we say here, its +cost was too enormous. A strong able-bodied native must walk in front of +her and blow the conch shell continuously from the moment she leaves one +house until the moment she enters another. Did you ever blow the conch +shell? I presume not; but the sweat literally hailed off that man, and I +expected every moment to see him burst a blood-vessel. We were +entertained to kava in the guest-house with some very original features. +The young men who run for the _kava_ have a right to misconduct +themselves _ad libitum_ on the way back; and though they were told to +restrain themselves on the occasion of our visit, there was a strange +hurly-burly at their return, when they came beating the trees and the +posts of the houses, leaping, shouting, and yelling like Bacchants. + +I tasted on that occasion what it is to be great. My name was called +next after the captain’s, and several chiefs (a thing quite new to me, +and not at all Samoan practice) drank to me by name. + +And now, if you are not sick of the _Curaçoa_ and Manu’a, I am, at least +on paper. And I decline any longer to give you examples of how not to +write. + +By the by, you sent me long ago a work by Anatole France, which I confess +I did not _taste_. Since then I have made the acquaintance of the _Abbé +Coignard_, and have become a faithful adorer. I don’t think a better +book was ever written. + +And I have no idea what I have said, and I have no idea what I ought to +have said, and I am a total ass, but my heart is in the right place, and +I am, my dear Henry James, yours, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO MR. MARCEL SCHWOB + + + _Vailima_, _Upolu_, _Samoa_, _July_ 7, 1894. + +DEAR MR. MARCEL SCHWOB,—Thank you for having remembered me in my exile. +I have read _Mimes_ twice as a whole; and now, as I write, I am reading +it again as it were by accident, and a piece at a time, my eye catching a +word and travelling obediently on through the whole number. It is a +graceful book, essentially graceful, with its haunting agreeable +melancholy, its pleasing savour of antiquity. At the same time, by its +merits, it shows itself rather as the promise of something else to come +than a thing final in itself. You have yet to give us—and I am expecting +it with impatience—something of a larger gait; something daylit, not +twilit; something with the colours of life, not the flat tints of a +temple illumination; something that shall be _said_ with all the +clearnesses and the trivialities of speech, not _sung_ like a +semi-articulate lullaby. It will not please yourself as well, when you +come to give it us, but it will please others better. It will be more of +a whole, more worldly, more nourished, more commonplace—and not so +pretty, perhaps not even so beautiful. No man knows better than I that, +as we go on in life, we must part from prettiness and the graces. We but +attain qualities to lose them; life is a series of farewells, even in +art; even our proficiencies are deciduous and evanescent. So here with +these exquisite pieces the XVIIth, XVIIIth, and IVth of the present +collection. You will perhaps never excel them; I should think the +‘Hermes,’ never. Well, you will do something else, and of that I am in +expectation.—Yours cordially, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO A. ST. GAUDENS + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _July_ 8, 1894. + +MY DEAR ST. GAUDENS,—This is to tell you that the medallion has been at +last triumphantly transported up the hill and placed over my smoking-room +mantelpiece. It is considered by everybody a first-rate but flattering +portrait. We have it in a very good light, which brings out the artistic +merits of the god-like sculptor to great advantage. As for my own +opinion, I believe it to be a speaking likeness, and not flattered at +all; possibly a little the reverse. The verses (curse the rhyme) look +remarkably well. + +Please do not longer delay, but send me an account for the expense of the +gilt letters. I was sorry indeed that they proved beyond the means of a +small farmer.—Yours very sincerely, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE + + + _Vailima_, _July_ 14, 1894. + +MY DEAR ADELAIDE,—. . . So, at last, you are going into mission work? +where I think your heart always was. You will like it in a way, but +remember it is dreary long. Do you know the story of the American tramp +who was offered meals and a day’s wage to chop with the back of an axe on +a fallen trunk. ‘Damned if I can go on chopping when I can’t see the +chips fly!’ You will never see the chips fly in mission work, never; and +be sure you know it beforehand. The work is one long dull +disappointment, varied by acute revulsions; and those who are by nature +courageous and cheerful and have grown old in experience, learn to rub +their hands over infinitesimal successes. However, as I really believe +there is some good done in the long run—_gutta cavat lapidem non vi_ in +this business—it is a useful and honourable career in which no one should +be ashamed to embark. Always remember the fable of the sun, the storm, +and the traveller’s cloak. Forget wholly and for ever all small +pruderies, and remember that _you cannot change ancestral feelings of +right and wrong without what is practically soul-murder_. Barbarous as +the customs may seem, always hear them with patience, always judge them +with gentleness, always find in them some seed of good; see that you +always develop them; remember that all you can do is to civilise the man +in the line of his own civilisation, such as it is. And never expect, +never believe in, thaumaturgic conversions. They may do very well for +St. Paul; in the case of an Andaman islander they mean less than nothing. +In fact, what you have to do is to teach the parents in the interests of +their great-grandchildren. + +Now, my dear Adelaide, dismiss from your mind the least idea of fault +upon your side; nothing is further from the fact. I cannot forgive you, +for I do not know your fault. My own is plain enough, and the name of it +is cold-hearted neglect; and you may busy yourself more usefully in +trying to forgive me. But ugly as my fault is, you must not suppose it +to mean more than it does; it does not mean that we have at all forgotten +you, that we have become at all indifferent to the thought of you. See, +in my life of Jenkin, a remark of his, very well expressed, on the +friendships of men who do not write to each other. I can honestly say +that I have not changed to you in any way; though I have behaved thus +ill, thus cruelly. Evil is done by want of—well, principally by want of +industry. You can imagine what I would say (in a novel) of any one who +had behaved as I have done. _Deteriora sequor_. And you must somehow +manage to forgive your old friend; and if you will be so very good, +continue to give us news of you, and let us share the knowledge of your +adventures, sure that it will be always followed with interest—even if it +is answered with the silence of ingratitude. For I am not a fool; I know +my faults, I know they are ineluctable, I know they are growing on me. I +know I may offend again, and I warn you of it. But the next time I +offend, tell me so plainly and frankly like a lady, and don’t lacerate my +heart and bludgeon my vanity with imaginary faults of your own and purely +gratuitous penitence. I might suspect you of irony! + +We are all fairly well, though I have been off work and off—as you know +very well—letter-writing. Yet I have sometimes more than twenty letters, +and sometimes more than thirty, going out each mail. And Fanny has had a +most distressing bronchitis for some time, which she is only now +beginning to get over. I have just been to see her; she is lying—though +she had breakfast an hour ago, about seven—in her big cool, +mosquito-proof room, ingloriously asleep. As for me, you see that a doom +has come upon me: I cannot make marks with a pen—witness ‘ingloriously’ +above; and my amanuensis not appearing so early in the day, for she is +then immersed in household affairs, and I can hear her ‘steering the +boys’ up and down the verandahs—you must decipher this unhappy letter for +yourself and, I fully admit, with everything against you. A letter +should be always well written; how much more a letter of apology! +Legibility is the politeness of men of letters, as punctuality of kings +and beggars. By the punctuality of my replies, and the beauty of my +hand-writing, judge what a fine conscience I must have! + +Now, my dear gamekeeper, I must really draw to a close. For I have much +else to write before the mail goes out three days hence. Fanny being +asleep, it would not be conscientious to invent a message from her, so +you must just imagine her sentiments. I find I have not the heart to +speak of your recent loss. You remember perhaps, when my father died, +you told me those ugly images of sickness, decline, and impaired reason, +which then haunted me day and night, would pass away and be succeeded by +things more happily characteristic. I have found it so. He now haunts +me, strangely enough, in two guises; as a man of fifty, lying on a +hillside and carving mottoes on a stick, strong and well; and as a +younger man, running down the sands into the sea near North Berwick, +myself—_ætat_. 11—somewhat horrified at finding him so beautiful when +stripped! I hand on your own advice to you in case you have forgotten +it, as I know one is apt to do in seasons of bereavement.—Ever yours, +with much love and sympathy, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MRS. BAKER + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _July_ 16, 1894. + +DEAR MRS. BAKER,—I am very much obliged to you for your letter and the +enclosure from Mr. Skinner. Mr. Skinner says he ‘thinks Mr. Stevenson +must be a very kind man’; he little knows me. But I am very sure of one +thing, that you are a very kind woman. I envy you—my amanuensis being +called away, I continue in my own hand, or what is left of it—unusually +legible, I am thankful to see—I envy you your beautiful choice of an +employment. There must be no regrets at least for a day so spent; and +when the night falls you need ask no blessing on your work. + +‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these.’—Yours truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO J. M. BARRIE + + + _Vailima_, _July_ 13, 1894. + +MY DEAR BARRIE,—This is the last effort of an ulcerated conscience. I +have been so long owing you a letter, I have heard so much of you, fresh +from the press, from my mother and Graham Balfour, that I have to write a +letter no later than to-day, or perish in my shame. But the deuce of it +is, my dear fellow, that you write such a very good letter that I am +ashamed to exhibit myself before my junior (which you are, after all) in +the light of the dreary idiot I feel. Understand that there will be +nothing funny in the following pages. If I can manage to be rationally +coherent, I shall be more than satisfied. + +In the first place, I have had the extreme satisfaction to be shown that +photograph of your mother. It bears evident traces of the hand of an +amateur. How is it that amateurs invariably take better photographs than +professionals? I must qualify invariably. My own negatives have always +represented a province of chaos and old night in which you might dimly +perceive fleecy spots of twilight, representing nothing; so that, if I am +right in supposing the portrait of your mother to be yours, I must salute +you as my superior. Is that your mother’s breakfast? Or is it only +afternoon tea? If the first, do let me recommend to Mrs. Barrie to add +an egg to her ordinary. Which, if you please, I will ask her to eat to +the honour of her son, and I am sure she will live much longer for it, to +enjoy his fresh successes. I never in my life saw anything more +deliciously characteristic. I declare I can hear her speak. I wonder my +mother could resist the temptation of your proposed visit to Kirriemuir, +which it was like your kindness to propose. By the way, I was twice in +Kirriemuir, I believe in the year ’71, when I was going on a visit to +Glenogil. It was Kirriemuir, was it not? I have a distinct recollection +of an inn at the end—I think the upper end—of an irregular open place or +square, in which I always see your characters evolve. But, indeed, I did +not pay much attention; being all bent upon my visit to a shooting-box, +where I should fish a real trout-stream, and I believe preserved. I did, +too, and it was a charming stream, clear as crystal, without a trace of +peat—a strange thing in Scotland—and alive with trout; the name of it I +cannot remember, it was something like the Queen’s River, and in some +hazy way connected with memories of Mary Queen of Scots. It formed an +epoch in my life, being the end of all my trout-fishing. I had always +been accustomed to pause and very laboriously to kill every fish as I +took it. But in the Queen’s River I took so good a basket that I forgot +these niceties; and when I sat down, in a hard rain shower, under a bank, +to take my sandwiches and sherry, lo! and behold, there was the basketful +of trouts still kicking in their agony. I had a very unpleasant +conversation with my conscience. All that afternoon I persevered in +fishing, brought home my basket in triumph, and sometime that night, ‘in +the wee sma’ hours ayont the twal,’ I finally forswore the gentle craft +of fishing. I dare say your local knowledge may identify this historic +river; I wish it could go farther and identify also that particular Free +kirk in which I sat and groaned on Sunday. While my hand is in I must +tell you a story. At that antique epoch you must not fall into the +vulgar error that I was myself ancient. I was, on the contrary, very +young, very green, and (what you will appreciate, Mr. Barrie) very shy. +There came one day to lunch at the house two very formidable old +ladies—or one very formidable, and the other what you please—answering to +the honoured and historic name of the Miss C— A—’s of Balnamoon. At +table I was exceedingly funny, and entertained the company with tales of +geese and bubbly-jocks. I was great in the expression of my terror for +these bipeds, and suddenly this horrid, severe, and eminently matronly +old lady put up a pair of gold eye-glasses, looked at me awhile in +silence, and pronounced in a clangorous voice her verdict. ‘You give me +very much the effect of a coward, Mr. Stevenson!’ I had very nearly left +two vices behind me at Glenogil—fishing and jesting at table. And of one +thing you may be very sure, my lips were no more opened at that meal. + + _July_ 29_th_ + +No, Barrie, ’tis in vain they try to alarm me with their bulletins. No +doubt, you’re ill, and unco ill, I believe; but I have been so often in +the same case that I know pleurisy and pneumonia are in vain against +Scotsmen who can write, (I once could.) You cannot imagine probably how +near me this common calamity brings you. _Ce que j’ai toussé dans ma +vie_! How often and how long have I been on the rack at night and +learned to appreciate that noble passage in the Psalms when somebody or +other is said to be more set on something than they ‘who dig for hid +treasures—yea, than those who long for the morning’—for all the world, as +you have been racked and you have longed. Keep your heart up, and you’ll +do. Tell that to your mother, if you are still in any danger or +suffering. And by the way, if you are at all like me—and I tell myself +you are very like me—be sure there is only one thing good for you, and +that is the sea in hot climates. Mount, sir, into ‘a little frigot’ of +5000 tons or so, and steer peremptorily for the tropics; and what if the +ancient mariner, who guides your frigot, should startle the silence of +the ocean with the cry of land ho!—say, when the day is dawning—and you +should see the turquoise mountain tops of Upolu coming hand over fist +above the horizon? Mr. Barrie, sir, ’tis then there would be larks! And +though I cannot be certain that our climate would suit you (for it does +not suit some), I am sure as death the voyage would do you good—would do +you _Best_—and if Samoa didn’t do, you needn’t stay beyond the month, and +I should have had another pleasure in my life, which is a serious +consideration for me. I take this as the hand of the Lord preparing your +way to Vailima—in the desert, certainly—in the desert of Cough and by the +ghoul-haunted woodland of Fever—but whither that way points there can be +no question—and there will be a meeting of the twa Hoasting Scots Makers +in spite of fate, fortune, and the Devil. _Absit omen_! + +My dear Barrie, I am a little in the dark about this new work of yours +{347}: what is to become of me afterwards? You say carefully—methought +anxiously—that I was no longer me when I grew up? I cannot bear this +suspense: what is it? It’s no forgery? And AM I HANGIT? These are the +elements of a very pretty lawsuit which you had better come to Samoa to +compromise. I am enjoying a great pleasure that I had long looked +forward to, reading Orme’s _History of Indostan_; I had been looking out +for it everywhere; but at last, in four volumes, large quarto, beautiful +type and page, and with a delectable set of maps and plans, and all the +names of the places wrongly spelled—it came to Samoa, little Barrie. I +tell you frankly, you had better come soon. I am sair failed a’ready; +and what I may be if you continue to dally, I dread to conceive. I may +be speechless; already, or at least for a month or so, I’m little better +than a teetoller—I beg pardon, a teetotaller. It is not exactly +physical, for I am in good health, working four or five hours a day in my +plantation, and intending to ride a paper-chase next Sunday—ay, man, +that’s a fact, and I havena had the hert to breathe it to my mother +yet—the obligation’s poleetical, for I am trying every means to live well +with my German neighbours—and, O Barrie, but it’s no easy! To be sure, +there are many exceptions. And the whole of the above must be regarded +as private—strictly private. Breathe it not in Kirriemuir: tell it not +to the daughters of Dundee! What a nice extract this would make for the +daily papers! and how it would facilitate my position here! . . . + + _August_ 5_th_. + +This is Sunday, the Lord’s Day. ‘The hour of attack approaches.’ And it +is a singular consideration what I risk; I may yet be the subject of a +tract, and a good tract too—such as one which I remember reading with +recreant awe and rising hair in my youth, of a boy who was a very good +boy, and went to Sunday Schule, and one day kipped from it, and went and +actually bathed, and was dashed over a waterfall, and he was the only son +of his mother, and she was a widow. A dangerous trade, that, and one +that I have to practise. I’ll put in a word when I get home again, to +tell you whether I’m killed or not. ‘Accident in the (Paper) Hunting +Field: death of a notorious author. We deeply regret to announce the +death of the most unpopular man in Samoa, who broke his neck at the +descent of Magagi, from the misconduct of his little raving lunatic of an +old beast of a pony. It is proposed to commemorate the incident by the +erection of a suitable pile. The design (by our local architect, Mr. +Walker) is highly artificial, with a rich and voluminous Crockett at each +corner, a small but impervious Barrièer at the entrance, an arch at the +top, an Archer of a pleasing but solid character at the bottom; the +colour will be genuine William-Black; and Lang, lang may the ladies sit +wi’ their fans in their hands.’ Well, well, they may sit as they sat for +me, and little they’ll reck, the ungrateful jauds! Muckle they cared +about Tusitala when they had him! But now ye can see the difference; +now, leddies, ye can repent, when ower late, o’ your former cauldness and +what ye’ll perhaps allow me to ca’ your _tepeedity_! He was beautiful as +the day, but his day is done! And perhaps, as he was maybe gettin’ a wee +thing fly-blawn, it’s nane too shüne. + + _Monday_, _August_ 6_th_. + +Well, sir, I have escaped the dangerous conjunction of the widow’s only +son and the Sabbath Day. We had a most enjoyable time, and Lloyd and I +were 3 and 4 to arrive; I will not tell here what interval had elapsed +between our arrival and the arrival of 1 and 2; the question, sir, is +otiose and malign; it deserves, it shall have no answer. And now without +further delay to the main purpose of this hasty note. We received and we +have already in fact distributed the gorgeous fahbrics of Kirriemuir. +Whether from the splendour of the robes themselves, or from the direct +nature of the compliments with which you had directed us to accompany the +presentations, one young lady blushed as she received the proofs of your +munificence. . . . Bad ink, and the dregs of it at that, but the heart in +the right place. Still very cordially interested in my Barrie and +wishing him well through his sickness, which is of the body, and long +defended from mine, which is of the head, and by the impolite might be +described as idiocy. The whole head is useless, and the whole sitting +part painful: reason, the recent Paper Chase. + + There was racing and chasing in Vailile plantation, + And vastly we enjoyed it, + But, alas! for the state of my foundation, + For it wholly has destroyed it. + +Come, my mind is looking up. The above is wholly impromptu.—On oath, + + TUSITALA. + + _August_ 12, 1894 + +And here, Mr. Barrie, is news with a vengeance. Mother Hubbard’s dog is +well again—what did I tell you? Pleurisy, pneumonia, and all that kind +of truck is quite unavailing against a Scotchman who can write—and not +only that, but it appears the perfidious dog is married. This incident, +so far as I remember, is omitted from the original epic— + + She went to the graveyard + To see him get him buried, + And when she came back + The Deil had got merried. + +It now remains to inform you that I have taken what we call here ‘German +offence’ at not receiving cards, and that the only reparation I will +accept is that Mrs. Barrie shall incontinently upon the receipt of this +Take and Bring you to Vailima in order to apologise and be pardoned for +this offence. The commentary of Tamaitai upon the event was brief but +pregnant: ‘Well, it’s a comfort our guest-room is furnished for two.’ + +This letter, about nothing, has already endured too long. I shall just +present the family to Mrs. Barrie—Tamaitai, Tamaitai Matua, Teuila, +Palema, Loia, and with an extra low bow, Yours, + + TUSITALA. + + + +TO DR. BAKEWELL + + + _Vailima_, _August_ 7, 1894. + +DEAR DR. BAKEWELL,—I am not more than human. I am more human than is +wholly convenient, and your anecdote was welcome. What you say about +_unwilling work_, my dear sir, is a consideration always present with me, +and yet not easy to give its due weight to. You grow gradually into a +certain income; without spending a penny more, with the same sense of +restriction as before when you painfully scraped two hundred a year +together, you find you have spent, and you cannot well stop spending, a +far larger sum; and this expense can only be supported by a certain +production. However, I am off work this month, and occupy myself instead +in weeding my cacao, paper chases, and the like. I may tell you, my +average of work in favourable circumstances is far greater than you +suppose: from six o’clock till eleven at latest, {350} and often till +twelve, and again in the afternoon from two to four. My hand is quite +destroyed, as you may perceive, to-day to a really unusual extent. I can +sometimes write a decent fist still; but I have just returned with my +arms all stung from three hours’ work in the cacao.—Yours, etc., + + R. L. S. + + + +TO JAMES PAYN + + + _Vailima_, _Upolu_, _Samoa_ [_August_ 11, 1894]. + +MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,—I hear from Lang that you are unwell, and it reminds +me of two circumstances: First, that it is a very long time since you had +the exquisite pleasure of hearing from me; and second, that I have been +very often unwell myself, and sometimes had to thank you for a grateful +anodyne. + +They are not good, the circumstances, to write an anodyne letter. The +hills and my house at less than (boom) a minute’s interval quake with +thunder; and though I cannot hear that part of it, shells are falling +thick into the fort of Luatuanu’u (boom). It is my friends of the +_Curaçoa_, the _Falke_, and the _Bussard_ bombarding (after all +these—boom—months) the rebels of Atua. (Boom-boom.) It is most +distracting in itself; and the thought of the poor devils in their fort +(boom) with their bits of rifles far from pleasant. (Boom-boom.) You +can see how quick it goes, and I’ll say no more about Mr. Bow-wow, only +you must understand the perpetual accompaniment of this discomfortable +sound, and make allowances for the value of my copy. It is odd, though, +I can well remember, when the Franco-Prussian war began, and I was in +Eilean Earraid, far enough from the sound of the loudest cannonade, I +could _hear_ the shots fired, and I felt the pang in my breast of a man +struck. It was sometimes so distressing, so instant, that I lay in the +heather on the top of the island, with my face hid, kicking my heels for +agony. And now, when I can hear the actual concussion of the air and +hills, when I _know_ personally the people who stand exposed to it, I am +able to go on _tant bien que mal_ with a letter to James Payn! The +blessings of age, though mighty small, are tangible. I have heard a +great deal of them since I came into the world, and now that I begin to +taste of them—Well! But this is one, that people do get cured of the +excess of sensibility; and I had as lief these people were shot at as +myself—or almost, for then I should have some of the fun, such as it is. + +You are to conceive me, then, sitting in my little gallery room, shaken +by these continual spasms of cannon, and with my eye more or less singly +fixed on the imaginary figure of my dear James Payn. I try to see him in +bed; no go. I see him instead jumping up in his room in Waterloo Place +(where _ex hypothesi_ he is not), sitting on the table, drawing out a +very black briar-root pipe, and beginning to talk to a slim and +ill-dressed visitor in a voice that is good to hear and with a smile that +is pleasant to see. (After a little more than half an hour, the voice +that was ill to hear has ceased, the cannonade is over.) And I am +thinking how I can get an answering smile wafted over so many leagues of +land and water, and can find no way. + +I have always been a great visitor of the sick; and one of the sick I +visited was W. E. Henley, which did not make very tedious visits, so I’ll +not get off much purgatory for them. That was in the Edinburgh +Infirmary, the old one, the true one, with Georgius Secundus standing and +pointing his toe in a niche of the façade; and a mighty fine building it +was! And I remember one winter’s afternoon, in that place of misery, +that Henley and I chanced to fall in talk about James Payn himself. I am +wishing you could have heard that talk! I think that would make you +smile. We had mixed you up with John Payne, for one thing, and stood +amazed at your extraordinary, even painful, versatility; and for another, +we found ourselves each students so well prepared for examinations on the +novels of the real Mackay. Perhaps, after all, this is worth something +in life—to have given so much pleasure to a pair so different in every +way as were Henley and I, and to be talked of with so much interest by +two such (beg pardon) clever lads! + +The cheerful Lang has neglected to tell me what is the matter with you; +so, I’m sorry to say, I am cut off from all the customary consolations. +I can’t say, ‘Think how much worse it would be if you had a broken leg!’ +when you may have the crushing repartee up your sleeve, ‘But it is my leg +that is broken.’ This is a pity. But there are consolations. You are +an Englishman (I believe); you are a man of letters; you have never been +made C.B.; your hair was not red; you have played cribbage and whist; you +did not play either the fiddle or the banjo; you were never an æsthete; +you never contributed to —_’s Journal_; your name is not Jabez Balfour; +you are totally unconnected with the Army and Navy departments; I +understand you to have lived within your income—why, cheer up! here are +many legitimate causes of congratulation. I seem to be writing an +obituary notice. _Absit omen_! But I feel very sure that these +considerations will have done you more good than medicine. + +By the by, did you ever play piquet? I have fallen a victim to this +debilitating game. It is supposed to be scientific; God save the mark, +what self-deceivers men are! It is distinctly less so than cribbage. +But how fascinating! There is such material opulence about it, such vast +ambitions may be realised—and are not; it may be called the Monte Cristo +of games. And the thrill with which you take five cards partakes of the +nature of lust—and you draw four sevens and a nine, and the seven and +nine of a suit that you discarded, and O! but the world is a desert! You +may see traces of discouragement in my letter: all due to piquet! There +has been a disastrous turn of the luck against me; a month or two ago I +was two thousand ahead; now, and for a week back, I have been anything +from four thousand eight hundred to five thousand two hundred astern. If +I have a sixième, my beast of a partner has a septième; and if I have +three aces, three kings, three queens, and three knaves (excuse the +slight exaggeration), the devil holds quatorze of tens!—I remain, my dear +James Payn, your sincere and obliged friend—old friend let me say, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO MISS MIDDLETON + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _September_ 9, 1894. + +DEAR MISS MIDDLETON,—Your letter has been like the drawing up of a +curtain. Of course I remember you very well, and the Skye terrier to +which you refer—a heavy, dull, fatted, graceless creature he grew up to +be—was my own particular pet. It may amuse you, perhaps, as much as ‘The +Inn’ amused me, if I tell you what made this dog particularly mine. My +father was the natural god of all the dogs in our house, and poor Jura +took to him of course. Jura was stolen, and kept in prison somewhere for +more than a week, as I remember. When he came back Smeoroch had come and +taken my father’s heart from him. He took his stand like a man, and +positively never spoke to my father again from that day until the day of +his death. It was the only sign of character he ever showed. I took him +up to my room and to be my dog in consequence, partly because I was sorry +for him, and partly because I admired his dignity in misfortune. + +With best regards and thanks for having reminded me of so many pleasant +days, old acquaintances, dead friends, and—what is perhaps as pathetic as +any of them—dead dogs, I remain, yours truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO A. CONAN DOYLE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _September_ 9, 1894. + +MY DEAR CONAN DOYLE,—If you found anything to entertain you in my +_Treasure Island_ article, it may amuse you to know that you owe it +entirely to yourself. _Your_ ‘First Book’ was by some accident read +aloud one night in my Baronial ’All. I was consumedly amused by it, so +was the whole family, and we proceeded to hunt up back _Idlers_ and read +the whole series. It is a rattling good series, even people whom you +would not expect came in quite the proper tone—Miss Braddon, for +instance, who was really one of the best where all are good—or all but +one! . . . In short, I fell in love with ‘The First Book’ series, and +determined that it should be all our first books, and that I could not +hold back where the white plume of Conan Doyle waved gallantly in the +front. I hope they will republish them, though it’s a grievous thought +to me that that effigy in the German cap—likewise the other effigy of the +noisome old man with the long hair, telling indelicate stories to a +couple of deformed negresses in a rancid shanty full of wreckage—should +be perpetuated. I may seem to speak in pleasantry—it is only a +seeming—that German cap, sir, would be found, when I come to die, +imprinted on my heart. Enough—my heart is too full. Adieu.—Yours very +truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + (in a German cap, damn ’em!) + + + +TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + [_Vailima_, _September_ 1894.] + +MY DEAR CHARLES,—. . . Well, there is no more Edmund Baxter now; and I +think I may say I know how you feel. He was one of the best, the +kindest, and the most genial men I ever knew. I shall always remember +his brisk, cordial ways and the essential goodness which he showed me +whenever we met with gratitude. And the always is such a little while +now! He is another of the landmarks gone; when it comes to my own turn +to lay my weapons down, I shall do so with thankfulness and fatigue; and +whatever be my destiny afterward, I shall be glad to lie down with my +fathers in honour. It is human at least, if not divine. And these +deaths make me think of it with an ever greater readiness. Strange that +you should be beginning a new life, when I, who am a little your junior, +am thinking of the end of mine. But I have had hard lines; I have been +so long waiting for death, I have unwrapped my thoughts from about life +so long, that I have not a filament left to hold by; I have done my +fiddling so long under Vesuvius, that I have almost forgotten to play, +and can only wait for the eruption, and think it long of coming. +Literally, no man has more wholly outlived life than I. And still it’s +good fun. + + R. L. S. + + + +TO R. A. M. STEVENSON + + + [_Vailima_, _September_ 1894.] + +DEAR BOB,—You are in error about the Picts. They were a Gaelic race, +spoke a Celtic tongue, and we have no evidence that I know of that they +were blacker than other Celts. The Balfours, I take it, were plainly +Celts; their name shows it—the ‘cold croft,’ it means; so does their +country. Where the _black_ Scotch come from nobody knows; but I +recognise with you the fact that the whole of Britain is rapidly and +progressively becoming more pigmented; already in one man’s life I can +decidedly trace a difference in the children about a school door. But +colour is not an essential part of a man or a race. Take my Polynesians, +an Asiatic people probably from the neighbourhood of the Persian gulf. +They range through any amount of shades, from the burnt hue of the Low +Archipelago islander, which seems half negro, to the ‘bleached’ pretty +women of the Marquesas (close by on the map), who come out for a festival +no darker than an Italian; their colour seems to vary directly with the +degree of exposure to the sun. And, as with negroes, the babes are born +white; only it should seem a _little sack_ of pigment at the lower part +of the spine, which presently spreads over the whole field. Very +puzzling. But to return. The Picts furnish to-day perhaps a third of +the population of Scotland, say another third for Scots and Britons, and +the third for Norse and Angles is a bad third. Edinburgh was a Pictish +place. But the fact is, we don’t know their frontiers. Tell some of +your journalist friends with a good style to popularise old Skene; or say +your prayers, and read him for yourself; he was a Great Historian, and I +was his blessed clerk, and did not know it; and you will not be in a +state of grace about the Picts till you have studied him. J. Horne +Stevenson (do you know him?) is working this up with me, and the fact +is—it’s not interesting to the public—but it’s interesting, and very +interesting, in itself, and just now very embarrassing—this rural parish +supplied Glasgow with such a quantity of Stevensons in the beginning of +last century! There is just a link wanting; and we might be able to go +back to the eleventh century, always undistinguished, but clearly +traceable. When I say just a link, I guess I may be taken to mean a +dozen. What a singular thing is this undistinguished perpetuation of a +family throughout the centuries, and the sudden bursting forth of +character and capacity that began with our grandfather! But as I go on +in life, day by day, I become more of a bewildered child; I cannot get +used to this world, to procreation, to heredity, to sight, to hearing; +the commonest things are a burthen. The prim obliterated polite face of +life, and the broad, bawdy, and orgiastic—or mænadic—foundations, form a +spectacle to which no habit reconciles me; and ‘I could wish my days to +be bound each to each’ by the same open-mouthed wonder. They _are_ +anyway, and whether I wish it or not. + +I remember very well your attitude to life, this conventional surface of +it. You had none of that curiosity for the social stage directions, the +trivial _ficelles_ of the business; it is simian, but that is how the +wild youth of man is captured; you wouldn’t imitate, hence you kept +free—a wild dog, outside the kennel—and came dam’ near starving for your +pains. The key to the business is of course the belly; difficult as it +is to keep that in view in the zone of three miraculous meals a day in +which we were brought up. Civilisation has become reflex with us; you +might think that hunger was the name of the best sauce; but hunger to the +cold solitary under a bush of a rainy night is the name of something +quite different. I defend civilisation for the thing it is, for the +thing it has _come_ to be, the standpoint of a real old Tory. My ideal +would be the Female Clan. But how can you turn these crowding dumb +multitudes _back_? They don’t do anything _because_; they do things, +write able articles, stitch shoes, dig, from the purely simian impulse. +Go and reason with monkeys! + +No, I am right about Jean Lillie. Jean Lillie, our double +great-grandmother, the daughter of David Lillie, sometime Deacon of the +Wrights, married, first, Alan Stevenson, who died May 26, 1774, ‘at Santt +Kittes of a fiver,’ by whom she had Robert Stevenson, born 8th June 1772; +and, second, in May or June 1787, Thomas Smith, a widower, and already +the father of our grandmother. This improbable double connection always +tends to confuse a student of the family, Thomas Smith being doubly our +great-grandfather. + +I looked on the perpetuation of our honoured name with veneration. My +mother collared one of the photos, of course; the other is stuck up on my +wall as the chief of our sept. Do you know any of the Gaelic-Celtic +sharps? you might ask what the name means. It puzzles me. I find a +_M‘Stein_ and a _MacStephane_; and our own great-grandfather always +called himself Steenson, though he wrote it Stevenson. There are at +least three _places_ called Stevenson—_Stevenson_ in Cunningham, +_Stevenson_ in Peebles, and _Stevenson_ in Haddington. And it was not +the Celtic trick, I understand, to call places after people. I am going +to write to Sir Herbert Maxwell about the name, but you might find some +one. + +Get the Anglo-Saxon heresy out of your head; they superimposed their +language, they scarce modified the race; only in Berwickshire and +Roxburgh have they very largely affected the place names. The +Scandinavians did much more to Scotland than the Angles. The Saxons +didn’t come. + +Enough of this sham antiquarianism. Yes, it is in the matter of the +book, {359} of course, that collaboration shows; as for the manner, it is +superficially all mine, in the sense that the last copy is all in my +hand. Lloyd did not even put pen to paper in the Paris scenes or the +Barbizon scene; it was no good; he wrote and often rewrote all the rest; +I had the best service from him on the character of Nares. You see, we +had been just meeting the man, and his memory was full of the man’s words +and ways. And Lloyd is an impressionist, pure and simple. The great +difficulty of collaboration is that you can’t explain what you mean. I +know what kind of effect I mean a character to give—what kind of _tache_ +he is to make; but how am I to tell my collaborator in words? Hence it +was necessary to say, ‘Make him So-and-so’; and this was all right for +Nares and Pinkerton and Loudon Dodd, whom we both knew, but for Bellairs, +for instance—a man with whom I passed ten minutes fifteen years ago—what +was I to say? and what could Lloyd do? I, as a personal artist, can +begin a character with only a haze in my head, but how if I have to +translate the haze into words before I begin? In our manner of +collaboration (which I think the only possible—I mean that of one person +being responsible, and giving the _coup de pouce_ to every part of the +work) I was spared the obviously hopeless business of trying to explain +to my collaborator what _style_ I wished a passage to be treated in. +These are the times that illustrate to a man the inadequacy of spoken +language. Now—to be just to written language—I can (or could) find a +language for my every mood, but how could I _tell_ any one beforehand +what this effect was to be, which it would take every art that I +possessed, and hours and hours of deliberate labour and selection and +rejection, to produce? These are the impossibilities of collaboration. +Its immediate advantage is to focus two minds together on the stuff, and +to produce in consequence an extraordinarily greater richness of purview, +consideration, and invention. The hardest chapter of all was ‘Cross +Questions and Crooked Answers.’ You would not believe what that cost us +before it assumed the least unity and colour. Lloyd wrote it at least +thrice, and I at least five times—this is from memory. And was that last +chapter worth the trouble it cost? Alas, that I should ask the question! +Two classes of men—the artist and the educationalist—are sworn, on soul +and conscience, not to ask it. You get an ordinary, grinning, red-headed +boy, and you have to educate him. Faith supports you; you give your +valuable hours, the boy does not seem to profit, but that way your duty +lies, for which you are paid, and you must persevere. Education has +always seemed to me one of the few possible and dignified ways of life. +A sailor, a shepherd, a schoolmaster—to a less degree, a soldier—and (I +don’t know why, upon my soul, except as a sort of schoolmaster’s +unofficial assistant, and a kind of acrobat in tights) an artist, almost +exhaust the category. + +If I had to begin again—I know not—_si jeunesse savait_, _si vieillesse +pouvait_ . . . I know not at all—I believe I should try to honour Sex +more religiously. The worst of our education is that Christianity does +not recognise and hallow Sex. It looks askance at it, over its shoulder, +oppressed as it is by reminiscences of hermits and Asiatic self-tortures. +It is a terrible hiatus in our modern religions that they cannot see and +make venerable that which they ought to see first and hallow most. Well, +it is so; I cannot be wiser than my generation. + +But no doubt there is something great in the half-success that has +attended the effort of turning into an emotional religion, Bald Conduct, +without any appeal, or almost none, to the figurative, mysterious, and +constitutive facts of life. Not that conduct is not constitutive, but +dear! it’s dreary! On the whole, conduct is better dealt with on the +cast-iron ‘gentleman’ and duty formula, with as little fervour and poetry +as possible; stoical and short. + +. . . There is a new something or other in the wind, which exercises me +hugely: anarchy,—I mean, anarchism. People who (for pity’s sake) commit +dastardly murders very basely, die like saints, and leave beautiful +letters behind ’em (did you see Vaillant to his daughter? it was the New +Testament over again); people whose conduct is inexplicable to me, and +yet their spiritual life higher than that of most. This is just what the +early Christians must have seemed to the Romans. Is this, then, a new +_drive_ {361} among the monkeys? Mind you, Bob, if they go on being +martyred a few years more, the gross, dull, not unkindly bourgeois may +get tired or ashamed or afraid of going on martyring; and the anarchists +come out at the top just like the early Christians. That is, of course, +they will step into power as a _personnel_, but God knows what they may +believe when they come to do so; it can’t be stranger or more improbable +than what Christianity had come to be by the same time. + +Your letter was easily read, the pagination presented no difficulty, and +I read it with much edification and gusto. To look back, and to +stereotype one bygone humour—what a hopeless thing! The mind runs ever +in a thousand eddies like a river between cliffs. You (the ego) are +always spinning round in it, east, west, north, and south. You are +twenty years old, and forty, and five, and the next moment you are +freezing at an imaginary eighty; you are never the plain forty-four that +you should be by dates. (The most philosophical language is the Gaelic, +which has _no present tense_—and the most useless.) How, then, to choose +some former age, and stick there? + + R. L. S. + + + +TO SIR HERBERT MAXWELL + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _September_ 10, 1894. + +DEAR SIR HERBERT MAXWELL,—I am emboldened by reading your very +interesting Rhind Lectures to put to you a question: What is my name, +Stevenson? + +I find it in the forms Stevinetoun, Stevensoune, Stevensonne, Stenesone, +Stewinsoune, M’Stein, and MacStephane. My family, and (as far as I can +gather) the majority of the inglorious clan, hailed from the borders of +Cunningham and Renfrew, and the upper waters of the Clyde. In the Barony +of Bothwell was the seat of the laird Stevenson of Stevenson; but, as of +course you know, there is a parish in Cunningham and places in Peebles +and Haddington bearing the same name. + +If you can at all help me, you will render me a real service which I wish +I could think of some manner to repay.—Believe me, yours truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +_P.S._—I should have added that I have perfect evidence before me that +(for some obscure reason) Stevenson was a favourite alias with the +M‘Gregors. + + + +TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM + + + [_Vailima_], _October_ 8_th_ 1894. + +MY DEAR CUMMY,—So I hear you are ailing? Think shame to yourself! So +you think there is nothing better to be done with time than that? and be +sure we can all do much ourselves to decide whether we are to be ill or +well! like a man on the gymnastic bars. We are all pretty well. As for +me, there is nothing the matter with me in the world, beyond the +disgusting circumstance that I am not so young as once I was. Lloyd has +a gymnastic machine, and practises upon it every morning for an hour: he +is beginning to be a kind of young Samson. Austin grows fat and brown, +and gets on not so ill with his lessons, and my mother is in great price. +We are having knock-me-down weather for heat; I never remember it so hot +before, and I fancy it means we are to have a hurricane again this year, +I think; since we came here, we have not had a single gale of wind! The +Pacific is but a child to the North Sea; but when she does get excited, +and gets up and girds herself, she can do something good. We have had a +very interesting business here. I helped the chiefs who were in prison; +and when they were set free, what should they do but offer to make a part +of my road for me out of gratitude? Well, I was ashamed to refuse, and +the trumps dug my road for me, and put up this inscription on a board:— + +‘_Considering the great love of His Excellency Tusitala in his loving +care of us in our tribulation in the prison we have made this great +gift_; _it shall never be muddy_, _it shall go on for ever_, _this road +that we have dug_!’ We had a great feast when it was done, and I read +them a kind of lecture, which I dare say Auntie will have, and can let +you see. Weel, guid bye to ye, and joy be wi’ ye! I hae nae time to say +mair. They say I’m gettin’ _fat_—a fact!—Your laddie, with all love, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO JAMES PAYN + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _Nov._ 4, 1894. + +MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,—I am asked to relate to you a little incident of +domestic life at Vailima. I had read your _Gleams of Memory_, No. 1; it +then went to my wife, to Osbourne, to the cousin that is within my gates, +and to my respected amanuensis, Mrs. Strong. Sunday approached. In the +course of the afternoon I was attracted to the great ’all—the winders is +by Vanderputty, which upon entering I beheld a memorable scene. The +floor was bestrewn with the forms of midshipmen from the +_Curaçoa_—‘boldly say a wilderness of gunroom’—and in the midst of this +sat Mrs. Strong throned on the sofa and reading aloud _Gleams of Memory_. +They had just come the length of your immortal definition of boyhood in +the concrete, and I had the pleasure to see the whole party dissolve +under its influence with inextinguishable laughter. I thought this was +not half bad for arthritic gout! Depend upon it, sir, when I go into the +arthritic gout business, I shall be done with literature, or at least +with the funny business. It is quite true I have my battlefields behind +me. I have done perhaps as much work as anybody else under the most +deplorable conditions. But two things fall to be noticed: In the first +place, I never was in actual pain; and in the second, I was never funny. +I’ll tell you the worst day that I remember. I had a hæmorrhage, and was +not allowed to speak; then, induced by the devil, or an errant doctor, I +was led to partake of that bowl which neither cheers nor inebriates—the +castor-oil bowl. Now, when castor-oil goes right, it is one thing; but +when it goes wrong, it is another. And it went _wrong_ with me that day. +The waves of faintness and nausea succeeded each other for twelve hours, +and I do feel a legitimate pride in thinking that I stuck to my work all +through and wrote a good deal of Admiral Guinea (which I might just as +well not have written for all the reward it ever brought me) in spite of +the barbarous bad conditions. I think that is my great boast; and it +seems a little thing alongside of your _Gleams of Memory_ illustrated by +spasms of arthritic gout. We really should have an order of merit in the +trade of letters. For valour, Scott would have had it; Pope too; myself +on the strength of that castor-oil; and James Payn would be a Knight +Commander. The worst of it is, though Lang tells me you exhibit the +courage of Huish, that not even an order can alleviate the wretched +annoyance of the business. I have always said that there is nothing like +pain; toothache, dumb-ague, arthritic gout, it does not matter what you +call it, if the screw is put upon the nerves sufficiently strong, there +is nothing left in heaven or in earth that can interest the sufferer. +Still, even to this there is the consolation that it cannot last for +ever. Either you will be relieved and have a good hour again before the +sun goes down, or else you will be liberated. It is something after all +(although not much) to think that you are leaving a brave example; that +other literary men love to remember, as I am sure they will love to +remember, everything about you—your sweetness, your brightness, your +helpfulness to all of us, and in particular those one or two really +adequate and noble papers which you have been privileged to write during +these last years.—With the heartiest and kindest good-will, I remain, +yours ever, + + R. L. S. + + + +TO LIEUTENANT EELES + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _November_ 24, 1894. + +MY DEAR EELES,—The hand, as you will perceive (and also the spelling!), +is Teuila’s, but the scrannel voice is what remains of Tusitala’s. First +of all, for business. When you go to London you are to charter a hansom +cab and proceed to the Museum. It is particular fun to do this on +Sundays when the Monument is shut up. Your cabman expostulates with you, +you persist. The cabman drives up in front of the closed gates and says, +‘I told you so, sir.’ You breathe in the porter’s ears the mystic name +of _Colvin_, and he immediately unfolds the iron barrier. You drive in, +and doesn’t your cabman think you’re a swell. A lord mayor is nothing to +it. Colvin’s door is the only one in the eastern gable of the building. +Send in your card to him with ‘From R. L. S.’ in the corner, and the +machinery will do the rest. Henry James’s address is 34 De Vere Mansions +West. I cannot remember where the place is; I cannot even remember on +which side of the park. But it’s one of those big Cromwell Road-looking +deserted thoroughfares out west in Kensington or Bayswater, or between +the two; and anyway, Colvin will be able to put you on the direct track +for Henry James. I do not send formal introductions, as I have taken the +liberty to prepare both of them for seeing you already. + +Hoskyn is staying with us. + +It is raining dismally. The Curaçoa track is hardly passable, but it +must be trod to-morrow by the degenerate feet of their successor the +Wallaroos. I think it a very good account of these last that we don’t +think them either deformed or habitual criminals—they seem to be a kindly +lot. + +The doctor will give you all the gossip. I have preferred in this letter +to stick to the strictly solid and necessary. With kind messages from +all in the house to all in the wardroom, all in the gunroom, and (may we +dare to breathe it) to him who walks abaft, believe me, my dear Eeles, +yours ever, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO SIR HERBERT MAXWELL + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 1, 1894. + +DEAR SIR HERBERT,—Thank you very much for your long and kind letter. I +shall certainly take your advice and call my cousin, the Lyon King, into +council. It is certainly a very interesting subject, though I don’t +suppose it can possibly lead to anything, this connection between the +Stevensons and M’Gregors. Alas! your invitation is to me a mere +derision. My chances of visiting Heaven are about as valid as my chances +of visiting Monreith. Though I should like well to see you, shrunken +into a cottage, a literary Lord of Ravenscraig. I suppose it is the +inevitable doom of all those who dabble in Scotch soil; but really your +fate is the more blessed. I cannot conceive anything more grateful to +me, or more amusing or more picturesque, than to live in a cottage +outside your own park-walls.—With renewed thanks, believe me, dear Sir +Herbert, yours very truly, + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + +TO ANDREW LANG + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 1, 1894. + +MY DEAR LANG,—For the portrait of Braxfield, much thanks! It is engraved +from the same Raeburn portrait that I saw in ’76 or ’77 with so extreme a +gusto that I have ever since been Braxfield’s humble servant, and am now +trying, as you know, to stick him into a novel. Alas! one might as well +try to stick in Napoleon. The picture shall be framed and hung up in my +study. Not only as a memento of you, but as a perpetual encouragement to +do better with his Lordship. I have not yet received the transcripts. +They must be very interesting. Do you know, I picked up the other day an +old _Longman’s_, where I found an article of yours that I had missed, +about Christie’s? I read it with great delight. The year ends with us +pretty much as it began, among wars and rumours of wars, and a vast and +splendid exhibition of official incompetence.—Yours ever, + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + _Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 1, 1894. + +I AM afraid, MY DEAR WEG, that this must be the result of bribery and +corruption! The volume to which the dedication stands as preface seems +to me to stand alone in your work; it is so natural, so personal, so +sincere, so articulate in substance, and what you always were sure of—so +rich in adornment. + +Let me speak first of the dedication. I thank you for it from the heart. +It is beautifully said, beautifully and kindly felt; and I should be a +churl indeed if I were not grateful, and an ass if I were not proud. I +remember when Symonds dedicated a book to me; I wrote and told him of +‘the pang of gratified vanity’ with which I had read it. The pang was +present again, but how much more sober and autumnal—like your volume. +Let me tell you a story, or remind you of a story. In the year of grace +something or other, anything between ’76 and ’78 I mentioned to you in my +usual autobiographical and inconsiderate manner that I was hard up. You +said promptly that you had a balance at your banker’s, and could make it +convenient to let me have a cheque, and I accepted and got the money—how +much was it?—twenty or perhaps thirty pounds? I know not—but it was a +great convenience. The same evening, or the next day, I fell in +conversation (in my usual autobiographical and . . . see above) with a +denizen of the Savile Club, name now gone from me, only his figure and a +dim three-quarter view of his face remaining. To him I mentioned that +you had given me a loan, remarking easily that of course it didn’t matter +to you. Whereupon he read me a lecture, and told me how it really stood +with you financially. He was pretty serious; fearing, as I could not +help perceiving, that I should take too light a view of the +responsibility and the service (I was always thought too light—the +irresponsible jester—you remember. O, _quantum mutatus ab illo_!) If I +remember rightly, the money was repaid before the end of the week—or, to +be more exact and a trifle pedantic, the sennight—but the service has +never been forgotten; and I send you back this piece of ancient history, +_consule Planco_, as a salute for your dedication, and propose that we +should drink the health of the nameless one, who opened my eyes as to the +true nature of what you did for me on that occasion. + +But here comes my Amanuensis, so we’ll get on more swimmingly now. You +will understand perhaps that what so particularly pleased me in the new +volume, what seems to me to have so personal and original a note, are the +middle-aged pieces in the beginning. The whole of them, I may say, +though I must own an especial liking to— + + ‘I yearn not for the fighting fate, + That holds and hath achieved; + I live to watch and meditate + And dream—and be deceived.’ + +You take the change gallantly. Not I, I must confess. It is all very +well to talk of renunciation, and of course it has to be done. But, for +my part, give me a roaring toothache! I do like to be deceived and to +dream, but I have very little use for either watching or meditation. I +was not born for age. And, curiously enough, I seem to see a contrary +drift in my work from that which is so remarkable in yours. You are +going on sedately travelling through your ages, decently changing with +the years to the proper tune. And here am I, quite out of my true +course, and with nothing in my foolish elderly head but love-stories. +This must repose upon some curious distinction of temperaments. I gather +from a phrase, boldly autobiographical, that you are—well, not precisely +growing thin. Can that be the difference? + +It is rather funny that this matter should come up just now, as I am at +present engaged in treating a severe case of middle age in one of my +stories—‘The Justice-Clerk.’ The case is that of a woman, and I think +that I am doing her justice. You will be interested, I believe, to see +the difference in our treatments. _Secreta Vitæ_, comes nearer to the +case of my poor Kirstie. Come to think of it, Gosse, I believe the main +distinction is that you have a family growing up around you, and I am a +childless, rather bitter, very clear-eyed, blighted youth. I have, in +fact, lost the path that makes it easy and natural for you to descend the +hill. I am going at it straight. And where I have to go down it is a +precipice. + +I must not forget to give you a word of thanks for _An English Village_. +It reminds me strongly of Keats, which is enough to say; and I was +particularly pleased with the petulant sincerity of the concluding +sentiment. + +Well, my dear Gosse, here’s wishing you all health and prosperity, as +well as to the mistress and the bairns. May you live long, since it +seems as if you would continue to enjoy life. May you write many more +books as good as this one—only there’s one thing impossible, you can +never write another dedication that can give the same pleasure to the +vanished + + TUSITALA. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{11} In _Underwoods_ the lines thus queried stand with the change: ‘Life +is over; life was gay.’ + +{12} _Prince Otto_. + +{20} The name of the hero in Dostoieffsky’s _Le Crime et le Châtiment_. + +{37} _Suite anglaise_. + +{48a} _The Merry Men_. + +{48b} _Memories and Portraits_. + +{48c} _Underwoods_. + +{66} The sum was really £700. + +{70} ‘But she was more than usual calm, +She did not give a single dam.’—_Marjorie Fleming_. + +{83} The secretary was really, I believe, Lord Pollington. + +{86} ‘Smith opens out his cauld harangues +On practice and on morals.’ + +The Rev. George Smith of Galston, the minister thus referred to by Burns +(in the _Holy Fair_), was a great-grandfather of Stevenson on the +mother’s side; and against Stevenson himself, in his didactic moods, the +passage was often quoted by his friends when they wished to tease him. + +{114} The French; the Marquesas, Paumotus, and Tahiti being all +dependencies of France. + +{132} King Kalakaua. + +{133} This is the Canadian poet Mr. Archibald Lampman, the news of whose +death reaches England as these sheets are preparing for the press. + +{137} Stevenson’s stepdaughter, Mrs. Strong, who was at this time living +at Honolulu, and joined his party and family for good when they continued +their voyage from thence in the following June. + +{141} The following is the letter in question:— + + ‘I make you to know my great affection. At the hour when you left + us, I was filled with tears; my wife, Rui Telime, also, and all of my + household. When you embarked I felt a great sorrow. It is for this + that I went upon the road, and you looked from that ship, and I + looked at you on the ship with great grief until you had raised the + anchor and hoisted the sails. When the ship started I ran along the + beach to see you still; and when you were on the open sea I cried out + to you, “Farewell Louis”; and when I was coming back to my house I + seemed to hear your voice crying “Rui farewell.” Afterwards I + watched the ship as long as I could until the night fell; and when it + was dark I said to myself, “If I had wings I should fly to the ship + to meet you, and to sleep amongst you, so that I might be able to + come back to shore and to tell Rui Telime, ‘I have slept upon the + ship of Teriitera.’” After that we passed that night in the + impatience of grief. Towards eight o’clock I seemed to hear your + voice, “Teriitera—Rui—here is the hour for _putter_ and _tiro_” + (cheese and syrup). I did not sleep that night, thinking continually + of you, my very dear friend, until the morning; being then still + awake, I went to see Tapina Tutu on her bed, and alas, she was not + there. Afterwards I looked into your rooms; they did not please me + as they used to do. I did not hear your voice saying, “Hail Rui”; I + thought then that you had gone, and that you had left me. Rising up, + I went to the beach to see your ship, and I could not see it. I + wept, then, until the night, telling myself continually, “Teriitera + returns into his own country and leaves his dear Rui in grief, so + that I suffer for him, and weep for him.” I will not forget you in + my memory. Here is the thought: I desire to meet you again. It is + my dear Teriitera makes the only riches I desire in this world. It + is your eyes that I desire to see again. It must be that your body + and my body shall eat together at one table: there is what would make + my heart content. But now we are separated. May God be with you + all. May His word and His mercy go with you, so that you may be well + and we also, according to the words of Paul. + + ORI A ORI, that is to say, RUI.’ + +{152} The Polynesian name for white men. + +{170} Table of chapter headings follows. + +{187} French _bâtons rompus_: disconnected thoughts or studies. + +{190} The Rev. Dr. Hyde, of Honolulu: in reference to Stevenson’s letter +on Father Damien. + +{198} Afterwards re-named _The Ebb Tide_. + +{201} His letters. + +{220} _The Misadventures of John Nicholson_. + +{245} _i.e._ On the stage. + +{271} A character in _The Wrecker_. + +{272} The lad Austin Strong. + +{292} John Addington Symonds. + +{298a} _Across the Plains_. + +{298b} Volume of Sonnets by José Maria de Hérédia. + +{311} _The Window in Thrums_, with illustrations by W. Hole, R.S.A. +Hodder and Stoughton. 1892. + +{320} This question is with a view to the adventures of the hero in _St. +Ives_, who, according to Stevenson’s original plan, was to have been +picked up from his foundered balloon by an American privateer. + +{323} As to admire _The Black Arrow_. + +{332} In the book the genealogy is given as a diagram. It has been +converted to text for this transcription so it’s available for everyone, +with the original diagram below.—DP. + + [Picture: The Genealogy] + +{337} Word omitted in MS. + +{347} _Sentimental Tommy_: whose chief likeness to R. L. S. was meant to +be in the literary temperament and passion for the _mot propre_. + +{350} _Sic_: query ‘least’? + +{359} Of _The Wrecker_. + +{361} _Trieb_, impulse + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 2 [OF 2]*** + + +******* This file should be named 637-0.txt or 637-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/637 + + +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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