On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is still
better - it takes one further - the havens with their little
anchors, the rocks, banks, and soundings, are adorably marine; and
such furniture will suit your ship-shape habitation. I wish I
could see those cabins; they smile upon me with the most intimate
charm. From your leads, do you behold St. Paul's? I always like
to see the Foolscap; it is London PER SE and no spot from which it
is visible is without romance. Then it is good company for the man
of letters, whose veritable nursing Pater-Noster is so near at
hand.
I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so
pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the
writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a few
days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that structure.
I have worked very hard at it, and so do not expect any great
public favour. IN MOMENTS OF EFFORT, ONE LEARNS TO DO THE EASY
THINGS THAT PEOPLE LIKE. There is the golden maxim; thus one
should strain and then play, strain again and play again. The
strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and
pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two
contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers
would have called 'rank conformity,' and to pour forth cheap
replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, and still more
insidiously present, to forget that art is a diversion and a
decoration, that no triumph or effort is of value, nor anything
worth reaching except charm. - Yours affectionately,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO MISS FERRIER
LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [MARCH 22, 1884].
MY DEAR MISS FERRIER, - Are you really going to fall us? This
seems a dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for
friends on this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have
been promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has
failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know how
delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a visit. Look
at the names: 'The Solitude' - is that romantic? The palm-trees?
- how is that for the gorgeous East? 'Var'? the name of a river -
'the quiet waters by'! 'Tis true, they are in another department,
and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a music, what
a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we have
skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by
the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English
May - for, considering we are in France and serve up our song-
birds, I am ashamed to say, on a little field of toast and with a
sprig of thyme (my own receipt) in their most innocent and now
unvocal bellies - considering all this, we have a wonderfully fair
wood-music round this Solitude of ours. What can I say more? - All
this awaits you. KENNST DU DAS LAND, in short. - Your sincere
friend,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO W. H. LOW
LA SOLITUDE, HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, VAR, [APRIL 1884].
MY DEAR LOW, - The blind man in these sprawled lines sends
greeting. I have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The
news - 'great news - glorious news - sec-ond ed-ition!' - went the
round in England.
Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the
Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me)
much liked.
Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to send
to press. Then I thought of the MANHATTAN, towards whom I have
guilty and compunctious feelings. Last, I had the best thought of
all - to send them to you in case you might think them suitable for
illustration. It seemed to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if
not, hand them on to MANHATTAN, CENTURY, or LIPPINCOTT, at your
pleasure, as all three desire my work or pretend to. But I trust
the lines will not go unattended. Some riverside will haunt you;
and O! be tender to my bathing girls. The lines are copied in my
wife's hand, as I cannot see to write otherwise than with the pen
of Cormoran, Gargantua, or Nimrod. Love to your wife. - Yours
ever,
R. L. S.
Copied it myself.
Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON
LA SOLITUDE, APRIL 19, 1884.
MY DEAR FATHER, - Yesterday I very powerfully stated the HERESIS
STEVENSONIANA, or the complete body of divinity of the family
theologian, to Miss Ferrier. She was much impressed; so was I.
You are a great heresiarch; and I know no better. Whaur the devil
did ye get thon about the soap? Is it altogether your own? I
never heard it elsewhere; and yet I suspect it must have been held
at some time or other, and if you were to look up you would
probably find yourself condemned by some Council.
I am glad to hear you are so well. The hear is excellent. The
CORNHILLS came; I made Miss Ferrier read us 'Thrawn Janet,' and was
quite bowled over by my own works. The 'Merry Men' I mean to make
much longer, with a whole new denouement, not yet quite clear to
me. 'The Story of a Lie,' I must rewrite entirely also, as it is
too weak and ragged, yet is worth saving for the Admiral. Did I
ever tell you that the Admiral was recognised in America?
When they are all on their legs this will make an excellent
collection.
Has Davie never read GUY MANNERING, ROB ROY, or THE ANTIQUARY? All
of which are worth three WAVERLEYS. I think KENILWORTH better than
WAVERLEY; NIGEL, too; and QUENTIN DURWARD about as good. But it
shows a true piece of insight to prefer WAVERLEY, for it IS
different; and though not quite coherent, better worked in parts
than almost any other: surely more carefully. It is undeniable
that the love of the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with
success. Perhaps it does on many of us, which may be the granite
on which D.'s opinion stands. However, I hold it, in Patrick
Walker's phrase, for an 'old, condemned, damnable error.' Dr.
Simson was condemned by P. W. as being 'a bagful of' such. One of
Patrick's amenities!
Another ground there may be to D.'s opinion; those who avoid (or
seek to avoid) Scott's facility are apt to be continually straining
and torturing their style to get in more of life. And to many the
extra significance does not redeem the strain.
DOCTOR STEVENSON.
Letter: TO COSMO MONKHOUSE
LA SOLITUDE, HYERES, [APRIL 24, 1884].
DEAR MONKHOUSE, - If you are in love with repose, here is your
occasion: change with me. I am too blind to read, hence no
reading; I am too weak to walk, hence no walking; I am not allowed
to speak, hence no talking; but the great simplification has yet to
be named; for, if this goes on, I shall soon have nothing to eat -
and hence, O Hallelujah! hence no eating. The offer is a fair one:
I have not sold myself to the devil, for I could never find him. I
am married, but so are you. I sometimes write verses, but so do
you. Come! HIC QUIES! As for the commandments, I have broken
them so small that they are the dust of my chambers; you walk upon
them, triturate and toothless; and with the Golosh of Philosophy,
they shall not bite your heel. True, the tenement is falling. Ay,
friend, but yours also. Take a larger view; what is a year or two?
dust in the balance! 'Tis done, behold you Cosmo Stevenson, and me
R. L. Monkhouse; you at Hyeres, I in London; you rejoicing in the
clammiest repose, me proceeding to tear your tabernacle into rags,
as I have already so admirably torn my own.
My place to which I now introduce you - it is yours - is like a
London house, high and very narrow; upon the lungs I will not
linger; the heart is large enough for a ballroom; the belly greedy
and inefficient; the brain stocked with the most damnable
explosives, like a dynamiter's den. The whole place is well
furnished, though not in a very pure taste; Corinthian much of it;
showy and not strong.
About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an interesting
exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, falling over a blood-
stained remorse; opening that cupboard in the cerebellum and being
welcomed by the spirit of your murdered uncle. I should probably
not like your remorses; I wonder if you will like mine; I have a
spirited assortment; they whistle in my ear o' nights like a north-
easter. I trust yours don't dine with the family; mine are better
mannered; you will hear nought of them till, 2 A.M., except one, to
be sure, that I have made a pet of, but he is small; I keep him in
buttons, so as to avoid commentaries; you will like him much - if
you like what is genuine.
Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good article, with a
trick of stopping; cathedral bell note; ornamental dial; supported
by Venus and the Graces; quite a summer-parlour piety. Of yours,
since your last, I fear there is little to be said.
There is one article I wish to take away with me: my spirits.
They suit me. I don't want yours; I like my own; I have had them a
long while in bottle. It is my only reservation. - Yours (as you
decide),
R. L. MONKHOUSE.
Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY
HYERES, MAY 1884.
DEAR BOY, - OLD MORTALITY is out, and I am glad to say Coggie likes
it. We like her immensely.
I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot work - cannot: that
is flat, not even verses: as for prose, that more active place is
shut on me long since.
My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically
comic. AS YOU LIKE IT is to me the most bird-haunted spot in
letters; TEMPEST and TWELFTH NIGHT follow. These are what I mean
by poetry and nature. I make an effort of my mind to be quite one
with Moliere, except upon the stage, where his inimitable JEUX DE
SCENE beggar belief; but you will observe they are stage-plays -
things AD HOC; not great Olympian debauches of the heart and fancy;
hence more perfect, and not so great. Then I come, after great
wanderings, to Carmosine and to Fantasio; to one part of La
Derniere Aldini (which, by the by, we might dramatise in a week),
to the notes that Meredith has found, Evan and the postillion, Evan
and Rose, Harry in Germany. And to me these things are the good;
beauty, touched with sex and laughter; beauty with God's earth for
the background. Tragedy does not seem to me to come off; and when
it does, it does so by the heroic illusion; the anti-masque has
been omitted; laughter, which attends on all our steps in life, and
sits by the deathbed, and certainly redacts the epitaph, laughter
has been lost from these great-hearted lies. But the comedy which
keeps the beauty and touches the terrors of our life (laughter and
tragedy-in-a-good-humour having kissed), that is the last word of
moved representation; embracing the greatest number of elements of
fate and character; and telling its story, not with the one eye of
pity, but with the two of pity and mirth.
R. L. S.
Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE
FROM MY BED, MAY 29, 1884.
DEAR GOSSE, - The news of the Professorate found me in the article
of - well, of heads or tails; I am still in bed, and a very poor
person. You must thus excuse my damned delay; but, I assure you, I
was delighted. You will believe me the more, if I confess to you
that my first sentiment was envy; yes, sir, on my blood-boltered
couch I envied the professor. However, it was not of long
duration; the double thought that you deserved and that you would
thoroughly enjoy your success fell like balsam on my wounds. How
came it that you never communicated my rejection of Gilder's offer
for the Rhone? But it matters not. Such earthly vanities are over
for the present. This has been a fine well-conducted illness. A
month in bed; a month of silence; a fortnight of not stirring my
right hand; a month of not moving without being lifted. Come! CA
Y EST: devilish like being dead. - Yours, dear Professor,
academically,
R. L. S.
I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with me! I
got him cheap - second-hand.
In turning over my late friend Ferrier's commonplace book, I find
three poems from VIOL AND FLUTE copied out in his hand: 'When
Flower-time,' 'Love in Winter,' and 'Mistrust.' They are capital
too. But I thought the fact would interest you. He was no poetist
either; so it means the more. 'Love in W.!' I like the best.
Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON
HOTEL CHABASSIERE, ROYAT, [JULY 1884].
MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff
of cold, and was finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day,
however, it has cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to
(SEVERAL DAYS AFTER.)
I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am better, and
keep better, but the weather is a mere injustice. The imitation of
Edinburgh is, at times, deceptive; there is a note among the
chimney pots that suggests Howe Street; though I think the
shrillest spot in Christendom was not upon the Howe Street side,
but in front, just under the Miss Graemes' big chimney stack. It
had a fine alto character - a sort of bleat that used to divide the
marrow in my joints - say in the wee, slack hours. That music is
now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, not
regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; a
knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I mind it
above all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was blue and
spotted with rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold evening
was seen blue all over, with the lamps of Queen's and Frederick's
Street dotting it with yellow, and flaring east-ward in the
squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I have been in such circumstances -
I, who have now positively forgotten the colour of unhappiness; who
am full like a fed ox, and dull like a fresh turf, and have no more
spiritual life, for good or evil, than a French bagman.
We are at Chabassiere's, for of course it was nonsense to go up the
hill when we could not walk.
The child's poems in a far extended form are likely soon to be
heard of - which Cummy I dare say will be glad to know. They will
make a book of about one hundred pages. - Ever your affectionate,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN
[ROYAT, JULY 1884.]
. . . HERE is a quaint thing, I have read ROBINSON, COLONEL JACK,
MOLL FLANDERS, MEMOIRS OF A CAVALIER, HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE,
HISTORY OF THE GREAT STORM, SCOTCH CHURCH AND UNION. And there my
knowledge of Defoe ends - except a book, the name of which I
forget, about Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not
write, and could not have written if he wanted. To which of these
does B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish
Church. I jest; for, of course, I KNOW it must be a book I have
never read, and which this makes me keen to read - I mean CAPTAIN
SINGLETON. Can it be got and sent to me? If TREASURE ISLAND is at
all like it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day
wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing T.
I., as a mine for pirate tips. T. I. came out of Kingsley's AT
LAST, where I got the Dead Man's Chest - and that was the seed -
and out of the great Captain Johnson's HISTORY OF NOTORIOUS
PIRATES. The scenery is Californian in part, and in part CHIC.
I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made man - till the next
time.
R. L. STEVENSON.
If it was CAPTAIN SINGLETON, send it to me, won't you?
LATER. - My life dwindles into a kind of valley of the shadow
picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as to-day) I must not
speak above my breath, that to play patience, or to see my wife
play it, is become the be-all and the end-all of my dim career. To
add to my gaiety, I may write letters, but there are few to answer.
Patience and Poesy are thus my rod and staff; with these I not
unpleasantly support my days.
I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be silenced;
and if to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to understand
them cannot be my wife's. Do not think me unhappy; I have not been
so for years; but I am blurred, inhabit the debatable frontier of
sleep, and have but dim designs upon activity. All is at a
standstill; books closed, paper put aside, the voice, the eternal
voice of R. L. S., well silenced. Hence this plaint reaches you
with no very great meaning, no very great purpose, and written part
in slumber by a heavy, dull, somnolent, superannuated son of a
bedpost.
CHAPTER VII - LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH, SEPTEMBER 1884-DECEMBER 1885
Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON
WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, SUNDAY, 28TH SEPTEMBER 1884.
MY DEAR PEOPLE, - I keep better, and am to-day downstairs for the
first time. I find the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the
front. Will you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale,
and has blown for nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping wind,
lashing rain; the sea is a fine colour, and wind-bound ships lie at
anchor under the Old Harry rocks, to make one glad to be ashore.
The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I hope they
may produce some of the ready. - I am, ever affectionate son,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY
[WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 1884?]
DEAR BOY, - I trust this finds you well; it leaves me so-so. The
weather is so cold that I must stick to bed, which is rotten and
tedious, but can't be helped.
I find in the blotting book the enclosed, which I wrote to you the
eve of my blood. Is it not strange? That night, when I naturally
thought I was coopered, the thought of it was much in my mind; I
thought it had gone; and I thought what a strange prophecy I had
made in jest, and how it was indeed like to be the end of many
letters. But I have written a good few since, and the spell is
broken. I am just as pleased, for I earnestly desire to live.
This pleasant middle age into whose port we are steering is quite
to my fancy. I would cast anchor here, and go ashore for twenty
years, and see the manners of the place. Youth was a great time,
but somewhat fussy. Now in middle age (bar lucre) all seems mighty
placid. It likes me; I spy a little bright cafe in one corner of
the port, in front of which I now propose we should sit down.
There is just enough of the bustle of the harbour and no more; and
the ships are close in, regarding us with stern-windows - the ships
that bring deals from Norway and parrots from the Indies. Let us
sit down here for twenty years, with a packet of tobacco and a
drink, and talk of art and women. By-and-by, the whole city will
sink, and the ships too, and the table, and we also; but we shall
have sat for twenty years and had a fine talk; and by that time,
who knows? exhausted the subject.
I send you a book which (or I am mistook) will please you; it
pleased me. But I do desire a book of adventure - a romance - and
no man will get or write me one. Dumas I have read and re-read too
often; Scott, too, and I am short. I want to hear swords clash. I
want a book to begin in a good way; a book, I guess, like TREASURE
ISLAND, alas! which I have never read, and cannot though I live to
ninety. I would God that some one else had written it! By all
that I can learn, it is the very book for my complaint. I like the
way I hear it opens; and they tell me John Silver is good fun. And
to me it is, and must ever be, a dream unrealised, a book
unwritten. O my sighings after romance, or even Skeltery, and O!
the weary age which will produce me neither!
CHAPTER I
The night was damp and cloudy, the ways foul. The single horseman,
cloaked and booted, who pursued his way across Willesden Common,
had not met a traveller, when the sound of wheels -
CHAPTER I
'Yes, sir,' said the old pilot, 'she must have dropped into the bay
a little afore dawn. A queer craft she looks.'
'She shows no colours,' returned the young gentleman musingly.
'They're a-lowering of a quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,' resumed the old
salt. 'We shall soon know more of her.'
'Ay,' replied the young gentleman called Mark, 'and here, Mr.
Seadrift, comes your sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.'
'God bless her kind heart, sir,' ejaculated old Seadrift.
CHAPTER I
The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great
house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties
finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging
from one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way.
Little did he think what strange adventures were to befall him! -
That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead.
What should be: What is:
The Filibuster's Cache. Aunt Anne's Tea Cosy.
Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly's Niece.
Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel
R. L. S.
Letter: TO THE REV. PROFESSOR LEWIS CAMPBELL
[WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884.]
MY DEAR CAMPBELL, - The books came duly to hand. My wife has
occupied the translation ever since, nor have I yet been able to
dislodge her. As for the primer, I have read it with a very
strange result: that I find no fault. If you knew how, dogmatic
and pugnacious, I stand warden on the literary art, you would the
more appreciate your success and my - well, I will own it -
disappointment. For I love to put people right (or wrong) about
the arts. But what you say of Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply
satisfies me; it is well felt and well said; a little less
technically than it is my weakness to desire to see it put, but
clear and adequate. You are very right to express your admiration
for the resource displayed in OEdipus King; it is a miracle. Would
it not have been well to mention Voltaire's interesting onslaught,
a thing which gives the best lesson of the difference of neighbour
arts? - since all his criticisms, which had been fatal to a
narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw in this
masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though such a
fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, so
imperfect, so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required of
these conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts.
I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by hoping for
better luck next time. My wife begs to be remembered to both of
you. - Yours sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO ANDREW CHATTO
WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 3, 1884.
DEAR MR. CHATTO, - I have an offer of 25 pounds for OTTO from
America. I do not know if you mean to have the American rights;
from the nature of the contract, I think not; but if you understood
that you were to sell the sheets, I will either hand over the
bargain to you, or finish it myself and hand you over the money if
you are pleased with the amount. You see, I leave this quite in
your hands. To parody an old Scotch story of servant and master:
if you don't know that you have a good author, I know that I have a
good publisher. Your fair, open, and handsome dealings are a good
point in my life, and do more for my crazy health than has yet been
done by any doctor. - Very truly yours,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO W. H. LOW
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, HANTS, ENGLAND, FIRST
WEEK IN NOVEMBER, I GUESS, 1884.
MY DEAR LOW, - NOW, look here, the above is my address for three
months, I hope; continue, on your part, if you please, to write to
Edinburgh, which is safe; but if Mrs. Low thinks of coming to
England, she might take a run down from London (four hours from
Waterloo, main line) and stay a day or two with us among the pines.
If not, I hope it will be only a pleasure deferred till you can
join her.
My Children's Verses will be published here in a volume called A
CHILD'S GARDEN. The sheets are in hand; I will see if I cannot
send you the lot, so that you might have a bit of a start. In that
case I would do nothing to publish in the States, and you might try
an illustrated edition there; which, if the book went fairly over
here, might, when ready, be imported. But of this more fully ere
long. You will see some verses of mine in the last MAGAZINE OF
ART, with pictures by a young lady; rather pretty, I think. If we
find a market for PHASELLULUS LOQUITUR, we can try another. I hope
it isn't necessary to put the verse into that rustic printing. I
am Philistine enough to prefer clean printer's type; indeed, I can
form no idea of the verses thus transcribed by the incult and
tottering hand of the draughtsman, nor gather any impression beyond
one of weariness to the eyes. Yet the other day, in the CENTURY, I
saw it imputed as a crime to Vedder that he had not thus travestied
Omar Khayyam. We live in a rum age of music without airs, stories
without incident, pictures without beauty, American wood engravings
that should have been etchings, and dry-point etchings that ought
to have been mezzo-tints. I think of giving 'em literature without
words; and I believe if you were to try invisible illustration, it
would enjoy a considerable vogue. So long as an artist is on his
head, is painting with a flute, or writes with an etcher's needle,
or conducts the orchestra with a meat-axe, all is well; and
plaudits shower along with roses. But any plain man who tries to
follow the obtrusive canons of his art, is but a commonplace
figure. To hell with him is the motto, or at least not that; for
he will have his reward, but he will never be thought a person of
parts.
JANUARY 3, 1885.
And here has this been lying near two months. I have failed to get
together a preliminary copy of the Child's Verses for you, in spite
of doughty efforts; but yesterday I sent you the first sheet of the
definitive edition, and shall continue to send the others as they
come. If you can, and care to, work them - why so, well. If not,
I send you fodder. But the time presses; for though I will delay a
little over the proofs, and though - it is even possible they may
delay the English issue until Easter, it will certainly not be
later. Therefore perpend, and do not get caught out. Of course,
if you can do pictures, it will be a great pleasure to me to see
our names joined; and more than that, a great advantage, as I
daresay you may be able to make a bargain for some share a little
less spectral than the common for the poor author. But this is all
as you shall choose; I give you CARTE BLANCHE to do or not to do. -
Yours most sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
O, Sargent has been and painted my portrait; a very nice fellow he
is, and is supposed to have done well; it is a poetical but very
chicken-boned figure-head, as thus represented. R. L. S. Go on.
P.P.S. - Your picture came; and let me thank you for it very much.
I am so hunted I had near forgotten. I find it very graceful; and
I mean to have it framed.
Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON
BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884.
MY DEAR FATHER, - I have no hesitation in recommending you to let
your name go up; please yourself about an address; though I think,
if we could meet, we could arrange something suitable. What you
propose would be well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest
a whine. From that point of view it would be better to change a
little; but this, whether we meet or not, we must discuss. Tait,
Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, all think you amply deserve
this honour and far more; it is not the True Blue to call this
serious compliment a 'trial'; you should be glad of this
recognition. As for resigning, that is easy enough if found
necessary; but to refuse would be husky and unsatisfactory. SIC
SUBS.
R. L. S.
My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well. Fanny is very
very much out of sorts, principally through perpetual misery with
me. I fear I have been a little in the dumps, which, AS YOU KNOW,
SIR, is a very great sin. I must try to be more cheerful; but my
cough is so severe that I have sometimes most exhausting nights and
very peevish wakenings. However, this shall be remedied, and last
night I was distinctly better than the night before. There is, my
dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise blandly as we sit together on the
devil's garden-wall), no more abominable sin than this gloom, this
plaguey peevishness; why (say I) what matters it if we be a little
uncomfortable - that is no reason for mangling our unhappy wives.
And then I turn and GIRN on the unfortunate Cassandra. - Your
fellow culprit,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY
WENSLEYDALE, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 1884.
DEAR HENLEY, - We are all to pieces in health, and heavily
handicapped with Arabs. I have a dreadful cough, whose attacks
leave me AETAT. 90. I never let up on the Arabs, all the same, and
rarely get less than eight pages out of hand, though hardly able to
come downstairs for twittering knees.
I shall put in -'s letter. He says so little of his circumstances
that I am in an impossibility to give him advice more specific than
a copybook. Give him my love, however, and tell him it is the mark
of the parochial gentleman who has never travelled to find all
wrong in a foreign land. Let him hold on, and he will find one
country as good as another; and in the meanwhile let him resist the
fatal British tendency to communicate his dissatisfaction with a
country to its inhabitants. 'Tis a good idea, but it somehow fails
to please. In a fortnight, if I can keep my spirit in the box at
all, I should be nearly through this Arabian desert; so can tackle
something fresh. - Yours ever,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH (THE THREE B'S)
[NOVEMBER 5, 1884].
MY DEAR FATHER, - Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense,
that you are a silly fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I
be offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you had
the same impression of the DEACON; and yet, when you saw it played,
were less revolted than you looked for; and I will still hope that
the ADMIRAL also is not so bad as you suppose. There is one point,
however, where I differ from you very frankly. Religion is in the
world; I do not think you are the man to deny the importance of its
role; and I have long decided not to leave it on one side in art.
The opposition of the Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes,
either horrible or irreverent; but it may be, and it probably is,
very ill done: what then? This is a failure; better luck next
time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, more wisdom in the
design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the new victory.
Concern yourself about no failure; they do not cost lives, as in
engineering; they are the PIERRES PERDUES of successes. Fame is
(truly) a vapour; do not think of it; if the writer means well and
tries hard, no failure will injure him, whether with God or man.
I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am
inclined to acquit the ADMIRAL of having a share in the
responsibility. My very heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; and
the change to this charming house in the forest will, I hope,
complete my re-establishment. - With love to all, believe me, your
ever affectionate,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 11, [1884].
MY DEAR CHARLES, - I am in my new house, thus proudly styled, as
you perceive; but the deevil a tower ava' can be perceived (except
out of window); this is not as it should be; one might have hoped,
at least, a turret. We are all vilely unwell. I put in the dark
watches imitating a donkey with some success, but little pleasure;
and in the afternoon I indulge in a smart fever, accompanied by
aches and shivers. There is thus little monotony to be deplored.
I at least am a REGULAR invalid; I would scorn to bray in the
afternoon; I would indignantly refuse the proposal to fever in the
night. What is bred in the bone will come out, sir, in the flesh;
and the same spirit that prompted me to date my letter regulates
the hour and character of my attacks. - I am, sir, yours,
THOMSON.
Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER
POSTMARK, BOURNEMOUTH, 13TH NOVEMBER 1884.
MY DEAR THOMSON, - It's a maist remarkable fac', but nae shuner had
I written yon braggin', blawin' letter aboot ma business habits,
when bang! that very day, ma hoast begude in the aifternune. It is
really remaurkable; it's providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae
fair dry, the words werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got
the lee. The mair ye think o't, Thomson, the less ye'll like the
looks o't. Proavidence (I'm no' sayin') is all verra weel IN ITS
PLACE; but if Proavidence has nae mainners, wha's to learn't?
Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo would you like Proavidence to
keep your till for ye? The richt place for Proavidence is in the
kirk; it has naething to do wi' private correspondence between twa
gentlemen, nor freendly cracks, nor a wee bit word of sculduddery
ahint the door, nor, in shoart, wi' ony HOLE-AND-CORNER WARK, what
I would call. I'm pairfec'ly willin' to meet in wi' Proavidence,
I'll be prood to meet in wi' him, when my time's come and I cannae
dae nae better; but if he's to come skinking aboot my stair-fit,
damned, I micht as weel be deid for a' the comfort I'll can get in
life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it's beneath him?
Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae steir my heid for a
plain, auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he taks himsel,' 's just
aboot as honest as he can weel afford, an' but for a wheen auld
scandals, near forgotten noo, is a pairfec'ly respectable and
thoroughly decent man. Or if I fashed wi' him ava', it wad be kind
o' handsome like; a pun'-note under his stair door, or a bottle o'
auld, blended malt to his bit marnin', as a teshtymonial like yon
ye ken sae weel aboot, but mair successfu'.
Dear Thomson, have I ony money? If I have, SEND IT, for the
loard's sake.
JOHNSON.
Letter: TO MISS FERRIER
BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER 12, 1884.
MY DEAR COGGIE, - Many thanks for the two photos which now decorate
my room. I was particularly glad to have the Bell Rock. I wonder
if you saw me plunge, lance in rest, into a controversy thereanent?
It was a very one-sided affair. I slept upon the field of battle,
paraded, sang Te Deum, and came home after a review rather than a
campaign.
Please tell Campbell I got his letter. The Wild Woman of the West
has been much amiss and complaining sorely. I hope nothing more
serious is wrong with her than just my ill-health, and consequent
anxiety and labour; but the deuce of it is, that the cause
continues. I am about knocked out of time now: a miserable,
snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-
jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting shadow and remains of man. But
we'll no gie ower jist yet a bittie. We've seen waur; and dod,
mem, it's my belief that we'll see better. I dinna ken 'at I've
muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but jist here's
guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale o' guid fortune to your
bonny sel'; and my respecs to the Perfessor and his wife, and the
Prinshiple, an' the Bell Rock, an' ony ither public chara'ters that
I'm acquaunt wi'.
R. L. S.
Letter: TO EDMUND GOSSE
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, NOV. 15, 1884.
MY DEAR GOSSE, - This Mr. Morley of yours is a most desperate
fellow. He has sent me (for my opinion) the most truculent
advertisement I ever saw, in which the white hairs of Gladstone are
dragged round Troy behind my chariot wheels. What can I say? I
say nothing to him; and to you, I content myself with remarking
that he seems a desperate fellow.
All luck to you on your American adventure; may you find health,
wealth, and entertainment! If you see, as you likely will, Frank
R. Stockton, pray greet him from me in words to this effect:-
My Stockton if I failed to like,
It were a sheer depravity,
For I went down with the THOMAS HYKE
And up with the NEGATIVE GRAVITY!
I adore these tales.
I hear flourishing accounts of your success at Cambridge, so you
leave with a good omen. Remember me to GREEN CORN if it is in
season; if not, you had better hang yourself on a sour apple tree,
for your voyage has been lost. - Yours affectionately,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO AUSTIN DOBSON
BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH [DECEMBER 1884?].
DEAR DOBSON, - Set down my delay to your own fault; I wished to
acknowledge such a gift from you in some of my inapt and slovenly
rhymes; but you should have sent me your pen and not your desk.
The verses stand up to the axles in a miry cross-road, whence the
coursers of the sun shall never draw them; hence I am constrained
to this uncourtliness, that I must appear before one of the kings
of that country of rhyme without my singing robes. For less than
this, if we may trust the book of Esther, favourites have tasted
death; but I conceive the kingdom of the Muses mildlier mannered;
and in particular that county which you administer and which I seem
to see as a half-suburban land; a land of holly-hocks and country
houses; a land where at night, in thorny and sequestered bypaths,
you will meet masqueraders going to a ball in their sedans, and the
rector steering homeward by the light of his lantern; a land of the
windmill, and the west wind, and the flowering hawthorn with a
little scented letter in the hollow of its trunk, and the kites
flying over all in the season of kites, and the far away blue
spires of a cathedral city.
Will you forgive me, then, for my delay and accept my thanks not
only for your present, but for the letter which followed it, and
which perhaps I more particularly value, and believe me to be, with
much admiration, yours very truly,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO HENRY JAMES
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 8, 1884.
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES, - This is a very brave hearing from more
points than one. The first point is that there is a hope of a
sequel. For this I laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of
information and thoughtful interest in the art of literature, those
who try to practise it with any deliberate purpose run the risk of
finding no fit audience. People suppose it is 'the stuff' that
interests them; they think, for instance, that the prodigious fine
thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare impress by their own weight,
not understanding that the unpolished diamond is but a stone. They
think that striking situations, or good dialogue, are got by
studying life; they will not rise to understand that they are
prepared by deliberate artifice and set off by painful
suppressions. Now, I want the whole thing well ventilated, for my
own education and the public's; and I beg you to look as quick as
you can, to follow me up with every circumstance of defeat where we
differ, and (to prevent the flouting of the laity) to emphasise the
points where we agree. I trust your paper will show me the way to
a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I shall hope to make with so much
art as to woo or drive you from your threatened silence. I would
not ask better than to pass my life in beating out this quarter of
corn with such a seconder as yourself.
Point the second - I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak so kindly
of my work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to myself a very rude,
left-handed countryman; not fit to be read, far less complimented,
by a man so accomplished, so adroit, so craftsmanlike as you. You
will happily never have cause to understand the despair with which
a writer like myself considers (say) the park scene in Lady
Barberina. Every touch surprises me by its intangible precision;
and the effect when done, as light as syllabub, as distinct as a
picture, fills me with envy. Each man among us prefers his own
aim, and I prefer mine; but when we come to speak of performance, I
recognise myself, compared with you, to be a lout and slouch of the
first water.
Where we differ, both as to the design of stories and the
delineation of character, I begin to lament. Of course, I am not
so dull as to ask you to desert your walk; but could you not, in
one novel, to oblige a sincere admirer, and to enrich his shelves
with a beloved volume, could you not, and might you not, cast your
characters in a mould a little more abstract and academic (dear
Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your other work, a taste of what I
mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not say in any stronger, but
in a slightly more emphatic key - as it were an episode from one of
the old (so-called) novels of adventure? I fear you will not; and
I suppose I must sighingly admit you to be right. And yet, when I
see, as it were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite
precision and shot through with those side-lights of reflection in
which you excel, I relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think
upon it.
As you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid:
this puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is possible
that some day you may feel that a day near the sea and among
pinewoods would be a pleasant change from town. If so, please let
us know; and my wife and I will be delighted to put you up, and
give you what we can to eat and drink (I have a fair bottle of
claret). - On the back of which, believe me, yours sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
P.S. - I reopen this to say that I have re-read my paper, and
cannot think I have at all succeeded in being either veracious or
polite. I knew, of course, that I took your paper merely as a pin
to hang my own remarks upon; but, alas! what a thing is any paper!
What fine remarks can you not hang on mine! How I have sinned
against proportion, and with every effort to the contrary, against
the merest rudiments of courtesy to you! You are indeed a very
acute reader to have divined the real attitude of my mind; and I
can only conclude, not without closed eyes and shrinking shoulders,
in the well-worn words
Lay on, Macduff!
Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON
BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, DECEMBER 9, 1884.
MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The dreadful tragedy of the PALL MALL has come to
a happy but ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale
writ for them is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to
flash out before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, 'The
Body Snatcher.' When you come, please to bring -
(1) My MONTAIGNE, or, at least, the two last volumes.
(2) My MILTON in the three vols. in green.
(3) The SHAKESPEARE that Babington sent me for a wedding-gift.
(4) Hazlitt's TABLE TALK AND PLAIN SPEAKER.
If you care to get a box of books from Douglas and Foulis, let them
be SOLID. CROKER PAPERS, CORRESPONDENCE OF NAPOLEON, HISTORY OF
HENRY IV., Lang's FOLK LORE, would be my desires.
I had a charming letter from Henry James about my LONGMAN paper. I
did not understand queries about the verses; the pictures to the
Seagull I thought charming; those to the second have left me with a
pain in my poor belly and a swimming in the head.
About money, I am afloat and no more, and I warn you, unless I have
great luck, I shall have to fall upon you at the New Year like a
hundredweight of bricks. Doctor, rent, chemist, are all
threatening; sickness has bitterly delayed my work; and unless, as
I say, I have the mischief's luck, I shall completely break down.
VERBUM SAPIENTIBUS. I do not live cheaply, and I question if I
ever shall; but if only I had a halfpenny worth of health, I could
now easily suffice. The last breakdown of my head is what makes
this bankruptcy probable.
Fanny is still out of sorts; Bogue better; self fair, but a
stranger to the blessings of sleep. - Ever affectionate son,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY
BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, [DECEMBER 1884].
DEAR LAD, - I have made up my mind about the P. M. G., and send you
a copy, which please keep or return. As for not giving a
reduction, what are we? Are we artists or city men? Why do we
sneer at stock-brokers? O nary; I will not take the 40 pounds. I
took that as a fair price for my best work; I was not able to
produce my best; and I will be damned if I steal with my eyes open.
SUFFICIT. This is my lookout. As for the paper being rich,
certainly it is; but I am honourable. It is no more above me in
money than the poor slaveys and cads from whom I look for honesty
are below me. Am I Pepys, that because I can find the countenance
of 'some of our ablest merchants,' that because - and - pour forth
languid twaddle and get paid for it, I, too, should 'cheerfully
continue to steal'? I am not Pepys. I do not live much to God and
honour; but I will not wilfully turn my back on both. I am, like
all the rest of us, falling ever lower from the bright ideas I
began with, falling into greed, into idleness, into middle-aged and
slippered fireside cowardice; but is it you, my bold blade, that I
hear crying this sordid and rank twaddle in my ear? Preaching the
dankest Grundyism and upholding the rank customs of our trade -
you, who are so cruel hard upon the customs of the publishers? O
man, look at the Beam in our own Eyes; and whatever else you do, do
not plead Satan's cause, or plead it for all; either embrace the
bad, or respect the good when you see a poor devil trying for it.
If this is the honesty of authors - to take what you can get and
console yourself because publishers are rich - take my name from
the rolls of that association. 'Tis a caucus of weaker thieves,
jealous of the stronger. - Ever yours,
THE ROARING R. L. S.
You will see from the enclosed that I have stuck to what I think my
dues pretty tightly in spite of this flourish: these are my words
for a poor ten-pound note!
Letter: TO W. E. HENLEY
BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH, [WINTER, 1884].
MY DEAR LAD, - Here was I in bed; not writing, not hearing, and
finding myself gently and agreeably ill used; and behold I learn
you are bad yourself. Get your wife to send us a word how you are.
I am better decidedly. Bogue got his Christmas card, and behaved
well for three days after. It may interest the cynical to learn
that I started my last haemorrhage by too sedulous attentions to my
dear Bogue. The stick was broken; and that night Bogue, who was
attracted by the extraordinary aching of his bones, and is always
inclined to a serious view of his own ailments, announced with his
customary pomp that he was dying. In this case, however, it was
not the dog that died. (He had tried to bite his mother's ankles.)
I have written a long and peculiarly solemn paper on the technical
elements of style. It is path-breaking and epoch-making; but I do
not think the public will be readily convoked to its perusal. Did
I tell you that S. C. had risen to the paper on James? At last! O
but I was pleased; he's (like Johnnie) been lang, lang o' comin',
but here he is. He will not object to my future manoeuvres in the
same field, as he has to my former. All the family are here; my
father better than I have seen him these two years; my mother the
same as ever. I do trust you are better, and I am yours ever,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO H. A. JONES
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, DEC. 30, 1884.
DEAR SIR, - I am so accustomed to hear nonsense spoken about all
the arts, and the drama in particular, that I cannot refrain from
saying 'Thank you,' for your paper. In my answer to Mr. James, in
the December LONGMAN, you may see that I have merely touched, I
think in a parenthesis, on the drama; but I believe enough was said
to indicate our agreement in essentials.
Wishing you power and health to further enunciate and to act upon
these principles, believe me, dear sir, yours truly,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN
BONALLIE TOWERS, BRANKSOME PARK, BOURNEMOUTH, JAN. 4, 1885.
DEAR S. C., - I am on my feet again, and getting on my boots to do
the IRON DUKE. Conceive my glee: I have refused the 100 pounds,
and am to get some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. 'Tis
for Longman's ENGLISH WORTHIES, edited by A. Lang. Aw haw, haw!
Now, look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or is
that a dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and certainly
note pages on the fly. If you think it a dream, will Bain get me a
second-hand copy, or who would? The sooner, and cheaper, I can get
it the better. If there is anything in your weird library that
bears on either the man or the period, put it in a mortar and fire
it here instanter; I shall catch. I shall want, of course, an
infinity of books: among which, any lives there may be; a life of
the Marquis Marmont (the Marechal), MARMONT'S MEMOIRS, GREVILLE'S
MEMOIRS, PEEL'S MEMOIRS, NAPIER, that blind man's history of
England you once lent me, Hamley's WATERLOO; can you get me any of
these? Thiers, idle Thiers also. Can you help a man getting into
his boots for such a huge campaign? How are you? A Good New Year
to you. I mean to have a good one, but on whose funds I cannot
fancy: not mine leastways, as I am a mere derelict and drift beam-
on to bankruptcy.
For God's sake, remember the man who set out for to conquer Arthur
Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty pocket. - Yours ever,
R. L. STEVENSON.
Letter: TO THOMAS STEVENSON
[BONALLIE TOWERS, BOURNEMOUTH,] 14TH JANUARY 1885.
MY DEAR FATHER, - I am glad you like the changes. I own I was
pleased with my hand's darg; you may observe, I have corrected
several errors which (you may tell Mr. Dick) he had allowed to pass
his eagle eye; I wish there may be none in mine; at least, the
order is better. The second title, 'Some new Engineering Questions
involved in the M. S. C. Scheme of last Session of P.', likes me
the best. I think it a very good paper; and I am vain enough to
think I have materially helped to polish the diamond. I ended by
feeling quite proud of the paper, as if it had been mine; the next
time you have as good a one, I will overhaul it for the wages of
feeling as clever as I did when I had managed to understand and
helped to set it clear. I wonder if I anywhere misapprehended you?
I rather think not at the last; at the first shot I know I missed a
point or two. Some of what may appear to you to be wanton changes,
a little study will show to be necessary.
