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.
Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER
SARANAC, 18TH NOVEMBER 1887.
MY DEAR CHARLES, - No likely I'm going to waste a sheet of paper. .
. . I am offered 1600 pounds ($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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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 6TH.
- 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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
Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER
SARANAC, 12TH DECEMBER '87.
Give us news of all your folk. A Merry Christmas from all of us.
MY DEAR CHARLES, - Will you please send 20 pounds 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 pounds.
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?
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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.
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'; 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 AENEID, 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
Letter: 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 CARRIERE
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.
Letter: 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 Ballan-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.
Letter: 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.!!!
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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 GUERE 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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 FRANCAIS 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 LACHES 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 etes bien jeune!' - Yours very
truly,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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
degrees, 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 degrees: 60 degrees we find oppressive.
Yet the natives keep their holes at 90 degrees or even 100 degrees.
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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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 DENOUEMENT, 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.
Letter: 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.
Letter: 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'!
