Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  I shall send this off to-day to let you know of my new address - Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, Edinburgh. Salute the faithful in my name. Salute Priscilla, salute Barnabas, salute Ebenezer - O no, he’s too much, I withdraw Ebenezer; enough of early Christians. - Ever your faithful

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

  Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL

  [EDINBURGH, JUNE 1875.]

  SIMPLY a scratch. All right, jolly, well, and through with the difficulty. My father pleased about the Burns. Never travel in the same carriage with three able-bodied seamen and a fruiterer from Kent; the A.-B.’s speak all night as though they were hailing vessels at sea; and the fruiterer as if he were crying fruit in a noisy market-place - such, at least, is my FUNESTE experience. I wonder if a fruiterer from some place else - say Worcestershire - would offer the same phenomena? insoluble doubt.

  R. L. S.

  Later. - Forgive me, couldn’t get it off. Awfully nice man here to-night. Public servant - New Zealand. Telling us all about the South Sea Islands till I was sick with desire to go there: beautiful places, green for ever; perfect climate; perfect shapes of men and women, with red flowers in their hair; and nothing to do but to study oratory and etiquette, sit in the sun, and pick up the fruits as they fall. Navigator’s Island is the place; absolute balm for the weary. - Ever your faithful friend,

  R. L. S.

  Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL

  SWANSTON. END OF JUNE, 1875.

  THURSDAY. - This day fortnight I shall fall or conquer. Outside the rain still soaks; but now and again the hilltop looks through the mist vaguely. I am very comfortable, very sleepy, and very much satisfied with the arrangements of Providence.

  SATURDAY - NO, SUNDAY, 12.45. - Just been - not grinding, alas! - I couldn’t - but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. I don’t think I’ll be plucked. I am not sure though - I am so busy, what with this d-d law, and this Fontainebleau always at my elbow, and three plays (three, think of that!) and a story, all crying out to me, ‘Finish, finish, make an entire end, make us strong, shapely, viable creatures!’ It’s enough to put a man crazy. Moreover, I have my thesis given out now, which is a fifth (is it fifth? I can’t count) incumbrance.

  SUNDAY. - I’ve been to church, and am not depressed - a great step. I was at that beautiful church my PETIT POEME EN PROSE was about. It is a little cruciform place, with heavy cornices and string course to match, and a steep slate roof. The small kirkyard is full of old grave-stones. One of a Frenchman from Dunkerque - I suppose he died prisoner in the military prison hard by - and one, the most pathetic memorial I ever saw, a poor school-slate, in a wooden frame, with the inscription cut into it evidently by the father’s own hand. In church, old Mr. Torrence preached - over eighty, and a relic of times forgotten, with his black thread gloves and mild old foolish face. One of the nicest parts of it was to see John Inglis, the greatest man in Scotland, our Justice- General, and the only born lawyer I ever heard, listening to the piping old body, as though it had all been a revelation, grave and respectful. - Ever your faithful

  R. L. S.

  CHAPTER III - ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR, EDINBURGH - PARIS - FONTAINEBLEAU, JULY 1875-JULY 1879

  Letter: TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

  [CHEZ SIRON, BARBIZON, SEINE ET MARNE, AUGUST 1875.]

  MY DEAR MOTHER, - I have been three days at a place called Grez, a pretty and very melancholy village on the plain. A low bridge of many arches choked with sedge; great fields of white and yellow water-lilies; poplars and willows innumerable; and about it all such an atmosphere of sadness and slackness, one could do nothing but get into the boat and out of it again, and yawn for bedtime.

  Yesterday Bob and I walked home; it came on a very creditable thunderstorm; we were soon wet through; sometimes the rain was so heavy that one could only see by holding the hand over the eyes; and to crown all, we lost our way and wandered all over the place, and into the artillery range, among broken trees, with big shot lying about among the rocks. It was near dinner-time when we got to Barbizon; and it is supposed that we walked from twenty-three to twenty-five miles, which is not bad for the Advocate, who is not tired this morning. I was very glad to be back again in this dear place, and smell the wet forest in the morning.

  Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet as we did.

  Why don’t you write? I have no more to say. - Ever your affectionate son,

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

  Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL

  CHATEAU RENARD, LOIRET, AUGUST 1875.

  . . . I HAVE been walking these last days from place to place; and it does make it hot for walking with a sack in this weather. I am burned in horrid patches of red; my nose, I fear, is going to take the lead in colour; Simpson is all flushed, as if he were seen by a sunset. I send you here two rondeaux; I don’t suppose they will amuse anybody but me; but this measure, short and yet intricate, is just what I desire; and I have had some good times walking along the glaring roads, or down the poplar alley of the great canal, pitting my own humour to this old verse.

  Far have you come, my lady, from the town,

  And far from all your sorrows, if you please,

  To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas,

  And in green meadows lay your body down.

  To find your pale face grow from pale to brown,

  Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees;

  Far have you come, my lady, from the town,

  And far from all your sorrows, if you please.

  Here in this seaboard land of old renown,

  In meadow grass go wading to the knees;

  Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease;

  There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;

  Far have you come, my lady, from the town.

  NOUS N’IRONS PLUS AU BOIS.

  We’ll walk the woods no more,

  But stay beside the fire,

  To weep for old desire

  And things that are no more.

  The woods are spoiled and hoar,

  The ways are full of mire;

  We’ll walk the woods no more,

  But stay beside the fire.

  We loved, in days of yore,

  Love, laughter, and the lyre.

  Ah God, but death is dire,

  And death is at the door -

  We’ll walk the woods no more.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

  Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN

  EDINBURGH, [AUTUMN] 1875.

  MY DEAR COLVIN, - Thanks for your letter and news. No - my BURNS is not done yet, it has led me so far afield that I cannot finish it; every time I think I see my way to an end, some new game (or perhaps wild goose) starts up, and away I go. And then, again, to be plain, I shirk the work of the critical part, shirk it as a man shirks a long jump. It is awful to have to express and differentiate BURNS in a column or two. O golly, I say, you know, it CAN’T be done at the money. All the more as I’m going write a book about it. RAMSAY, FERGUSSON, AND BURNS: AN ESSAY (or A CRITICAL ESSAY? but then I’m going to give lives of the three gentlemen, only the gist of the book is the criticism) BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, ADVOCATE. How’s that for cut and dry? And I COULD write this book. Unless I deceive myself, I could even write it pretty adequately. I feel as if I was really in it, and knew the game thoroughly. You see what comes of trying to write an essay on BURNS in ten columns.

  Meantime, when I have done Burns, I shall finish Charles of Orleans (who is in a good way, about the fifth month, I should think, and promises to be a fine healthy child, better than any of his elder brothers for a while); and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a very essential part of my RAMSAY-FERGUSSON-BURNS; I mean, is a note in it, and will recur again and again for comparison and illustration; then, perhaps, I may try Fontainebleau, by the way. But so soon as Charles of Orleans is polished off, and immortalised for ever, he and his pipings, in a solid imperishable shrine of R. L. S., my true aim and end will be this little book. Suppose I could jerk you out
100 Cornhill pages; that would easy make 200 pages of decent form; and then thickish paper - eh? would that do? I dare say it could be made bigger; but I know what 100 pages of copy, bright consummate copy, imply behind the scenes of weary manuscribing; I think if I put another nothing to it, I should not be outside the mark; and 100 Cornhill pages of 500 words means, I fancy (but I never was good at figures), means 500,00 words. There’s a prospect for an idle young gentleman who lives at home at ease! The future is thick with inky fingers. And then perhaps nobody would publish. AH NOM DE DIEU! What do you think of all this? will it paddle, think you?

  I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried.

  About coming up, no, that’s impossible; for I am worse than a bankrupt. I have at the present six shillings and a penny; I have a sounding lot of bills for Christmas; new dress suit, for instance, the old one having gone for Parliament House; and new white shirts to live up to my new profession; I’m as gay and swell and gummy as can be; only all my boots leak; one pair water, and the other two simple black mud; so that my rig is more for the eye, than a very solid comfort to myself. That is my budget. Dismal enough, and no prospect of any coin coming in; at least for months. So that here I am, I almost fear, for the winter; certainly till after Christmas, and then it depends on how my bills ‘turn out’ whether it shall not be till spring. So, meantime, I must whistle in my cage. My cage is better by one thing; I am an Advocate now. If you ask me why that makes it better, I would remind you that in the most distressing circumstances a little consequence goes a long way, and even bereaved relatives stand on precedence round the coffin. I idle finely. I read Boswell’s LIFE OF JOHNSON, Martin’s HISTORY OF FRANCE, ALLAN RAMSAY, OLIVIER BOSSELIN, all sorts of rubbish, APROPOS of BURNS, COMMINES, JUVENAL DES URSINS, etc. I walk about the Parliament House five forenoons a week, in wig and gown; I have either a five or six mile walk, or an hour or two hard skating on the rink, every afternoon, without fail.

  I have not written much; but, like the seaman’s parrot in the tale, I have thought a deal. You have never, by the way, returned me either SPRING or BERANGER, which is certainly a d-d shame. I always comforted myself with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter to you. ‘Thus conscience’ - O no, that’s not appropriate in this connection. - Ever yours,

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

  I say, is there any chance of your coming north this year? Mind you that promise is now more respectable for age than is becoming.

  R. L. S.

  Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER

  [EDINBURGH, OCTOBER 1875.]

  NOO lyart leaves blaw ower the green,

  Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean,

  An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’,

  To pass the winter.

  Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in,

  An’ snaws ahint her.

  I’ve seen’s hae days to fricht us a’,

  The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw,

  The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw,

  An’ half-congealin’,

  The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw

  Frae blae Brunteelan’.

  I’ve seen’s been unco sweir to sally,

  And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally,

  Seen’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally

  For near a minute -

  Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley,

  The deil was in it! -

  Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate,

  In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t!

  The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate,

  Wi’ cauld an’ weet,

  An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late,

  Bicker oor feet.

  And at the Court, tae, aft I saw

  Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa

  Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’

  In weeg an’ goon,

  To crack o’ what ye wull but Law

  The hale forenoon.

  That muckle ha,’ maist like a kirk,

  I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk

  Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk

  Like ghaists frae Hell,

  But whether Christian ghaist or Turk

  Deil ane could tell.

  The three fires lunted in the gloom,

  The wind blew like the blast o’ doom,

  The rain upo’ the roof abune

  Played Peter Dick -

  Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room

  Your teeth to pick!

  But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you,

  The ling-lang lanely winter through,

  Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true

  To lore Horatian,

  We aye the ither bottle drew

  To inclination.

  Sae let us in the comin’ days

  Stand sicker on our auncient ways -

  The strauchtest road in a’ the maze

  Since Eve ate apples;

  An’ let the winter weet our cla’es -

  We’ll weet oor thrapples.

  Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN

  [EDINBURGH, AUTUMN 1875.]

  MY DEAR COLVIN, - FOUS NE ME GOMBRENNEZ PAS. Angry with you? No. Is the thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer in the world. The world can ill spare it, but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow boson, so that it resounds) I am full of this sort of bauble; I am made of it; it comes to me, sir, as the desire to sneeze comes upon poor ordinary devils on cold days, when they should be getting out of bed and into their horrid cold tubs by the light of a seven o’clock candle, with the dismal seven o’clock frost-flowers all over the window.

  Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me money, you would oblige, sincerely yours,

  R. L. S.

  I have a scroll of SPRINGTIME somewhere, but I know that it is not in very good order, and do not feel myself up to very much grind over it. I am damped about SPRINGTIME, that’s the truth of it. It might have been four or five quid!

  Sir, I shall shave my head, if this goes on. All men take a pleasure to gird at me. The laws of nature are in open war with me. The wheel of a dog-cart took the toes off my new boots. Gout has set in with extreme rigour, and cut me out of the cheap refreshment of beer. I leant my back against an oak, I thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bent, and syne - it lost the Spirit of Springtime, and so did Professor Sidney Colvin, Trinity College, to me. - Ever yours,

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

  Along with this, I send you some P.P.P’s; if you lose them, you need not seek to look upon my face again. Do, for God’s sake, answer me about them also; it is a horrid thing for a fond architect to find his monuments received in silence. - Yours,

  R. L. S.

  Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL

  [EDINBURGH, NOVEMBER 12, 1875.]

  MY DEAR FRIEND, - Since I got your letter I have been able to do a little more work, and I have been much better contented with myself; but I can’t get away, that is absolutely prevented by the state of my purse and my debts, which, I may say, are red like crimson. I don’t know how I am to clear my hands of them, nor when, not before Christmas anyway. Yesterday I was twenty-five; so please wish me many happy returns - directly. This one was not UNhappy anyway. I have got back a good deal into my old random, little-thought way of life, and do not care whether I read, write, speak, or walk, so long as I do something. I have a great delight in this wheel-skating; I have made great advance in it of late, can do a good many amusing things (I mean amusing in MY sense - amusing to do). You know, I lose all my forenoons at Court! So it is, but the time passes; it is a great pleasure to sit and hear cases argued or advised. This is quite autobiographical, but I feel as if it was some time since we met, and I can tell you, I am glad to meet you again. In every way, you see, but that of work the world goes well with me. My health is better than ever it was before; I get on without any jar, nay, as if there never had been a jar, with my parents. If it weren’
t about that work, I’d be happy. But the fact is, I don’t think - the fact is, I’m going to trust in Providence about work. If I could get one or two pieces I hate out of my way all would be well, I think; but these obstacles disgust me, and as I know I ought to do them first, I don’t do anything. I must finish this off, or I’ll just lose another day. I’ll try to write again soon. - Ever your faithful friend,

  R. L. S.

  Letter: TO MRS. DE MATTOS

  EDINBURGH, JANUARY 1876.

  MY DEAR KATHARINE, - The prisoner reserved his defence. He has been seedy, however; principally sick of the family evil, despondency; the sun is gone out utterly; and the breath of the people of this city lies about as a sort of damp, unwholesome fog, in which we go walking with bowed hearts. If I understand what is a contrite spirit, I have one; it is to feel that you are a small jar, or rather, as I feel myself, a very large jar, of pottery work rather MAL REUSSI, and to make every allowance for the potter (I beg pardon; Potter with a capital P.) on his ill-success, and rather wish he would reduce you as soon as possible to potsherds. However, there are many things to do yet before we go

  GROSSIR LA PATE UNIVERSELLE FAITE DES FORMES QUE DIEU FOND.

  For instance, I have never been in a revolution yet. I pray God I may be in one at the end, if I am to make a mucker. The best way to make a mucker is to have your back set against a wall and a few lead pellets whiffed into you in a moment, while yet you are all in a heat and a fury of combat, with drums sounding on all sides, and people crying, and a general smash like the infernal orchestration at the end of the HUGUENOTS. . . .