Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (928 page)
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Authors: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
At Pitlochry Stevenson was for a while able to enjoy his life and to work well, writing two of the strongest of his short stories of Scottish life and superstition,
Thrawn Janet
and
The Merry Men
, originally designed to form part of a volume to be written by himself and his wife in collaboration. At Braemar he made a beginning of the nursery verses which afterwards grew into the volume called
The Child’s Garden
, and conceived and half executed the fortunate project of
Treasure Island
, the book which was destined first to make him famous. But one of the 283 most inclement of Scottish summers had before long undone all the good gained in the previous winter at Davos, and in the autumn of the year 1881 he repaired thither again.
This time his quarters were in a small chalet belonging to the proprietors of the Buol Hotel, the Chalet am Stein, or Chalet Buol, in the near neighbourhood of the Symonds’s house. The beginning of his second stay was darkened by the serious illness of his wife; nevertheless the winter was one of much greater literary activity than the last. A Life of Hazlitt was projected, and studies were made for it, but for various reasons the project was never carried out.
Treasure Island
was finished; the greater part of the
Silverado Squatters
written; so were the essays
Talk and Talkers
,
A Gossip on Romance
, and several other of his best papers for magazines. By way of whim and pastime he occupied himself, to his own and his stepson’s delight, with a little set of woodcuts and verses printed by the latter at his toy press — ”The Davos Press,” as they called it — as well as with mimic campaigns carried on between the man and boy with armies of lead soldiers in the spacious loft which filled the upper floor of the chalet. For the first and almost the only time in his life there awoke in him during these winters in Davos the spirit of lampoon; and he poured forth sets of verses, not without touches of a Swiftean fire, against commercial frauds in general, and those of certain local tradesmen in particular, as well as others in memory of a defunct publican of Edinburgh who had been one of his butts in youth (
Casparidea
and
Brashiana
, both unpublished: see p, 15, 38 in vol. 24 of the present edition). Finally, much revived in health by the beneficent air of the Alpine valley, he left it again in mid-spring of 1882, to return 284 once more to Scotland, and to be once more thrown back to, or below, the point whence he had started. After a short excursion from Edinburgh into the Appin country, where he made inquiries on the spot into the traditions concerning the murder of Campbell of Glenure, his three resting-places in Scotland during this summer were Stobo Manse near Peebles, Lochearnhead, and Kingussie. At Stobo the dampness of the season and the place quickly threw him again into a very low state of health, from which three subsequent weeks of brilliant sunshine in Speyside did but little to restore him. In spite of this renewed breakdown, when autumn came he would not face the idea of returning for a third season to Davos. He had himself felt deeply the austerity and monotony of the white Alpine world in winter; and though he had unquestionably gained in health there, his wife on her part had suffered much. So he made up his mind once again to try the Mediterranean coast of France, and Davos knew him no more.
To Sidney Colvin
I forget what were the two sets of verses (apparently satirical) here mentioned. The volume of essays must be
Virginibus Puerisque
, published the following spring; but it is dedicated in prose to W. E. Henley.
Ben Wyvis Hotel, Strathpeffer
[
July 1880
].
MY DEAR COLVIN, — One or two words. We are here: all goes exceeding well with the wife and with the parents. Near here is a valley; birch woods, heather, and a stream; I have lain down and died; no country, no place, was ever for a moment so delightful to my soul. And I have been a Scotchman all my life, and denied my native land! Away with your gardens of roses, indeed! 285 Give me the cool breath of Rogie waterfall, henceforth and for ever, world without end.
I enclose two poems of, I think, a high order. One is my dedication for my essays; it was occasioned by that delicious article in the Spectator. The other requires no explanation; c’est tout bonnement un petit chef d’œuvre de grâce, de délicatesse, et de bon sens humanitaire. Celui qui ne s’en sent pas touché jusqu’aux larmes — celui-là n’a pas vécu. I wish both poems back, as I am copyless: but they might return
via
Henley.
My father desires me still to withdraw the
Emigrant
. Whatever may be the pecuniary loss, he is willing to bear it; and the gain to my reputation will be considerable.
I am writing against time and the post runner. But you know what kind messages we both send to you. May you have as good a time as possible so far from Rogie!
R. L. S.
To Charles Baxter
A further stay at Strathpeffer led to disenchantment, not with outdoor nature but with human nature as there represented, and he relieves his feelings as follows: —
Ben Wyvis Hotel, Strathpeffer, July 1880.
MY DEAR CHERLS, — I am well but have a little over-tired myself which is disgusting. This is a heathenish place near delightful places, but inhabited, alas! by a wholly bestial crowd.
ON SOME GHOSTLY COMPANIONS AT A SPA
I had an evil day when I To Strathpeffer drew anigh, For there I found no human soul, But Ogres occupied the whole. They had at first a human air In coats and flannel underwear. They rose and walked upon their feet And filled their bellies full of meat, Then wiped their lips when they had done — But they were ogres every one. Each issuing from his secret bower I marked them in the morning hour. By limp and totter, list and droop, I singled each one from the group. Detected ogres, from my sight Depart to your congenial night From these fair vales: from this fair day Fleet, spectres, on your downward way, Like changing figures in a dream To Muttonhole and Pittenweem! Or, as by harmony divine The devils quartered in the swine, If any baser place exist In God’s great registration list — Some den with wallow and a trough — Find it, ye ogres, and be off! |
Yours, R. L. S.
To Isobel Strong
Further letters from Scotland during these months are lacking. The next was written, in answer to an inquiry from his stepdaughter at San Francisco, on the second day after his arrival at Davos.
Hotel Belvedere, Davos, November 1880.
No my che-ild — not Kamschatka this trip, only the top of the Alps, or thereby; up in a little valley in a wilderness of snowy mountains; the Rhine not far from us, quite a little highland river; eternal snow-peaks on every hand. Yes; just this once I should like to go to the Vienna gardens with the family and hear Tweedledee and drink something and see Germans — though God knows we have seen Germans enough this while back. Naturally some in the Customs House on the Alsatian frontier, who would have made one die from laughing in 287 a theatre, and provoked a smile from us even in that dismal juncture. To see them, big, blond, sham-Englishmen, but with an unqualifiable air of not quite fighting the sham through, diving into old women’s bags and going into paroxysms of arithmetic in white chalk, three or four of them (in full uniform) in full cry upon a single sum, with their brows bent and a kind of arithmetical agony upon their mugs. Madam, the diversion of cock-fighting has been much commended, but it was not a circumstance to that Custom House. They only opened one of our things: a basket. But when they met from within the intelligent gaze of
Woggs
, they all lay down and died. Woggs is a fine dog....
God bless you! May coins fall into your coffee and the finest wines and wittles lie smilingly about your path, with a kind of dissolving view of fine scenery by way of background; and may all speak well of you — and me too for that matter — and generally all things be ordered unto you totally regardless of expense and with a view to nothing in the world but enjoyment, edification, and a portly and honoured age. — Your dear papa,
R. L. S.
To A. G. Dew-Smith
This, from the same place and about the same date, is addressed by way of thanks to a friend at Cambridge, the late Mr. A. G. Dew-Smith, who had sent him a present of a box of cigarettes. Mr. Dew-Smith, a man of fine artistic tastes and mechanical genius, with a silken, somewhat foreign, urbanity of bearing, was the original, so far as concerns manner and way of speech, of Attwater in the
Ebb-Tide
.
[
Hotel Belvedere, Davos, November 1880
].
Figure me to yourself, I pray — A man of my peculiar cut — Apart from dancing and deray, Into an Alpine valley shut; Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, Discountenanced by God and man; The food? — Sir, you would do as well To cram your belly full of bran. The company? Alas, the day That I should dwell with such a crew, With devil anything to say, Nor any one to say it to! The place? Although they call it Platz, I will be bold and state my view; It’s not a place at all — and that’s The bottom verity, my Dew. There are, as I will not deny, Innumerable inns; a road; Several Alps indifferent high; The snow’s inviolable abode; Eleven English parsons, all Entirely inoffensive; four True human beings — what I call Human — the deuce a cipher more; A climate of surprising worth; Innumerable dogs that bark; Some air, some weather, and some earth; A native race — God save the mark! — A race that works, yet cannot work, Yodels, but cannot yodel right, Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk, I vow that I could wholly smite. A river that from morn to night Down all the valley plays the fool; Not once she pauses in her flight, Nor knows the comfort of a pool; But still keeps up, by straight or bend, The selfsame pace she hath begun — Still hurry, hurry, to the end — Good God, is that the way to run? If I a river were, I hope That I should better realise The opportunities and scope Of that romantic enterprise. I should not ape the merely strange, But aim besides at the divine; And continuity and change I still should labour to combine. Here should I gallop down the race, Here charge the sterling like a bull; There, as a man might wipe his face, Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool. But what, my Dew, in idle mood, What prate I, minding not my debt? What do I talk of bad or good? The best is still a cigarette. Me whether evil fate assault, Or smiling providences crown — Whether on high the eternal vault Be blue, or crash with thunder down — I judge the best, whate’er befall, Is still to sit on one’s behind, And, having duly moistened all, Smoke with an unperturbed mind. |
R. L. S.
To Thomas Stevenson
R. L. S. here sketches for his father the plan of the work on Highland history which they had discussed together in the preceding summer, and which Principal Tulloch had urged him to attempt.
Hotel Belvedere, Davos
[
December 12, 1880
].
MY DEAR FATHER, — Here is the scheme as well as I can foresee. I begin the book immediately after the ‘15, as then began the attempt to suppress the Highlands.
I. Thirty Years’ Interval
(1) Rob Roy.
(2) The Independent Companies: the Watches.
(3) Story of Lady Grange.
(4) The Military Roads, and Disarmament: Wadeand
(5) Burt.
II. The Heroic Age
(1) Duncan Forbes of Culloden.
(2) Flora Macdonald.
(3) The Forfeited Estates; including Hereditary Jurisdictions; and the admirable conduct of the tenants.
III. Literature here intervenes
(1) The Ossianic Controversy.
(2) Boswell and Johnson.
(3) Mrs. Grant of Laggan.
IV. Economy
(1) Highland Economics.
(2) The Reinstatement of the Proprietors.
(3) The Evictions.
(4) Emigration.
(5) Present State.
V. Religion
(1) The Catholics, Episcopals, and Kirk, and Soc. Prop. Christ. Knowledge.
(2) The Men.
(3) The Disruption.
All this, of course, will greatly change in form, scope, and order; this is just a bird’s-eye glance. Thank you for
Burt
, which came, and for your Union notes. I have read one-half (about 900 pages) of Wodrow’s
Correspondence
, with some improvement, but great fatigue. The doctor thinks well of my recovery, which puts me in good hope for the future. I should certainly be able to make a fine history of this.
My Essays are going through the press, and should be out in January or February. — Ever affectionate son,
R. L. S.
To Sidney Colvin
[
Hotel Belvedere, Davos, December 1880
]
MY DEAR COLVIN, — I feel better, but variable. I see from the doctor’s report that I have more actual disease than I supposed; but there seems little doubt of my recovery. I like the place and shall like it much better when you come at Christmas. That is written on my heart: S. C. comes at Christmas: so if you play me false, I shall have a lie upon my conscience. I like Symonds very well, though he is much, I think, of an invalid in mind and character. But his mind is interesting, with 292 many beautiful corners, and his consumptive smile very winning to see. We have had some good talks; one went over Zola, Balzac, Flaubert, Whitman, Christ, Handel, Milton, Sir Thomas Browne; do you see the
liaison
? — in another, I, the Bohnist, the un-Grecian, was the means of his conversion in the matter of the Ajax. It is truly not for nothing that I have read my Buckley.
