Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (946 page)

A word, Guardian Angel. You are much loved in this house, not by me only, but by the wife. The Wogg himself is anxious. — Ever yours affectionately,

R. L. S.

To Sidney Colvin

La Solitude, Hyères
[
November
1883].

MY DEAR COLVIN, — I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no shame. I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self-righteous spirit.

I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy’s ear.

I suppose you heard of Ferrier’s death: my oldest friend, except Bob. It has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am strangely concerned about it.

My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world — nest there like mavises.

Here lies

The carcase

of

Robert Louis Stevenson,

An active, austere, and not inelegant

writer,

who,

at the termination of a long career,

wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by

the attention of two hemispheres,

yet owned it to have been his crowning favour

TO INHABIT

LA SOLITUDE.

(with the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyères, he has been interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden which he honoured for so long with his poetic presence.)

I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. Write.

R. L. S.

To Mrs. Milne

This is to a cousin who had been one of his favourite playmates in childhood, and had recognised some allusions in the proof slips of the
Child’s Garden
(the piece called
A Pirate Story
).

La Solitude, Hyères
[
November
1883].

MY DEAR HENRIETTA, — Certainly; who else would they be? More by token, on that particular occasion, you were sailing under the title of Princess Royal; I, after a furious contest, under that of Prince Alfred; and Willie, still a little sulky, as the Prince of Wales. We were all in a buck basket about half-way between the swing and the gate; and I can still see the Pirate Squadron heave in sight upon the weather bow.

I wrote a piece besides on Giant Bunker; but I was not happily inspired, and it is condemned. Perhaps I’ll try again; he was a horrid fellow, Giant Bunker! and some of my happiest hours were passed in pursuit of him. You were a capital fellow to play: how few there were who could! None better than yourself. I shall never forget some of the days at Bridge of Allan; they were one golden dream. See “A Good Boy” in the
Penny Whistles
, much of the sentiment of which is taken direct from one evening at B. of A. when we had had a great play with the little Glasgow girl. Hallowed be that fat book of fairy tales! Do you remember acting the Fair One with Golden Locks? What a romantic drama! Generally speaking, whenever I think of play, it is pretty certain that you will come into my head. I wrote a paper called
Child’s Play
once, where, I believe, you or Willie would recognise things....

Surely Willie is just the man to marry; and if his wife wasn’t a happy woman, I think I could tell her who was to blame. Is there no word of it? Well, these things are beyond arrangement; and the wind bloweth where it listeth — which, I observe, is generally towards the west in Scotland. Here it prefers a south-easterly course, and is 71 called the Mistral — usually with an adjective in front. But if you will remember my yesterday’s toothache and this morning’s crick, you will be in a position to choose an adjective for yourself. Not that the wind is unhealthy; only when it comes strong, it is both very high and very cold, which makes it the d-v-l. But as I am writing to a lady, I had better avoid this topic; winds requiring a great scope of language.

Please remember me to all at home; give Ramsay a pennyworth of acidulated drops for his good taste. — And believe me, your affectionate cousin,

Robert Louis Stevenson.

To Miss Ferrier

La Solitude, Hyères
[
November
22, 1883].

DEAR MISS FERRIER, — Many thanks for the photograph. It is — well, it is like most photographs. The sun is an artist of too much renown; and, at any rate, we who knew Walter “in the brave days of old” will be difficult to please.

I was inexpressibly touched to get a letter from some lawyers as to some money. I have never had any account with my friends; some have gained and some lost; and I should feel there was something dishonest in a partial liquidation even if I could recollect the facts,
which I cannot
. But the fact of his having put aside this memorandum touched me greatly.

The mystery of his life is great. Our chemist in this place, who had been at Malvern, recognised the picture. You may remember Walter had a romantic affection for all pharmacies? and the bottles in the window were for him a poem? He said once that he knew no pleasure like driving through a lamplit city, waiting for the chemists to go by.

All these things return now.

He had a pretty full translation of Schiller’s
Æsthetic Letters
, which we read together, as well as the second part of
Faust
, in Gladstone Terrace, he helping me with the 72 German. There is no keepsake I should more value than the MS. of that translation. They were the best days I ever had with him, little dreaming all would so soon be over. It needs a blow like this to convict a man of mortality and its burthen. I always thought I should go by myself; not to survive. But now I feel as if the earth were undermined, and all my friends have lost one thickness of reality since that one passed. Those are happy who can take it otherwise; with that I found things all beginning to dislimn. Here we have no abiding city, and one felt as though he had — and O too much acted.

But if you tell me, he did not feel my silence. However, he must have done so; and my guilt is irreparable now. I thank God at least heartily that he did not resent it.

Please remember me to Sir Alexander and Lady Grant, to whose care I will address this. When next I am in Edinburgh I will take flowers, alas! to the West Kirk. Many a long hour we passed in graveyards, the man who has gone and I — or rather not that man — but the beautiful, genial, witty youth who so betrayed him. — Dear Miss Ferrier, I am yours most sincerely,

Robert Louis Stevenson.

To W. E. Henley

This refers to some dispute which had arisen with an editor (I forget whom) concerning the refusal of an article on Salvini. The nickname “Fastidious Brisk,” from Ben Jonson’s
Every Man out of his Humour
, was applied by Mr. Henley to Stevenson — very inappropriately as I always thought.

La Solitude, Hyères, Autumn
1883.

MY DEAR LAD, — You know your own business best; but I wish your honesty were not so warfaring. These conflicts pain Lucretian sitters on the shore; and one wonders — one wonders — wonders and whimpers. I do not say my attitude is noble; but is yours conciliatory? I revere Salvini, but I shall never see him — nor anybody — play again. That is all a matter of history, heroic history, 73 to me. Were I in London, I should be the liker Tantalus — no more. But as for these quarrels: in not many years shall we not all be clay-cold and safe below ground, you with your loud-mouthed integrity, I with my fastidious briskness — and — with all their faults and merits, swallowed in silence. It seems to me, in ignorance of cause, that when the dustman has gone by, these quarrellings will prick the conscience. Am I wrong? I am a great sinner; so, my brave friend, are you; the others also. Let us a little imitate the divine patience and the divine sense of humour, and smilingly tolerate those faults and virtues that have so brief a period and so intertwined a being.

I fear I was born a parson; but I live very near upon the margin (though, by your leave, I may outlive you all!), and too much rigour in these daily things sounds to me like clatter on the kitchen dishes. If it might be — could it not be smoothed? This very day my father writes me he has gone to see, upon his deathbed, an old friend to whom for years he has not spoken or written. On his deathbed; no picking up of the lost stitches; merely to say: my little fury, my spotted uprightness, after having split our lives, have not a word of quarrel to say more. And the same post brings me the news of another — War! Things in this troubled medium are not so clear, dear Henley; there are faults upon all hands; and the end comes, and Ferrier’s grave gapes for us all.

The Prosy Preacher

(But written in deep dejection, my dear man).

Suppose they
are
wrong? Well, am I not tolerated, are you not tolerated? — we and
our
faults?

To W. H. Low

La Solitude, Hyères, Var, 13th December
1883.

MY DEAR LOW, — ... I was much pleased with what you said about my work. Ill-health is a great handicapper 74 in the race. I have never at command that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a thing red-hot.
Silverado
is an example of stuff worried and pawed about, God knows how often, in poor health, and you can see for yourself the result: good pages, an imperfect fusion, a certain languor of the whole. Not, in short, art. I have told Roberts to send you a copy of the book when it appears, where there are some fair passages that will be new to you. My brief romance,
Prince Otto
— far my most difficult adventure up to now — is near an end. I have still one chapter to write
de fond en comble
, and three or four to strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I do not know if I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; but I am tempted to hope the first. If the present bargain hold, it will not see the light of day for some thirteen months. Then I shall be glad to know how it strikes you. There is a good deal of stuff in it, both dramatic and, I think, poetic; and the story is not like these purposeless fables of to-day, but is, at least, intended to stand firm upon a base of philosophy — or morals — as you please. It has been long gestated, and is wrought with care.
Enfin, nous verrons.
My labours have this year for the first time been rewarded with upwards of £350; that of itself, so base we are! encourages me; and the better tenor of my health yet more. — Remember me to Mrs. Low, and believe me, yours most sincerely,

Robert Louis Stevenson.

To Thomas Stevenson

La Solitude, December
20, 1883.

MY DEAR FATHER, — I do not know which of us is to blame; I suspect it is you this time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I was pleased to see; I am, on the whole, very well — suffering a little still from my fever and liver complications, but better.

I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you above all things
not
to read, as it has made me very ill, and would make you worse — Lockhart’s
Scott
. It is worth reading, as all things are from time to time that keep us nose to nose with fact; though I think such reading may be abused, and that a great deal of life is better spent in reading of a light and yet chivalrous strain. Thus, no Waverley novel approaches in power, blackness, bitterness, and moral elevation to the diary and Lockhart’s narrative of the end; and yet the Waverley novels are better reading for every day than the Life. You may take a tonic daily, but not phlebotomy.

The great double danger of taking life too easily, and taking it too hard, how difficult it is to balance that! But we are all too little inclined to faith; we are all, in our serious moments, too much inclined to forget that all are sinners, and fall justly by their faults, and therefore that we have no more to do with that than with the thundercloud; only to trust, and do our best, and wear as smiling a face as may be for others and ourselves. But there is no royal road among this complicated business. Hegel the German got the best word of all philosophy with his antinomies: the contrary of everything is its postulate. That is, of course, grossly expressed, but gives a hint of the idea, which contains a great deal of the mysteries of religion, and a vast amount of the practical wisdom of life. For your part, there is no doubt as to your duty — to take things easy and be as happy as you can, for your sake, and my mother’s, and that of many besides. Excuse this sermon. — Ever your loving son,

R. L. S.

To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson

La Solitude, December
25, 1883.

MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, — This it is supposed will reach you about Christmas, and I believe I should 76 include Lloyd in the greeting. But I want to lecture my father; he is not grateful enough; he is like Fanny; his resignation is not the “true blue.” A man who has gained a stone; whose son is better, and, after so many fears to the contrary, I dare to say, a credit to him; whose business is arranged; whose marriage is a picture — what I should call resignation in such a case as his would be to “take down his fiddle and play as lood as ever he could.” That and nought else. And now, you dear old pious ingrate, on this Christmas morning, think what your mercies have been; and do not walk too far before your breakfast — as far as to the top of India Street, then to the top of Dundas Street, and then to your ain stair heid; and do not forget that even as
laborare
, so
joculari
,
est orare
; and to be happy the first step to being pious.

I have as good as finished my novel, and a hard job it has been — but now practically over,
laus deo
! My financial prospects better than ever before; my excellent wife a touch dolorous, like Mr. Tommy; my Bogue quite converted, and myself in good spirits. O, send Curry Powder per Baxter.

R. L. S.

To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson

[
La Solitude, Hyères
]
last Sunday of
‘83.

MY DEAR MOTHER, — I give my father up. I give him a parable: that the Waverley novels are better reading for every day than the tragic Life. And he takes it backside foremost, and shakes his head, and is gloomier than ever. Tell him that I give him up. I don’t want no such a parent. This is not the man for my money. I do not call that by the name of religion which fills a man with bile. I write him a whole letter, bidding him beware of extremes, and telling him that his gloom is gallows-worthy; and I get back an answer — Perish the thought of it.