Chapter IV
. Like enough, when it is finished I shall discard all chapterings; for the thing is written straight through. It must, unhappily, be re-written--too well written not to be.
The chair is only three months in summer; that is why I try for it. If I get it, which I shall not, I should be independent at once. Sweet thought. I liked your Byron well; your Berlioz better. No one would remark these cuts; even I, who was looking for it, knew it not at all to be a torso. The paper strengthens me in my recommendation to you to follow Colvin's hint. Give us an 1830; you will do it well, and the subject smiles widely on the world:--
1830: _A Chapter of Artistic History_, by William Ernest Henley (or _of Social and Artistic History_, as the thing might grow to you). Sir, you might be in the Athenæum yet with that; and, believe me, you might and would be far better, the author of a readable book.--Yours ever,
R. L. S.
The following names have been invented for Wogg by his dear papa:--
Grunty-pig (when he is scratched),
Rose-mouth (when he comes flying up with his rose-leaf tongue depending), and
Hoofen-boots (when he has had his foots wet).
How would _Tales for Winter Nights_ do?
TO W. E. HENLEY
The spell of good health did not last long, and with a break of the weather came a return of catarrhal troubles and hemorrhage. This letter answers some criticisms made by his correspondent on _The Merry Men_ as drafted in MS.
_Pitlochry, if you please [August], 1881._
DEAR HENLEY,--To answer a point or two. First, the Spanish ship was sloop-rigged and clumsy, because she was fitted out by some private adventurers, not over wealthy, and glad to take what they could get. Is that not right? Tell me if you think not. That, at least, was how I meant it. As for the boat-cloaks, I am afraid they are, as you say, false imagination; but I love the name, nature, and being of them so dearly, that I feel as if I would almost rather ruin a story than omit the reference. The proudest moments of my life have been passed in the stern-sheets of a boat with that romantic garment over my shoulders. This, without prejudice to one glorious day when standing upon some water stairs at Lerwick I signalled with my pocket-handkerchief for a boat to come ashore for me. I was then aged fifteen or sixteen; conceive my glory.
Several of the phrases you object to are proper nautical, or long-shore phrases, and therefore, I think, not out of place in this long-shore story. As for the two members which you thought at first so ill-united; I confess they seem perfectly so to me. I have chosen to sacrifice a long-projected story of adventure because the sentiment of that is identical with the sentiment of "My uncle." My uncle himself is not the story as I see it, only the leading episode of that story. It's really a story of wrecks, as they appear to the dweller on the coast. It's a view of the sea. Goodness knows when I shall be able to re-write; I must first get over this copper-headed cold.
R. L. S.
TO SIDNEY COLVIN
The reference to Landor in the following is to a volume of mine in Macmillan's series _English Men of Letters_. This and the next two or three years were those of the Fenian dynamite outrages at the Tower of London, the House of Lords, etc.
[_Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, August 1881._]
MY DEAR COLVIN,--This is the first letter I have written this good while. I have had a brutal cold, not perhaps very wisely treated; lots of blood--for me, I mean. I was so well, however, before, that I seem to be sailing through with it splendidly. My appetite never failed; indeed, as I got worse, it sharpened--a sort of reparatory instinct. Now I feel in a fair way to get round soon.
_Monday, August_ (_2nd_, is it?).--We set out for the Spital of Glenshee, and reach Braemar on Tuesday. The Braemar address we cannot learn; it looks as if "Braemar" were all that was necessary; if
## particular, you can address 17 Heriot Row. We shall be delighted to see
you whenever, and as soon as ever, you can make it possible.
... I hope heartily you will survive me, and do not doubt it. There are seven or eight people it is no part of my scheme in life to survive--yet if I could but heal me of my bellowses, I could have a jolly life--have it, even now, when I can work and stroll a little, as I have been doing till this cold. I have so many things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that other one thing--health. But though you will be angry to hear it, I believe, for myself at least, what is is best. I believed it all through my worst days, and I am not ashamed to profess it now.
Landor has just turned up; but I had read him already. I like him extremely; I wonder if the "cuts" were perhaps not advantageous. It seems quite full enough; but then you know I am a compressionist.
If I am to criticise, it is a little staid; but the classical is apt to look so. It is in curious contrast to that inexpressive, unplanned wilderness of Forster's; clear, readable, precise, and sufficiently human. I see nothing lost in it, though I could have wished, in my Scotch capacity, a trifle clearer and fuller exposition of his moral attitude, which is not quite clear "from here."
He and his tyrannicide! I am in a mad fury about these explosions. If that is the new world! Damn O'Donovan Rossa; damn him behind and before, above, below, and roundabout; damn, deracinate, and destroy him, root and branch, self and company, world without end. Amen. I write that for sport if you like, but I will pray in earnest, O Lord, if you cannot convert, kindly delete him!
Stories naturally at halt. Henley has seen one and approves. I believe it to be good myself, even real good. He has also seen and approved one of Fanny's. It will make a good volume. We have now
Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day. The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny's copying). The Merry Men (scrolled). The Body Snatchers (scrolled).
_In germis_
The Travelling Companion. The Torn Surplice (_not final title_).
Yours ever,
R. L. S.
TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP
Dr. Japp (known in literature at this date and for some time afterwards under his pseudonym H. A. Page; later under his own name the biographer of De Quincey) had written to R. L. S. criticising statements of fact and opinion in his essay on Thoreau, and expressing the hope that they might meet and discuss their differences. In the interval between the last letter and this Stevenson with all his family had moved to Braemar.
_The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, Sunday [August 1881]._
MY DEAR SIR,--I should long ago have written to thank you for your kind and frank letter; but in my state of health papers are apt to get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this (Sunday) morning.
I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh; one visit to Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in that invaluable particular health; but if it should be at all possible for you to push on as far as Braemar, I believe you would find an attentive listener, and I can offer you a bed, a drive, and necessary food, etc.
If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, I can promise you two things: First, I shall religiously revise what I have written, and bring out more clearly the point of view from which I regarded Thoreau; second, I shall in the Preface record your objection.
The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such short paper is essentially only a _section through_ a man) was this: I desired to look at the man through his books. Thus, for instance, when I mentioned his return to the pencil-making, I did it only in passing (perhaps I was wrong), because it seemed to me not an illustration of his principles, but a brave departure from them. Thousands of such there were I do not doubt; still, they might be hardly to my purpose, though, as you say so, some of them would be.
Our difference as to pity I suspect was a logomachy of my making. No pitiful acts on his part would surprise me; I know he would be more pitiful in practice than most of the whiners; but the spirit of that practice would still seem to be unjustly described by the word pity.
When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected of a sneaking unkindness for my subject; but you may be sure, sir, I would give up most other things to be so good a man as Thoreau. Even my knowledge of him leads me thus far.
Should you find yourself able to push on to Braemar--it may even be on your way--believe me, your visit will be most welcome. The weather is cruel, but the place is, as I dare say you know, the very "wale" of Scotland--bar Tummelside.--Yours very sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO MRS. SITWELL
_The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, [August 1881]._
... Well, I have been pretty mean, but I have not yet got over my cold so completely as to have recovered much energy. It is really extraordinary that I should have recovered as well as I have in this blighting weather; the wind pipes, the rain comes in squalls, great black clouds are continually overhead, and it is as cold as March. The country is delightful, more cannot be said; it is very beautiful, a perfect joy when we get a blink of sun to see it in. The Queen knows a thing or two, I perceive; she has picked out the finest habitable spot in Britain.
I have done no work, and scarce written a letter for three weeks, but I think I should soon begin again; my cough is now very trifling. I eat well, and seem to have lost but little flesh in the meanwhile. I was _wonderfully_ well before I caught this horrid cold. I never thought I should have been as well again; I really enjoyed life and work; and, of course, I now have a good hope that this may return.
I suppose you heard of our ghost stories. They are somewhat delayed by my cold and a bad attack of laziness, embroidery, etc., under which Fanny had been some time prostrate. It is horrid that we can get no better weather. I did not get such good accounts of you as might have been. You must imitate me. I am now one of the most conscientious people at trying to get better you ever saw. I have a white hat, it is much admired; also a plaid, and a heavy stoop; so I take my walks abroad, witching the world.
Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under the blow.--Ever your faithful friend,
R. L. S.
TO EDMUND GOSSE
_The Cottage (late the late Miss M'Gregor's), Castleton of Braemar, August 10, 1881._
MY DEAR GOSSE,--Come on the 24th, there is a dear fellow. Everybody else wants to come later, and it will be a godsend for, sir--Yours sincerely.
You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, sir--Your obedient, humble servant.
We have family worship in the home of, sir--Yours respectfully.
Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also see) the maps of, sir--Yours in the Lord.
A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of two before the house of, sir--Yours truly.
The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the late Miss Macgregor and of, sir--Yours affectionately.
It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know the halls of, sir--Yours emphatically.
All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir--Yours ever.
You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual collapse of, sir--Yours indeed.
And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir--Yours,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
_N.B._--Each of these clauses has to be read with extreme glibness, coming down whack upon the "Sir." This is very important. The fine stylistic inspiration will else be lost.
I commit the man who made, the man who sold, and the woman who supplied me with my present excruciating gilt nib to that place where the worm never dies.
The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending as it does to foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from the address, which would therefore run--The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar.
TO EDMUND GOSSE
_The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, August 19, 1881._
If you had an uncle who was a sea captain and went to the North Pole, you had better bring his outfit. _Verbum Sapientibus._ I look towards you.
R. L. STEVENSON.
TO EDMUND GOSSE
[_Braemar, August 19, 1881._]
MY DEAR WEG,--I have by an extraordinary drollery of Fortune sent off to you by this day's post a P.C. inviting you to appear in sealskin. But this had reference to the weather, and not at all, as you may have been led to fancy, to our rustic raiment of an evening.
As to that question, I would deal, in so far as in me lies, fairly with all men. We are not dressy people by nature; but it sometimes occurs to us to entertain angels. In the country, I believe, even angels may be decently welcomed in tweed; I have faced many great personages, for my own part, in a tasteful suit of sea-cloth with an end of carpet pending from my gullet. Still, we do maybe twice a summer burst out in the direction of blacks--and yet we do it seldom. In short, let your own heart decide, and the capacity of your portmanteau. If you came in camel's hair, you would still, although conspicuous, be welcome.
The sooner the better after Tuesday.--Yours ever,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO W. E. HENLEY
The following records the beginning of work upon _Treasure Island_, the name originally proposed for which was _The Sea Cook_:--
[_Braemar, August 25, 1881._]
MY DEAR HENLEY,--Of course I am a rogue. Why, Lord, it's known, man; but you should remember I have had a horrid cold. Now, I'm better, I think; and see here--nobody, not you, nor Lang, nor the devil, will hurry me with our crawlers. They are coming. Four of them are as good as done, and the rest will come when ripe; but I am now on another lay for the moment, purely owing to Lloyd, this one; but I believe there's more coin in it than in any amount of crawlers: now, see here, _The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Story for Boys_.
If this don't fetch the kids, why, they have gone rotten since my day. Will you be surprised to learn that it is about Buccaneers, that it begins in the "Admiral Benbow" public-house on Devon coast, that it's all about a map, and a treasure, and a mutiny, and a derelict ship, and a current, and a fine old Squire Trelawney (the real Tre, purged of literature and sin, to suit the infant mind), and a doctor, and another doctor, and a sea cook with one leg, and a sea-song with the chorus "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" (at the third Ho you heave at the capstan bars), which is a real buccaneer's song, only known to the crew of the late Captain Flint (died of rum at Key West, much regretted, friends will please accept this intimation); and lastly, would you be surprised to hear, in this connection, the name of _Routledge_? That's the kind of man I am, blast your eyes. Two chapters are written, and have been tried on Lloyd with great success; the trouble is to work it off without oaths. Buccaneers without oaths--bricks without straw. But youth and the fond parent have to be consulted.
And now look here--this is next day--and three chapters are written and read. ( Chapter I . The Old Sea-dog at the "Admiral Benbow." Chapter II . Black Dog appears and disappears.