Chapter I (5)

First Objection: It will do no good; you have seen Gordon die, and nobody minded; nobody will mind if you die. This is plainly of the devil. Second Objection: You will not even be murdered, the climate will miserably kill you, you will strangle out in a rotten damp heat, in congestion, etc. Well, what then? It changes nothing: the purpose is to brave crime; let me brave it, for such time and to such an extent as God allows. Third Objection: The Curtin women are probably highly uninteresting females. I haven't a doubt of it. But the Government cannot, men will not, protect them. If I am the only one to see this public duty, it is to the public and the Right I should perform it--not to Mesdames Curtin. Fourth Objection: I am married. "I have married a wife!" I seem to have heard it before. It smells ancient! what was the context? Fifth Objection: My wife has had a mean life (1), loves me (2), could not bear to lose me (3). (1) I admit: I am sorry. (2) But what does she love me for? and (3) she must lose me soon or late. And after all, because we run this risk, it does not follow we should fail. Sixth Objection: My wife wouldn't like it. No, she wouldn't. Who would? But the Curtins don't like it. And all those who are to suffer if this goes on, won't like it. And if there is a great wrong, somebody must suffer. Seventh Objection: I won't like it. No, I will not; I have thought it through, and I will not. But what of that? And both she and I may like it more than we suppose. We shall lose friends, all comforts, all society: so has everybody who has ever done anything; but we shall have some excitement, and that's a fine thing; and we shall be trying to do the right, and that's not to be despised. Eighth Objection: I am an author with my work before me. See Second Reason. Ninth Objection: But am I not taken with the hope of excitement? I was at first. I am not much now. I see what a dreary, friendless, miserable, God-forgotten business it will be. And anyway, is not excitement the proper reward of doing anything both right and a little dangerous? Tenth Objection: But am I not taken with a notion of glory? I dare say I am. Yet I see quite clearly how all points to nothing coming, to a quite inglorious death by disease and from the lack of attendance; or even if I should be knocked on the head, as these poor Irish promise, how little any one will care. It will be a smile at a thousand breakfast-tables. I am nearly forty now; I have not many illusions. And if I had? I do not love this health-tending, housekeeping life of mine. I have a taste for danger, which is human, like the fear of it. Here is a fair cause; a just cause; no knight ever set lance in rest for a juster. Yet it needs not the strength I have not, only the passive courage that I hope I could muster, and the watchfulness that I am sure I could learn.

Here is a long midnight dissertation; with myself; with you. Please let me hear. But I charge you this: if you see in this idea of mine the finger of duty, do not dissuade me. I am nearing forty, I begin to love my ease and my home and my habits, I never knew how much till this arose; do not falsely counsel me to put my head under the bed-clothes. And I will say this to you: my wife, who hates the idea, does not refuse. "It is nonsense," says she, "but if you go, I will go." Poor girl, and her home and her garden that she was so proud of! I feel her garden most of all, because it is a pleasure (I suppose) that I do not feel myself to share.

1. Here is a great wrong.
2. " a growing wrong.
3. " a wrong founded on crime.
4. " crime that the Government cannot prevent.
5. " crime that it occurs to no man to defy.
6. But it has occurred to me.
7. Being a known person, some will notice my defiance.
8. Being a writer, I can _make_ people notice it.
9. And, I think, _make_ people imitate me.
10. Which would destroy in time this whole scaffolding of oppression.
11. And if I fail, however ignominiously, that is not my concern.
It is, with an odd mixture of reverence and humorous remembrances
of Dickens, be it said--it is A-nother's.

And here, at I cannot think what hour of the morning, I shall dry up, and remain--Yours, really in want of a little help,

R. L. S.

Sleepless at midnight's dewy hour.
" " witching "
" " maudlin "
etc.

_Next morning._--Eleventh Objection: I have a father and mother. And who has not? Macduff's was a rare case; if we must wait for a Macduff. Besides, my father will not perhaps be long here. Twelfth Objection: The cause of England in Ireland is not worth supporting. _A qui le dites-vous?_ And I am not supporting that. Home Rule, if you like. Cause of decency, the idea that populations should not be taught to gain public ends by private crime, the idea that for all men to bow before a threat of crime is to loosen and degrade beyond redemption the whole fabric of man's decency.

TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN

The first paragraph of the following refers to the _Life of Fleeming
Jenkin_; the second, to a remark of his correspondent that a task
such as he had proposed to himself in Ireland should be undertaken
by a society rather than an individual.

[_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, April 1887._]

MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,--The Book. It is all drafted: I hope soon to send you for comments Chapters III., IV., and V. Chapter VII. is roughly but satisfactorily drafted: a very little work should put that to rights. But Chapter VI. is no joke; it is a _mare magnum_: I swim and drown and come up again; and it is all broken ends and mystification: moreover, I perceive I am in want of more matter. I must have, first of all, a little letter from Mr. Ewing about the phonograph work: _If_ you think he would understand it is quite a matter of chance whether I use a word or a fact out of it. If you think he would not: I will go without. Also, could I have a look at Ewing's _precis_? And lastly, I perceive I must interview you again about a few points; they are very few, and might come to little; and I propose to go on getting things as well together as I can in the meanwhile, and rather have a final time when all is ready and only to be criticised. I do still think it will be good. I wonder if Trelat would let me cut? But no, I think I wouldn't after all; 'tis so quaint and pretty and clever and simple and French, and gives such a good sight of Fleeming: the plum of the book, I think.

You misunderstood me in one point: I always hoped to found such a society; that was the outside of my dream, and would mean entire success. _But_--I cannot play Peter the Hermit. In these days of the Fleet Street journalist, I cannot send out better men than myself, with wives or mothers just as good as mine, and sisters (I may at least say) better, to a danger and a long-drawn dreariness that I do not share. My wife says it's cowardice; what brave men are the leader-writers! Call it cowardice; it is mine. Mind you, I may end by trying to do it by the pen only: I shall not love myself if I do; and is it ever a good thing to do a thing for which you despise yourself?--even in the doing? And if the thing you do is to call upon others to do the thing you neglect? I have never dared to say what I feel about men's lives, because my own was in the wrong: shall I dare to send them to death? The physician must heal himself; he must honestly _try_ the path he recommends: if he does not even try, should he not be silent?

I thank you very heartily for your letter, and for the seriousness you brought to it. You know, I think when a serious thing is your own, you keep a saner man by laughing at it and yourself as you go. So I do not write possibly with all the really somewhat sickened gravity I feel. And indeed, what with the book, and this business to which I referred, and Ireland, I am scarcely in an enviable state. Well, I ought to be glad, after ten years of the worst training on earth--valetudinarianism--that I can still be troubled by a duty. You shall hear more in time; so far, I am at least decided: I will go and see Balfour when I get to London.

We have all had a great pleasure: a Mrs. Rawlinson came and brought with her a nineteen-year-old daughter, simple, human, as beautiful as--herself; I never admired a girl before, you know it was my weakness: we are all three dead in love with her. How nice to be able to do so much good to harassed people by--yourself!--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO MISS RAWLINSON

Here follows a compliment in verse to the young lady last mentioned,
whose Christian name was May.

[_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, April 1887._]

Of the many flowers you brought me,
Only some were meant to stay,
And the flower I thought the sweetest
Was the flower that went away.

Of the many flowers you brought me,
All were fair and fresh and gay,
But the flower I thought the sweetest
Was the blossom of the May.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

Within a fortnight after the date of the above Stevenson went
himself, and for the last time, to Scotland, and was present, too
late for recognition, at the death of his father (May 8, 1887).
Business detained him for some weeks, and the following was written
just before his return to Bournemouth.

[_Edinburgh, June 1887._]

MY DEAR S. C.,--At last I can write a word to you. Your little note in the P.M.G. was charming. I have written four pages in the Contemporary, which Bunting found room for: they are not very good, but I shall do more for his memory in time.

About the death, I have long hesitated, I was long before I could tell my mind; and now I know it, and can but say that I am glad. If we could have had my father, that would have been a different thing. But to keep that changeling--suffering changeling--any longer, could better none and nothing. Now he rests; it is more significant, it is more like himself. He will begin to return to us in the course of time, as he was and as we loved him.

My favourite words in literature, my favourite scene--"O let him pass," Kent and Lear--was played for me here in the first moment of my return. I believe Shakespeare saw it with his own father. I had no words; but it was shocking to see. He died on his feet, you know; was on his feet the last day, knowing nobody--still he would be up. This was his constant wish; also that he might smoke a pipe on his last day. The funeral would have pleased him; it was the largest private funeral in man's memory here.

We have no plans, and it is possible we may go home without going through town. I do not know; I have no views yet whatever; nor can have any at this stage of my cold and my business.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO SIR WALTER SIMPSON

Written during a short visit to me between his return from Scotland
and his departure for New York.

_British Museum [July 1887]._

MY DEAR SIMPSON,--This is a long time I have not acknowledged the Art of Golf, though I read it through within thirty-six hours of its arrival. I have been ill and out of heart, and ill again and again ill, till I am weary of it, and glad indeed to try the pitch-farthing hazard of a trip to Colorado or New Mexico. There we go, if I prove fit for the start, on August 20th.

Meanwhile, the Art of Golf. A lot of it is very funny, and I liked the fun very well; but what interested me most was the more serious part, because it turns all the while on a branch of psychology that no one has treated and that interests me much: the psychology of athletics. I had every reason to be interested in it, because I am abnormal: I have no memory in athletics. I have forgotten how to ride and how to skate; and I should not be the least surprised if I had forgotten how to swim.

I find I can write no more: it is the first I have tried since I was ill; and I am too weak.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

During the two months following his father's death Stevenson had
suffered much both from his old complaints and from depression of
mind. His only work had been in preparing for press the verse
collection _Underwoods_, the _Life of Fleeming Jenkin_, and the
volume of essays called _Memories and Portraits_. The opinions quoted
are those of physicians.

_[Skerryvore, Bournemouth] August 1887._

DEAR LAD,--I write to inform you that Mr. Stevenson's well-known work, _Virginibus Puerisque_, is about to be reprinted. At the same time a second volume called _Memories and Portraits_ will issue from the roaring loom. Its interest will be largely autobiographical, Mr. S. having sketched there the lineaments of many departed friends, and dwelt fondly, and with a m'istened eye, upon by-gone pleasures. The two will be issued under the common title of _Familiar Essays_; but the volumes will be vended separately to those who are mean enough not to hawk at both.

The blood is at last stopped: only yesterday. I began to think I should not get away. However, I hope--I hope--remark the word--no boasting--I hope I may luff up a bit now. Dobell, whom I saw, gave as usual a good account of my lungs, and expressed himself, like his neighbours, hopefully about the trip. He says, my uncle says, Scott says, Brown says--they all say--You ought not to be in such a state of health; you should recover. Well, then, I mean to. My spirits are rising again after three months of black depression: I almost begin to feel as if I should care to live: I would, by God! And so I believe I shall.--Yours,

BULLETIN M'GURDER.

How has the _Deacon_ gone?

TO W. H. LOW

_[Skerryvore, Bournemouth] August 6th, 1887._

MY DEAR LOW,--We--my mother, my wife, my stepson, my maidservant, and myself, five souls--leave, if all is well, Aug. 20th, per Wilson line s.s. Ludgate Hill. Shall probably evade N. Y. at first, cutting straight to a watering-place: Newport, I believe, its name. Afterwards we shall steal incognito into _la bonne ville_, and see no one but you and the Scribners, if it may be so managed. You must understand I have been very seedy indeed, quite a dead body; and unless the voyage does miracles, I shall have to draw it dam fine. Alas, "The Canoe Speaks" is now out of date; it will figure in my volume of verses now imminent. However, I may find some inspiration some day.--Till very soon, yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE

The lady to whom the following (and much correspondence yet to come)
is addressed had been an attached friend of the Skerryvore household
and a pupil of Stevenson's in the art of writing. She had given R. L.
S. a paper-cutter by way of farewell token at his starting.

_Bournemouth, August 19th, 1887._

MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,--I promise you the paper-knife shall go to sea with me; and if it were in my disposal, I should promise it should return with me too. All that you say, I thank you for very much; I thank you for all the pleasantness that you have brought about our house; and I hope the day may come when I shall see you again in poor old Skerryvore, now left to the natives of Canada, or to worse barbarians, if such exist. I am afraid my attempt to jest is rather _a contre-coeur_.--Good-bye--_au revoir_--and do not forget your friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MESSRS. CHATTO AND WINDUS

The titles and proofs mentioned in the text are presumably those of
_Underwoods_ and _Memories and Portraits_.

_Bournemouth_ [_August 1887_].

DEAR SIRS,--I here enclose the two titles. Had you not better send me the bargains to sign? I shall be here till Saturday; and shall have an address in London (which I shall send you) till Monday, when I shall sail. Even if the proofs do not reach you till Monday morning, you could send a clerk from Fenchurch Street Station at 10.23 A.M. for Galleons Station, and he would find me embarking on board the _Ludgate Hill_, Island Berth, Royal Albert Dock. Pray keep this in case it should be necessary to catch this last chance. I am most anxious to have the proofs with me on the voyage.--Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Cough.

[11] Loose talk.

[12] Mr. Charles Morley, at this time manager or assistant-manager of
the Pall Mall Gazette.

[13] _Princess Casamassima._

[14] Lothian vernacular pronunciation of Cunningham.

[15] In _Underwoods_ the lines thus bracketed as doubtful stand with
the change:

"Life is over; life was gay."

[16] _Prince Otto._

[17] The name of the hero in Dostoieffsky's _Le Crime et le Chatiment_.

[18] _Suite anglaise._

[19] As in fact he had, all except the double l.

[20] In _Pendennis_.

IX

THE UNITED STATES AGAIN

WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS

AUGUST 1887--JUNE 1888

The letters printed in the following section are selected from those which tell of Stevenson's voyage to New York and reception there at the beginning of September 1887; of his winter's life and work at Saranac Lake, and of his decision taken in May 1888 to venture on a yachting cruise in the South Seas.

The moment of his arrival at New York was that when his reputation had first reached its height in the United States, owing to the popularity both of _Treasure Island_ and _Kidnapped_, but more especially to the immense impression made by the _Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. He experienced consequently for the first time the pleasures, such as they were, of celebrity, and also its inconveniences; found the most hospitable of refuges in the house of his kind friends, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Fairchild, at Newport; and quickly made many other friends, including the late Augustus St. Gaudens, the famous sculptor, with Mr. C. Scribner and Mr. E. L. Burlingame, the owner and the editor of Scribner's Magazine, from whom he immediately received and accepted very advantageous offers of work. Having been dissuaded from braving for the present the fatigue of the long journey to Colorado and the extreme rigour of its winter climate, he determined to try instead a season at Saranac Lake in the Adirondack Mountains, New York State, which had lately been coming into reputation as a place of cure. There, under the care of the well-known resident physician, Dr. Trudeau, he spent nearly seven months, from the end of September 1887 to the end of April 1888, with results on the whole favourable to his own health, though not to that of his wife, which could never support these winter mountain cures. On the 16th of April, he and his party left Saranac. After spending a fortnight in New York, where, as always in cities, his health quickly flagged again, he went for the month of May into seaside quarters at Union House, Manasquan, on the New Jersey coast, for the sake of fresh air and boating. Here he enjoyed the occasional society of some of his New York friends, including Mr. St. Gaudens and Mr. W. H. Low, and was initiated in the congenial craft of cat-boat sailing. In the meantime, Mrs. Stevenson had gone to San Francisco to see her relatives; and holding that the climate of the Pacific was likely to be better for the projected cruise than that of the Atlantic, had inquired there whether a yacht was to be hired for such a purpose. The schooner _Casco_, Captain Otis, was found. Stevenson signified by telegraph his assent to the arrangement; determined to risk in the adventure the sum of L2000, of which his father's death had put him in possession, hoping to recoup himself by a series of Letters recounting his experiences, for which he had received a commission from Mr. S. S. M'Clure; and on the 2nd of June started with his mother and stepson for San Francisco, the first stage on that island cruise from which he was destined never to return.

His work during the season September 1887-May 1888 had consisted of the twelve papers published in the course of 1888 in Scribner's Magazine, including perhaps the most striking of all his essays, _A Chapter on Dreams_, _Pulvis et Umbra_, _Beggars_, _The Lantern Bearers_, _Random Memories_, etc.; as well as the greater part of the _Master of Ballantrae_ and _The Wrong Box_--the last originally conceived and drafted by Mr. Lloyd Osbourne.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

A succession of Stevenson's friends had visited and spent part of the
day or the evening with him at Armfield's hotel on Sunday, August
20th, each bringing some farewell gift or another (as related by Mr.
Gosse in his volume _Critical Kitcats_, p. 297). Among these, Mr.
Henry James's gift had been a case of champagne for consumption
during the journey. On the morning of the 21st I accompanied him to
the docks, saw him and his party embarked on board the steamer
_Ludgate Hill_, a vessel sailing from the port of London and carrying
animals and freight as well as passengers. They had chosen to go by
this route for the sake alike of economy and amusement, rather than
by one of the sumptuous liners sailing from Liverpool or Southampton.
Leaving the ship's side as she weighed anchor, and waving farewell to
the party from the boat which landed me, I little knew what was the
truth, that I was looking on the face of my friend for the last time.
The letters next following were written during or Immediately after
his passage across the Atlantic. "The Commodore" is of course R. L. S.

_H.M.S. Vulgarium, off Havre de Grace,
this 22nd day of August [1887]._

SIR,--The weather has been hitherto inimitable. Inimitable is the only word that I can apply to our fellow-voyagers, whom a categorist, possibly premature, has been already led to divide into two classes--the better sort consisting of the baser kind of Bagman, and the worser of undisguised Beasts of the Field. The berths are excellent, the pasture swallowable, the champagne of H. James (to recur to my favourite adjective) inimitable. As for the Commodore, he slept awhile in the evening, tossed off a cup of Henry James with his plain meal, walked the deck till eight, among sands and floating lights and buoys and wrecked brigantines, came down (to his regret) a minute too soon to see Margate lit up, turned in about nine, slept, with some interruptions, but on the whole sweetly, until six, and has already walked a mile or so of deck, among a fleet of other steamers waiting for the tide, within view of Havre, and pleasantly entertained by passing fishing-boats, hovering sea-gulls, and Vulgarians pairing on deck with endearments of primitive simplicity. There, sir, can be viewed the sham quarrel, the sham desire for information, and every device of these two poor ancient sexes (who might, you might think, have learned in the course of the ages something new) down to the exchange of head-gear.--I am, sir, yours,

BOLD BOB BOLTSPRIT.

B. B. B. (_alias_ the Commodore) will now turn to his proofs. Havre de Grace is a city of some show. It is for-ti-fied; and, so far as I can see, is a place of some trade. It is situ-ated in France, a country of Europe. You always complain there are no facts in my letters.

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Newport, R.I., U.S.A. [September 1887]_

MY DEAR COLVIN,--So long it went excellent well, and I had a time I am glad to have had; really enjoying my life. There is nothing like being at sea, after all. And O, why have I allowed myself to rot so long on land? But on the Banks I caught a cold, and I have not yet got over it. My reception here was idiotic to the last degree.... It is very silly, and not pleasant, except where humour enters; and I confess the poor interviewer lads pleased me. They are too good for their trade; avoided anything I asked them to avoid, and were no more vulgar in their reports than they could help. I liked the lads.

O, it was lovely on our stable-ship, chock full of stallions. She rolled heartily, rolled some of the fittings out of our state-room, and I think a more dangerous cruise (except that it was summer) it would be hard to imagine. But we enjoyed it to the masthead, all but Fanny; and even she perhaps a little. When we got in, we had run out of beer, stout, cocoa, soda-water, water, fresh meat, and (almost) of biscuit. But it was a thousandfold pleasanter than a great big Birmingham liner like a new hotel; and we liked the officers, and made friends with the quarter-masters, and I (at least) made a friend of a baboon (for we carried a cargo of apes), whose embraces have pretty near cost me a coat. The passengers improved, and were a very good specimen lot, with no drunkard, no gambling that I saw, and less grumbling and backbiting than one would have asked of poor human nature. Apes, stallions, cows, matches, hay, and poor men-folk, all, or almost all, came successfully to land.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO HENRY JAMES

[_Newport, U.S.A., September 1887._]

MY DEAR JAMES,--Here we are at Newport in the house of the good Fairchilds; and a sad burthen we have laid upon their shoulders. I have been in bed practically ever since I came. I caught a cold on the Banks after having had the finest time conceivable, and enjoyed myself more than I could have hoped on board our strange floating menagerie: stallions and monkeys and matches made our cargo; and the vast continent of these incongruities rolled the while like a haystack; and the stallions stood hypnotised by the motion, looking through the ports at our dinner-table, and winked when the crockery was broken; and the little monkeys stared at each other in their cages, and were thrown overboard like little bluish babies; and the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the ship and rested willingly in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing; and the man of the stallions made a bower of the black tarpaulin, and sat therein at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a picture on a box of chocolates; and the other passengers, when they were not sick, looked on and laughed. Take all this picture, and make it roll till the bell shall sound unexpected notes and the fittings shall break loose in our state-room, and you have the voyage of the _Ludgate Hill_. She arrived in the port of New York, without beer, porter, soda-water, curacoa, fresh meat, or fresh water; and yet we lived, and we regret her.

My wife is a good deal run down, and I am no great shakes.

America is, as I remarked, a fine place to eat in, and a great place for kindness; but, Lord, what a silly thing is popularity! I envy the cool obscurity of Skerryvore. If it even paid, said Meanness! and was abashed at himself.--Yours most sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[_New York, end of September 1887._]

MY DEAR S. C.,--Your delightful letter has just come, and finds me in a New York hotel, waiting the arrival of a sculptor (St. Gaudens) who is making a medallion of yours truly and who is (to boot) one of the handsomest and nicest fellows I have seen. I caught a cold on the Banks; fog is not for me; nearly died of interviewers and visitors, during twenty-four hours in New York; cut for Newport with Lloyd and Valentine, a journey like fairyland for the most engaging beauties, one little rocky and pine-shaded cove after another, each with a house and a boat at anchor, so that I left my heart in each and marvelled why American authors had been so unjust to their country; caught another cold on the train; arrived at Newport to go to bed and to grow worse, and to stay in bed until I left again; the Fairchilds proving during this time kindness itself; Mr. Fairchild simply one of the most engaging men in the world, and one of the children, Blair, _aet._ ten, a great joy and amusement in his solemn adoring attitude to the author of _Treasure Island_.

Here I was interrupted by the arrival of my sculptor.--I withdraw calling him handsome; he is not quite that, his eyes are too near together; he is only remarkable looking, and like an Italian cinque-cento medallion; I have begged him to make a medallion of himself and give me a copy. I will not take up the sentence in which I was wandering so long, but begin fresh. I was ten or twelve days at Newport; then came back convalescent to New York. Fanny and Lloyd are off to the Adirondacks to see if that will suit; and the rest of us leave Monday (this is Saturday) to follow them up. I hope we may manage to stay there all winter. I have a splendid appetite and have on the whole recovered well after a mighty sharp attack. I am now on a salary of L500 a year for twelve articles in Scribner's Magazine on what I like; it is more than L500, but I cannot calculate more precisely. You have no idea how much is made of me here; I was offered L2000 for a weekly article--eh heh! how is that? but I refused that lucrative job. The success of _Underwoods_ is gratifying. You see, the verses are sane; that is their strong point, and it seems it is strong enough to carry them.

A thousand thanks for your grand letter.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

The verses herein alluded to were addressed to Rossetti's friend, Dr.
Gordon Hake, physician and poet (1809-1895), in return for some
received from him. They are those beginning "In the beloved hour that
ushers day" and printed as No. xix. in _Songs of Travel_.

_New York [September 1887]._

MY DEAR LAD,--Herewith verses for Dr. Hake, which please communicate. I did my best with the interviewers;

I don't know if Lloyd sent you the result; my heart was too sick: you can do nothing with them; and yet ----literally sweated with anxiety to please, and took me down in long hand!

I have been quite ill, but go better. I am being not busted, but medallioned, by St. Gaudens, who is a first-rate, plain, high-minded artist and honest fellow; you would like him down to the ground. I believe sculptors are fine fellows when they are not demons. O, I am now a salaried person, L600, a year,[21] to write twelve articles in Scribner's Magazine; it remains to be seen if it really pays, huge as the sum is, but the slavery may overweigh me. I hope you will like my answer to Hake, and specially that he will.

Love to all.--Yours affectionately,

R. L. S.
(_le salarie_).

TO R. A. M. STEVENSON

_Saranac Lake, Adirondacks, New York, U.S.A. [October 1887]._

MY DEAR BOB,--The cold [of Colorado] was too rigorous for me; I could not risk the long railway voyage, and the season was too late to risk the Eastern, Cape Hatteras side of the steamer one; so here we stuck and stick. We have a wooden house on a hill-top, overlooking a river, and a village about a quarter of a mile away, and very wooded hills; the whole scene is very Highland, bar want of heather and the wooden houses.

I have got one good thing of my sea voyage: it is proved the sea agrees heartily with me, and my mother likes it; so if I get any better, or no worse, my mother will likely hire a yacht for a month or so in summer. Good Lord! What fun! Wealth is only useful for two things: a yacht and a string quartette. For these two I will sell my soul. Except for these I hold that L700 a year is as much as any body can possibly want; and I have had more, so I know, for the extry coins were for no use, excepting for illness, which damns everything.

I was so happy on board that ship, I could not have believed it possible. We had the beastliest weather, and many discomforts; but the mere fact of its being a tramp-ship gave us many comforts; we could cut about with the men and officers, stay in the wheel-house, discuss all manner of things, and really be a little at sea. And truly there is nothing else. I had literally forgotten what happiness was, and the full mind--full of external and physical things, not full of cares and labours and rot about a fellow's behaviour. My heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing so much as for that. We took so north a course, that we saw Newfoundland; no one in the ship had ever seen it before.

It was beyond belief to me how she rolled; in seemingly smooth water, the bell striking, the fittings bounding out of our state-room. It is worth having lived these last years, partly because I have written some better books, which is always pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy of this voyage. I have been made a lot of here, and it is sometimes pleasant, sometimes the reverse; but I could give it all up, and agree that ---- was the author of my works, for a good seventy ton schooner and the coins to keep her on. And to think there are parties with yachts who would make the exchange! I know a little about fame now; it is no good compared to a yacht; and anyway there is more fame in a yacht, more genuine fame; to cross the Atlantic and come to anchor in Newport (say) with the Union Jack, and go ashore for your letters and hang about the pier, among the holiday yachtsmen--that's fame, that's glory, and nobody can take it away; they can't say your book is bad; you _have_ crossed the Atlantic. I should do it south by the West Indies, to avoid the damned Banks; and probably come home by steamer, and leave the skipper to bring the yacht home.

Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe sail out of Southampton water some of these days and take a run to Havre, and try the Baltic, or somewhere.

Love to you all--Ever your afft.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIR WALTER SIMPSON

It was supposed that Stevenson's letters to this friend, like those
to Professor Fleeming Jenkin, had been destroyed or disappeared
altogether. But besides the two printed above (pp. 117 and 229) here
is a third, preserved by a friend to whom Sir Walter made a present
of it.

[_Saranac Lake, October 1887._]

MY DEAR SIMPSON,

the address is
c/o Charles Scribner's Sons,
243 Broadway, N.Y.,

where I wish you would write and tell us you are better. But the place of our abode is Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks; it is a mighty good place too, and I mean it shall do me good. Indeed the dreadful depression and collapse of last summer has quite passed away; it was a thorough change I wanted; I wonder perhaps if it wouldn't pick you up--if you are not picked up already; you have been a long time in Great Britain; and that is a slow poison, very slow for the strong, but certain for all. Old Dr. Chepmell told Lloyd: any one can stay a year in England and be the better for it, but no one can stay there steadily and not be the worse.

I have had a very curious experience here; being very much made of, and called upon, and all that; quite the famous party in fact: it is not so nice as people try to make out, when you are young, and don't want to bother working. Fame is nothing to a yacht; _experto crede_. There are nice bits of course; for you meet very pleasant and interesting people; but the thing at large is a bore and a fraud; and I am much happier up here, where I see no one and live my own life. One thing is they do not stick for money to the Famed One; I was offered L2000 a year for a weekly article; and I accepted (and now enjoy) L720 a year for a monthly one: 720/12 (whatever that may be) for each article, as long or as short as I please, and on any mortal subject. I am sure it will do me harm to do it; but the sum was irresistible. See calculations on verso of last page, and observe, sir, the accuracy of my methods.

Hulloh, I must get up, as I can't lose any time. Good-bye, remember me to her ladyship and salute the Kids.--Ever your friend,

R. L. S.

12 : 10 :: 72 : _x_, and this results in the same problem. Well--tackle
it.

12)720(60
72

Is it possible?

L60!!??

Let us cheque it by trying it in dollars, $3500 per an.

12)3500(291. 80
24
---
110
108
---
20

Well : $291.80

then divide by 5 for a rough test

5)291(58.4.4
25 add 80 cents = 40d. = 3. 4d.
--
3.4
-------
L58. 7.8

Well, call it
L58.10.
======
and be done with it!

TO EDMUND GOSSE

The following refers to a review by Mr. Gosse of Stevenson's volume
of verse called _Underwoods_. The book had been published a few weeks
previously, and is dedicated, as readers will remember, to a number
of physicians who had attended him at sundry times and places.

_Saranac Lake, Oct. 8th, 1887._

MY DEAR GOSSE,--I have just read your article twice, with cheers of approving laughter. I do not believe you ever wrote anything so funny: Tyndall's "shell," the passage on the Davos press and its invaluable issues, and that on V. Hugo and Swinburne, are exquisite; so, I say it more ruefully, is the touch about the doctors. For the rest, I am very glad you like my verses so well; and the qualities you ascribe to them seem to me well found and well named. I own to that kind of candour you attribute to me: when I am frankly interested, I suppose I fancy the public will be so too; and when I am moved, I am sure of it. It has been my luck hitherto to meet with no staggering disillusion. "Before" and "After" may be two; and yet I believe the habit is now too thoroughly ingrained to be altered. About the doctors, you were right, that dedication has been the subject of some pleasantries that made me grind, and of your happily touched reproof which made me blush. And to miscarry in a dedication is an abominable form of book-wreck; I am a good captain, I would rather lose the tent and save my dedication.

I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks, I suppose for the winter: it seems a first-rate place; we have a house in the eye of many winds, with a view of a piece of running water--Highland, all but the dear hue of peat--and of many hills--Highland also, but for the lack of heather. Soon the snow will close on us; we are here some twenty miles--twenty-seven, they say, but this I profoundly disbelieve--in the woods: communication by letter is slow and (let me be consistent) aleatory; by telegram is as near as may be possible.

I had some experience of American appreciation; I liked a little of it, but there is too much; a little of that would go a long way to spoil a man; and I like myself better in the woods. I am so damned candid and ingenuous (for a cynic), and so much of a "cweatu' of impulse--aw" (if you remember that admirable Leech) that I begin to shirk any more taffy; I think I begin to like it too well. But let us trust the Gods; they have a rod in pickle; reverently I doff my trousers, and with screwed eyes await the _amari aliquid_ of the great God Busby.

I thank you for the article in all ways, and remain yours affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO W. H. LOW

[_Saranac Lake, October 1887._]

SIR,--I have to trouble you with the following _paroles bien senties_. We are here at a first-rate place. "Baker's" is the name of our house, but we don't address there; we prefer the tender care of the Post-Office, as more aristocratic (it is no use to telegraph even to the care of the Post-Office, who does not give a single damn[22]). Baker's has a prophet's chamber, which the hypercritical might describe as a garret with a hole in the floor: in that garret, sir, I have to trouble you and your wife to come and slumber. Not now, however: with manly hospitality, I choke off any sudden impulse. Because first, my wife and my mother are gone (a note for the latter, strongly suspected to be in the hand of your talented wife, now sits silent on the mantel shelf), one to Niagara and t'other to Indianapolis. Because, second, we are not yet installed. And because, third, I won't have you till I have a buffalo robe and leggings, lest you should want to paint me as a plain man, which I am not, but a rank Saranacker and wild man of the woods.--Yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES FAIRCHILD

_Post Office, Saranac Lake, Adirondacks, N.Y. [October 1887]._

MY DEAR FAIRCHILD,--I do not live in the Post Office; that is only my address; I live at "Baker's," a house upon a hill, and very jolly in every way. I believe this is going to do: we have a kind of a garret of a spare room, where hardy visitors can sleep, and our table (if homely) is not bad.

And here, appropriately enough, comes in the begging part. We cannot get any fruit here: can you manage to send me some grapes? I told you I would trouble you, and I will say that I do so with pleasure, which means a great deal from yours very sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--Remember us to all yours: my mother and my wife are away skylarking; my mother to Niagara, my wife to Indianapolis; and I live here to-day alone with Lloyd, Valentine, some cold meat, and four salmon trout, one of which is being grilled at this moment of writing; so that, after the immortal pattern of the Indian boys, my household will soon only reckon three. As usual with me, the news comes in a P.S., and is mostly folly.

R. L. S.

_P.P.S._--My cold is so much better that I took another yesterday. But the new one is a puny child; I fear him not; and yet I fear to boast. If the postscript business goes on, this establishment will run out of P's; but I hope it wasn't you that made this paper--just for a last word--I could not compliment you upon that. And Lord! if you could see the ink--not what I am using--but the local vintage! They don't write much here; I bet what you please.

R. L. S.

TO WILLIAM ARCHER

The Wondrous Tale referred to in the following is Stevenson's _Black
Arrow_, which had been through Mr. Archer's hands in proof.

_Saranac Lake, October 1887._

DEAR ARCHER,--Many thanks for the Wondrous Tale. It is scarcely a work of genius, as I believe you felt. Thanks also for your pencillings; though I defend "shrew," or at least many of the shrews.

We are here (I suppose) for the winter in the Adirondacks, a hill and forest country on the Canadian border of New York State, very unsettled and primitive and cold, and healthful, or we are the more bitterly deceived. I believe it will do well for me; but must not boast.

My wife is away to Indiana to see her family; my mother, Lloyd, and I remain here in the cold, which has been exceeding sharp, and the hill air, which is inimitably fine. We all eat bravely, and sleep well, and make great fires, and get along like one o'clock.

I am now a salaried party; I am a _bourgeois_ now; I am to write a weekly paper for Scribner's, at a scale of payment which makes my teeth ache for shame and diffidence. The editor is, I believe, to apply to you; for we were talking over likely men, and when I instanced you, he said he had had his eye upon you from the first. It is worth while, perhaps, to get in tow with the Scribners; they are such thorough gentlefolk in all ways that it is always a pleasure to deal with them. I am like to be a millionaire if this goes on, and be publicly hanged at the social revolution: well, I would prefer that to dying in my bed; and it would be a godsend to my biographer, if ever I have one. What are you about? I hope you are all well and in good case and spirits, as I am now, after a most nefast experience of despondency before I left; but indeed I was quite run down. Remember me to Mrs. Archer, and give my respects to Tom.--Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO W. E. HENLEY

"Gleeson White" in this letter means the collection of _Ballades,
Rondeaus, &c._, edited by that gentleman and dedicated to R. L. S.
(Walter Scott, 1887).

[_Saranac Lake, October 1887._]

MY DEAR LAD,--I hear some vague reports of a success[23] at Montreal.

My news is not much, my mother is away to Niagara and Fanny to Indiana; the Port Admiral and I and Valentine keep house together in our verandahed cottage near a wood. I am writing, and have got into the vein. When I got to N. Y. a paper offered me L2000 a year to do critical weekly articles for them; the sum was so enormous that I tottered; however, Scribner at once offered me the same scale to give him a monthly paper in his magazine; indeed it is rather higher, L720 for the twelve papers. This I could not decently refuse; and I am now a yoked man, and after a fit of my usual impotence under bondage, seem to have got into the swing. I suppose I shall scarce manage to do much else; but there is the fixed sum, which shines like a sun in the firmament. A prophet has certainly a devil of a lot of honour (and much coins) in another country, whatever he has in his own.

I got Gleeson White; your best work and either the best or second best in the book is the Ballade in Hot Weather; that is really a masterpiece of melody and fancy. Damn your Villanelles--and everybody's. G. Macdonald comes out strong in his two pious rondels; _Fons Bandusiae_ seems as exquisite as ever. To my surprise, I liked two of the Pantoums, the blue-bottle, and the still better after-death one from _Love in Idleness_. Lang cuts a poor figure, except in the Cricket one; your patter ballade is a great _tour de force_, but spoiled by similar caesuras. On the whole 'tis a ridiculous volume, and I had more pleasure out of it than I expected. I forgot to praise Grant Allen's excellent ballade, which is the one that runs with yours,--and here, to the point, a note from you at Margate--among East Winds and Plain Women, damn them! Well, what can we do or say? We are only at Saranac for the winter; and if this _Deacon_ comes off, why you may join us there in glory; I would I had some news of it. Saranac is not _quite_ so dear, in some ways, as the rest of this land, where it costs you a pound to sneeze, and fifty to blow your nose; but even here it costs $2.50 to get a box from the station! Think of it! Lift it up tenderly! They had need to pay well! but how poor devils live; and how it can pay to take a theatre company over to such a land, is more than I can fancy. The devil of the States for you is the conveyances, they are so dear--but O, what is not!

I have thrown off my cold in excellent style, though still very groggy about the knees, so that when I climb a paling, of which we have many, I feel as precarious and nutatory as a man of ninety. Under this I grind; but I believe the place will suit me. Must stop.--Ever affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO HENRY JAMES

The "dear Alexander" mentioned below is Mr. J. W. Alexander, the
well-known American artist, who had been a welcome visitor to
Stevenson at Bournemouth, and had drawn his portrait there. The
humorous romance proceeding from Mr. Osbourne's typewriter was the
first draft of _The Wrong Box_; or, as it was originally called, _The
Finsbury Tontine_, or _The Game of Bluff_. The article by Mr. Henry
James referred to in the last paragraph is one on R. L. S. which had
appeared in the Century Magazine for October, and was reprinted in
_Partial Portraits_.

[_Saranac Lake, October 1887_.] I know not the day; but the month
it is the drear October by the
ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--This is to say _First_, the voyage was a huge success. We all enjoyed it (bar my wife) to the ground: sixteen days at sea with a cargo of hay, matches, stallions, and monkeys, and in a ship with no style on, and plenty of sailors to talk to, and the endless pleasures of the sea--the romance of it, the sport of the scratch dinner and the smashing crockery, the pleasure--an endless pleasure--of balancing to the swell: well, it's over.

_Second_, I had a fine time, rather a troubled one, at Newport and New York; saw much of and liked hugely the Fairchilds, St. Gaudens the sculptor, Gilder of the Century--just saw the dear Alexander--saw a lot of my old and admirable friend Will Low, whom I wish you knew and appreciated--was medallioned by St. Gaudens, and at last escaped to

_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.