The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 23

    R. L. S.

To Dr. Alexander Japp

“The enclosed” means a packet of the Davos Press cuts.

    [Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 1882.]

MY DEAR DR. JAPP, – You must think me a forgetful rogue, as indeed I am; for I have but now told my publisher to send you a copy of the Familiar Studies. However, I own I have delayed this letter till I could send you the enclosed. Remembering the nights at Braemar when we visited the Picture Gallery, I hoped they might amuse you. You see, we do some publishing hereaway. I shall hope to see you in town in May. – Always yours faithfully,

    Robert Louis Stevenson.

To Dr. Alexander Japp

The references in the first paragraph are to the volume Familiar Studies of Men and Books.

    Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 1, 1882.

MY DEAR DR. JAPP, – A good day to date this letter, which is in fact a confession of incapacity. During my wife’s illness I somewhat lost my head, and entirely lost a great quire of corrected proofs. This is one of the results; I hope there are none more serious. I was never so sick of any volume as I was of that; I was continually receiving fresh proofs with fresh infinitesimal difficulties. I was ill – I did really fear my wife was worse than ill. Well, it’s out now; and though I have observed several carelessnesses myself, and now here’s another of your finding – of which, indeed, I ought to be ashamed – it will only justify the sweeping humility of the Preface.

Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and I communicated your remarks… He is a far better and more interesting thing than any of his books.

The Elephant was my wife’s; so she is proportionately elate you should have picked it out for praise – from a collection, let me add, so replete with the highest qualities of art.

My wicked carcase, as John Knox calls it, holds together wonderfully. In addition to many other things, and a volume of travel, I find I have written, since December, 9 °Cornhill pages of magazine work – essays and stories: 40,000 words, and I am none the worse – I am the better. I begin to hope I may, if not outlive this wolverine upon my shoulders, at least carry him bravely like Symonds and Alexander Pope. I begin to take a pride in that hope.

I shall be much interested to see your criticisms; you might perhaps send them to me. I believe you know that is not dangerous; one folly I have not – I am not touchy under criticism.

Lloyd and my wife both beg to be remembered; and Lloyd sends as a present a work of his own. I hope you feel flattered; for this is simply the first time he has ever given one away. I have to buy my own works, I can tell you. – Yours very sincerely,

    Robert Louis Stevenson.

To W. E. Henley

From about this time until 1885 Mr. Henley acted in an informal way as agent for R. L. S. in most of his dealings with publishers in London. “Both” in the second paragraph means, I think, Treasure Island and Silverado Squatters.

    [Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 1882.]

MY DEAR HENLEY, – I hope and hope for a long letter – soon I hope to be superseded by long talks – and it comes not. I remember I have never formally thanked you for that hundred quid, nor in general for the introduction to Chatto and Windus, and continue to bury you in copy as if you were my private secretary. Well, I am not unconscious of it all; but I think least said is often best, generally best; gratitude is a tedious sentiment, it’s not ductile, not dramatic.

If Chatto should take both, cui dedicare? I am running out of dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is stranded. Treasure Island, if it comes out, and I mean it shall, of course goes to Lloyd. Lemme see, I have now dedicated to

W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley].

S. C. [Sidney Colvin].

T. S. [Thomas Stevenson].

Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson].

There remain: C. B., the Williamses – you know they were the parties who stuck up for us about our marriage, and Mrs. W. was my guardian angel, and our Best Man and Bridesmaid rolled in one, and the only third of the wedding party – my sister-in-law, who is booked for Prince Otto– Jenkin I suppose some time – George Meredith, the only man of genius of my acquaintance, and then I believe I’ll have to take to the dead, the immortal memory business.

Talking of Meredith, I have just re-read for the third and fourth time The Egoist. When I shall have read it the sixth or seventh, I begin to see I shall know about it. You will be astonished when you come to re-read it; I had no idea of the matter – human, red matter he has contrived to plug and pack into that strange and admirable book. Willoughby is, of course, a pure discovery; a complete set of nerves, not heretofore examined, and yet running all over the human body – a suit of nerves. Clara is the best girl ever I saw anywhere. Vernon is almost as good. The manner and the faults of the book greatly justify themselves on further study. Only Dr. Middleton does not hang together; and Ladies Busshe and Culmer sont des monstruosités. Vernon’s conduct makes a wonderful odd contrast with Daniel Deronda’s. I see more and more that Meredith is built for immortality.

Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an immortalet, claims some attention. The Woman killed with Kindness is one of the most striking novels – not plays, though it’s more of a play than anything else of his – I ever read. He had such a sweet, sound soul, the old boy. The death of the two pirates in Fortune by Sea and Land is a document. He had obviously been present, and heard Purser and Clinton take death by the beard with similar braggadocios. Purser and Clinton, names of pirates; Scarlet and Bobbington, names of highwaymen. He had the touch of names, I think. No man I ever knew had such a sense, such a tact, for English nomenclature: Rainsforth, Lacy, Audley, Forrest, Acton, Spencer, Frankford – so his names run.

Byron not only wrote Don Juan; he called Joan of Arc “a fanatical strumpet.” These are his words. I think the double shame, first to a great poet, second to an English noble, passes words.

Here is a strange gossip. – I am yours loquaciously,

    R. L. S.

My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel examination, an exanimation I may call it, had this brave result. Taïaut! Hillo! Hey! Stand by! Avast! Hurrah!

To Mrs. T. Stevenson

    [Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 9, 1882.]

MY DEAR MOTHER, – Herewith please find belated birthday present. Fanny has another.

My dear mother, how can I keep up with your breathless changes? Innerleithen, Cramond, Bridge of Allan, Dunblane, Selkirk. I lean to Cramond, but I shall be pleased anywhere, any respite from Davos; never mind, it has been a good, though a dear lesson. Now, with my improved health, if I can pass the summer, I believe I shall be able no more to exceed, no more to draw on you. It is time I sufficed for myself indeed. And I believe I can.

I am still far from satisfied about Fanny; she is certainly better, but it is by fits a good deal, and the symptoms continue, which should not be. I had her persuaded to leave without me this very day (Saturday 8th), but the disclosure of my mismanagement broke up that plan; she would not leave me lest I should mismanage more. I think this an unfair revenge; but I have been so bothered that I cannot struggle. All Davos has been drinking our wine. During the month of March, three litres a day were drunk – O it is too sickening – and that is only a specimen. It is enough to make any one a misanthrope, but the right thing is to hate the donkey that was duped – which I devoutly do.

I have this winter finished Treasure Island, written the preface to the Studies, a small book about the Inland Voyage size, The Silverado Squatters, and over and above that upwards of ninety (90) Cornhill pages of magazine work. No man can say I have been idle. – Your affectionate son,

    R. L. Stevenson.

To R. A. M. Stevenson

    [Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, April 1882.]

MY DEAR BOB, – Yours received. I have received a communication by same mail from my mother, clamouring for news, which I must answer as soon as I’ve done this. Of course, I shall paint your game in lively colours.

I hope to get away from here – let me not speak of it ungratefully – from here – by Thursday at latest. I am indeed much better; but a slip of the foot may still cast me back. I must walk circumspectly yet awhile. But O to be able to go out and get wet, and not spit blood next day!

Yes, I remember the enfantement of the Arabian Nights; the first idea of all was the handsome cabs, which I communicated to you in St. Leonard’s Terrace drawing-room. That same afternoon the Prince de Galles and the Suicide Club were invented; and several more now forgotten. I must try to start ’em again.

Lloyd I believe is to be a printer – in the meantime he confines himself to being an expense. He is a first-rate lad for all that. He is now interrupting me about twice to the line, which does not condooce to clarity, I’m afraid.

Fanny is still far from well, quite far from well. My faith is in the Pirate.

I enclose all my artistic works; they are woodcuts – I cut them with a knife out of blocks of wood: I am a wood-engraver; I aaaam a wooooood engraaaaver. Lloyd then prints ’em: are they not fun? I doat on them; in my next venture, I am going to have colour printing; it will be very laborious, six blocks to cut for each picter, but the result would be pyramidal.

If I get through the summer, I settle in Autumn in le pays de France; I believe in the Brittany and become a Snoozer. You will come and snooze awhile won’t you, and try and get Louisa to join.

Pepys was a decent fellow; singularly like Charles Baxter, by the way, in every character of mind and taste, and not unlike him in face. I did not mean I had been too just to him but not just enough to bigger swells. I would rather have known Pepys than the whole jing-bang; I doat on him as a card to know.

We shall be pretty poor at the start, of course, but I guess we can haul through. Only intending visitors to the Brittannic Castle must not look for nightingales’ tongues. When next you see the form of the jeune et beau pray give him my love, when I come to Weybridge, I’ll hope to see him. – Ever yours affectionately,