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

    R. L. Stevenson, 1er Roi de Béotie.
    Pour copie conforme,
    Le sécrétaire Royale, W. P. Bannatyne.

To Trevor Haddon

The few remaining letters of this period are dated from Edinburgh and from Stobo Manse, near Peebles. This, in the matter of weather and health, was the most disappointing of all Stevenson’s attempts at summer residence in Scotland. Before going to Stobo he made a short excursion with his father to Lochearnhead; and later spent some three weeks with me at Kingussie, but from neither place wrote any letters worth preserving. The following was addressed to a young art-student who had read the works of Walt Whitman after reading Stevenson’s essay on him, and being staggered by some things he found there had written asking for further comment and counsel.

    17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh [June 1882].

DEAR SIR, – If I have in any way disquieted you, I believe you are justified in bidding me stand and deliver a remedy if there be one: which is the point.

1st I am of your way of thinking: that a good deal of Whitman is as well taken once but 2nd I quite believe that it is better to have everything brought before one in books. In that way the problems reach us when we are cool, and not warped by the sophistries of an instant passion. Life itself presents its problems with a terrible directness and at the very hour when we are least able to judge calmly. Hence this Pisgah sight of all things, off the top of a book, is only a rational preparation for the ugly grips that must follow.

But 3rd, no man can settle another’s life for him. It is the test of the nature and courage of each that he shall decide it for himself. Each in turn must meet and beard the Sphynx. Some things however I must say – and you will treat them as things read in a book for you to accept or refuse as you shall see most fit.

Go not out of your way to make difficulties. Hang back from life while you are young. Shoulder no responsibilities. You do not yet know how far you can trust yourself – it will not be very far, or you are more fortunate than I am. If you can keep your sexual desires in order, be glad, be very glad. Some day, when you meet your fate, you will be free, and the better man. Don’t make a boy and girl friendship that which it is not. Look at Burns: that is where amourettes conduct an average good man; and a tepid marriage is only a more selfish amourette – in the long run. Whatever you do, see that you don’t sacrifice a woman; that’s where all imperfect loves conduct us. At the same time, if you can make it convenient to be chaste, for God’s sake, avoid the primness of your virtue; hardness to a poor harlot is a sin lower than the ugliest unchastity.

Never be in a hurry anyhow.

There is my sermon.

Certainly, you cannot too earnestly go in for the Greek; and about any art, think last of what pays, first of what pleases. It is in that spirit only that an art can be made. Progress in art is made by learning to enjoy it. That which seems a little dull at first, is found to contain the elements of pleasure more largely though more quietly commingled.

I return to my sermon for one more word: Natural desire gives you no right to any particular woman: that comes with love only, and don’t be too ready to believe in love: there are many shams: the true love will not allow you to reason about it.

It is your fault if I appear so pulpiteering.

Wishing you well in life and art, and that you may long be young. – Believe me, yours truly,

    Robert Louis Stevenson.

To Edmund Gosse

    [Edinburgh] Sunday [June 1882].

… Note turned up, but no gray opuscule, which, however, will probably turn up to-morrow in time to go out with me to Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire, where, if you can make it out, you will be a good soul to pay a visit. I shall write again about the opuscule; and about Stobo, which I have not seen since I was thirteen, though my memory speaks delightfully of it.

I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have written before, inter alia, to tell you that I had visited my murder place and found living traditions not yet in any printed book; most startling. I also got photographs taken, but the negatives have not yet turned up. I lie on the sofa to write this, whence the pencil; having slept yesterday – 1 + 4 + 7½ = 12½ hours and being (9 a. m.) very anxious to sleep again. The arms of Porpus, quoi! A poppy gules, etc.

From Stobo you can conquer Peebles and Selkirk, or to give them their old decent names, Tweeddale and Ettrick. Think of having been called Tweeddale, and being called Peebles! Did I ever tell you my skit on my own travel books? We understand that Mr. Stevenson has in the press another volume of unconventional travels: Personal Adventures in Peeblesshire. Je la trouve méchante. – Yours affectionately,

    R. L. S.

Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers? I did, and ça-y-est.

To Trevor Haddon

    17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh [June 1882].

MY DEAR SIR, – I see nothing “cheekie” in anything you have done. Your letters have naturally given me much pleasure, for it seems to me you are a pretty good young fellow, as young fellows go; and if I add that you remind me of myself, you need not accuse me of retrospective vanity.

You now know an address which will always find me; you might let me have your address in London; I do not promise anything – for I am always overworked in London – but I shall, if I can arrange it, try to see you.

I am afraid I am not so rigid on chastity: you are probably right in your view; but this seems to me a dilemma with two horns, the real curse of a man’s life in our state of society – and a woman’s too, although, for many reasons, it appears somewhat differently with the enslaved sex. By your “fate” I believe I meant your marriage, or that love at least which may befall any one of us at the shortest notice and overthrow the most settled habits and opinions. I call that your fate, because then, if not before, you can no longer hang back, but must stride out into life and act. – Believe me, yours sincerely,

    Robert Louis Stevenson.

To Edmund Gosse

Mr. Gosse had mistaken the name of the Peeblesshire manse, and is reproached accordingly. “Gray” is Mr. Gosse’s volume on that poet in Mr. Morley’s series of English Men of Letters.

    Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire [July 1882].

I would shoot you, but I have no bow:
The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo.
As Gallic Kids complain of “Bobo,”
I mourn for your mistake of Stobo.

First, we shall be gone in September. But if you think of coming in August, my mother will hunt for you with pleasure. We should all be overjoyed – though Stobo it could not be, as it is but a kirk and manse, but possibly somewhere within reach. Let us know.

Second, I have read your Gray with care. A more difficult subject I can scarce fancy; it is crushing; yet I think you have managed to shadow forth a man, and a good man too; and honestly, I doubt if I could have done the same. This may seem egoistic; but you are not such a fool as to think so. It is the natural expression of real praise. The book as a whole is readable; your subject peeps every here and there out of the crannies like a shy violet – he could do no more – and his aroma hangs there.

I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence brevity. Answer about the house. – Yours affectionately,

    R. L. S.

To W. E. Henley

In the heat of conversation Stevenson was accustomed to invent any number of fictitious personages, generally Scottish, and to give them names and to set them playing their imaginary parts in life, reputable or otherwise. Many of these inventions, including Mr. Pirbright Smith and Mr. Pegfurth Bannatyne, were a kind of incarnations of himself, or of special aspects of himself; they assumed for him and his friends a kind of substantial existence; and constantly in talk, and occasionally in writing, he would keep up the play of reporting their sayings and doings quite gravely, as in the following: —

    [Stobo Manse, July 1882.]

DEAR HENLEY… I am not worth an old damn. I am also crushed by bad news of Symonds; his good lung going; I cannot help reading it as a personal hint; God help us all! Really, I am not very fit for work; but I try, try, and nothing comes of it.

I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, damp, and mauchy; the rain it raineth every day; and the glass goes tol-de-rol-de-riddle.

Yet it’s a bonny bit; I wish I could live in it, but doubt. I wish I was well away somewhere else. I feel like flight some days; honour bright.

Pirbright Smith is well. Old Mr. Pegfurth Bannatyne is here staying at a country inn. His whole baggage is a pair of socks and a book in a fishing-basket; and he borrows even a rod from the landlord. He walked here over the hills from Sanquhar, “singin’,” he says, “like a mavis.” I naturally asked him about Hazlitt. “He wouldnae take his drink,” he said, “a queer, queer fellow.” But did not seem further communicative. He says he has become “releegious,” but still swears like a trooper. I asked him if he had no headquarters. “No likely,” said he. He says he is writing his memoirs, which will be interesting. He once met Borrow; they boxed; “and Geordie,” says the old man chuckling, “gave me the damnedest hiding.” Of Wordsworth he remarked, “He wasnae sound in the faith, sir, and a milk-blooded, blue-spectacled bitch forbye. But his po’mes are grand – there’s no denying that.” I asked him what his book was. “I havenae mind,” said he – that was his only book! On turning it out, I found it was one of my own, and on showing it to him, he remembered it at once. “O aye,” he said, “I mind now. It’s pretty bad; ye’ll have to do better than that, chieldy,” and chuckled, chuckled. He is a strange old figure, to be sure. He cannot endure Pirbright Smith – “a mere æsthatic,” he said. “Pooh!” “Fishin’ and releegion – these are my aysthatics,” he wound up.

I thought this would interest you, so scribbled it down. I still hope to get more out of him about Hazlitt, though he utterly pooh-poohed the idea of writing H.’s life. “Ma life now,” he said, “there’s been queer things in it.” He is seventy-nine! but may well last to a hundred! – Yours ever,

    R. L. S.

END OF VOL. XXIII

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