Read Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Online
Authors: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
To Sidney Colvin
[
Edinburgh, end of July 1875.
]
MY DEAR COLVIN, — Herewith you receive the rest of Henley’s hospital work. He was much pleased by what you said of him, and asked me to forward these to you for your opinion. One poem, the
Spring Sorrow
, seems to me the most beautiful. I thank God for this
petit bout de consolation
, that by Henley’s own account, this one more lovely thing in the world is not altogether without some trace of my influence: let me say that I have been something sympathetic which the mother found and contemplated while she yet carried it in her womb. This, in my profound discouragement, is a great thing for me; if I cannot do good with myself, at least, it seems, I can help others better inspired; I am at least a skilful accoucheur. My discouragement is from many causes: among others the re-reading of my Italian story. Forgive me, Colvin, but I cannot agree with you; it seems green fruit to me, if not really unwholesome; it is profoundly feeble, damn its weakness! Moreover I stick over my
Fontainebleau
, it presents difficulties to me that I surmount slowly.
I am very busy with Béranger for the Britannica. Shall be up in town on Friday or Saturday. — Ever yours,
R. L. S.,
Advocate
.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
[
Chez Siron, Barbizon, Seine et Marne, August 1875.
]
MY DEAR MOTHER, — I have been three days at a place called Grez, a pretty and very melancholy village on the plain. A low bridge of many arches choked with sedge; great fields of white and yellow water-lilies; poplars and willows innumerable; and about it all such an atmosphere of sadness and slackness, one could do nothing but get into the boat and out of it again, and yawn for bedtime.
Yesterday Bob and I walked home; it came on a very creditable thunderstorm; we were soon wet through; sometimes the rain was so heavy that one could only see by holding the hand over the eyes; and to crown all, we lost our way and wandered all over the place, and into the artillery range, among broken trees, with big shot lying about among the rocks. It was near dinner-time when we got to Barbizon; and it is supposed that we walked from twenty-three to twenty-five miles, which is not bad for the Advocate, who is not tired this morning. I was very glad to be back again in this dear place, and smell the wet forest in the morning.
Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet as we did.
Why don’t you write? I have no more to say. — Ever your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Sitwell
At this time Stevenson was much occupied, as were several young writers his contemporaries, with imitating the artificial 188 forms of early French verse. Only one of his attempts, I believe, has been preserved, besides the two contained in this letter. The second is a variation on a theme of Banville’s.
Château Renard, Loiret, August 1875.
I have been walking these last days from place to place; and it does make it hot for walking with a sack in this weather. I am burned in horrid patches of red; my nose, I fear, is going to take the lead in colour; Simpson is all flushed, as if he were seen by a sunset. I send you here two rondeaux; I don’t suppose they will amuse anybody but me; but this measure, short and yet intricate, is just what I desire; and I have had some good times walking along the glaring roads, or down the poplar alley of the great canal, pitting my own humour to this old verse.
Far have you come, my lady, from the town, And far from all your sorrows, if you please, To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, And in green meadows lay your body down. To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; Far have you come, my lady, from the town, And far from all your sorrows, if you please. Here in this seaboard land of old renown, In meadow grass go wading to the knees; Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; Far have you come, my lady, from the town. |
Nous n’irons plus au bois
We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire, To weep for old desire And things that are no more. The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire, And death is at the door — We’ll walk the woods no more. |
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Sitwell
The special mood or occasion of unaccustomed bitterness which prompted this rhapsody has passed from memory beyond recall. The date must be after his return from his second excursion to Fontainebleau.
[
Swanston, late Summer 1875
]
Thursday.
I have been staying in town, and could not write a word. It is a fine strong night, full of wind; the trees are all crying out in the darkness; funny to think of the birds asleep outside, on the tossing branches, the little bright eyes closed, the brave wings folded, the little hearts that beat so hard and thick (so much harder and thicker than ever human heart) all stilled and quieted in deep slumber, in the midst of this noise and turmoil. Why, it will be as much as I can do to sleep in here in my walled room; so loud and jolly the wind sounds through the open window. The unknown places of the night invite the travelling fancy; I like to think of the sleeping towns and sleeping farm-houses and cottages, all the world over, here by the white road poplar-lined, there by the clamorous surf. Isn’t that a good dormitive?
Saturday.
— I cannot tell how I feel, who can ever? I feel like a person in a novel of George Sand’s; I feel I desire to go out of the house, and begin life anew in the cool blue night; never to come back here; never, never. Only to go on for ever by sunny day and grey day, by 190 bright night and foul, by high-way and by-way, town and hamlet, until somewhere by a road-side or in some clean inn clean death opened his arms to me and took me to his quiet heart for ever. If soon, good; if late, well then, late — there would be many a long bright mile behind me, many a goodly, many a serious sight; I should die ripe and perfect, and take my garnered experience with me into the cool, sweet earth. For I have died already and survived a death; I have seen the grass grow rankly on my grave; I have heard the train of mourners come weeping and go laughing away again. And when I was alone there in the kirk-yard, and the birds began to grow familiar with the grave-stone, I have begun to laugh also, and laughed and laughed until night-flowers came out above me. I have survived myself, and somehow live on, a curious changeling, a merry ghost; and do not mind living on, finding it not unpleasant; only had rather, a thousandfold, died and been done with the whole damned show for ever. It is a strange feeling at first to survive yourself, but one gets used to that as to most things.
Et puis
, is it not one’s own fault? Why did not one lie still in the grave? Why rise again among men’s troubles and toils, where the wicked wag their shock beards and hound the weary out to labour? When I was safe in prison, and stone walls and iron bars were an hermitage about me, who told me to burst the mild constraint and go forth where the sun dazzles, and the wind pierces, and the loud world sounds and jangles all through the weary day? I mind an old print of a hermit coming out of a great wood towards evening and shading his bleared eyes to see all the kingdoms of the earth before his feet, where towered cities and castled hills, and stately rivers, and good corn lands made one great chorus of temptation for his weak spirit, and I think I am the hermit, and would to God I had dwelt ever in the wood of penitence — —
R. L. S.
To Sidney Colvin
The
Burns
herein mentioned is an article undertaken in the early summer of the same year for the Encyclopædia Britannica. In the end Stevenson’s work was thought to convey a view of the poet too frankly critical, and too little in accordance with the accepted Scotch tradition; and the publishers, duly paying him for his labours, transferred the task to Professor Shairp. The volume here announced on the three Scottish eighteenth-century poets unfortunately never came into being. The
Charles of Orleans
essay appeared in the Cornhill Magazine for December of the following year; that on Villon (with the story on the same theme,
A Lodging for the Night
) not until the autumn of 1877. The essay on Béranger referred to at the end of the letter was one commissioned and used by the editor of the Encyclopædia;
Spring
was a prose poem, of which the manuscript, sent to me at Cambridge, was unluckily lost in the confusion of a change of rooms.
[
Edinburgh, Autumn 1875.
]
MY DEAR COLVIN, — Thanks for your letter and news. No — my
Burns
is not done yet, it has led me so far afield that I cannot finish it; every time I think I see my way to an end, some new game (or perhaps wild goose) starts up, and away I go. And then, again, to be plain, I shirk the work of the critical part, shirk it as a man shirks a long jump. It is awful to have to express and differentiate
Burns
in a column or two. O golly, I say, you know, it
can’t
be done at the money. All the more as I’m going to write a book about it.
Ramsay, Fergusson, and Burns: an Essay
(or
a critical essay?
but then I’m going to give lives of the three gentlemen, only the gist of the book is the criticism) by Robert Louis Stevenson, Advocate. How’s that for cut and dry? And I
could
write this book. Unless I deceive myself, I could even write it pretty adequately. I feel as if I was really in it, and knew the game thoroughly. You see what comes of trying to write an essay on Burns in ten columns.
Meantime, when I have done Burns, I shall finish Charles of Orleans (who is in a good way, about the fifth month, I should think, and promises to be a fine healthy child, better than any of his elder brothers for a while); 192 and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a very essential part of my
Ramsay-Fergusson-Burns
; I mean, is a note in it, and will recur again and again for comparison and illustration; then, perhaps, I may try Fontainebleau, by the way. But so soon as Charles of Orleans is polished off, and immortalised for ever, he and his pipings, in a solid imperishable shrine of R. L. S., my true aim and end will be this little book. Suppose I could jerk you out 100 Cornhill pages; that would easy make 200 pages of decent form; and then thickish paper — eh? would that do? I dare say it could be made bigger; but I know what 100 pages of copy, bright consummate copy, imply behind the scenes of weary manuscribing; I think if I put another nothing to it, I should not be outside the mark; and 100 Cornhill pages of 500 words means, I fancy (but I never was good at figures), means 50,000 words. There’s a prospect for an idle young gentleman who lives at home at ease! The future is thick with inky fingers. And then perhaps nobody would publish.
Ah nom de dieu!
What do you think of all this? will it paddle, think you?
I hope this pen will write; it is the third I have tried.
About coming up, no, that’s impossible; for I am worse than a bankrupt. I have at the present six shillings and a penny; I have a sounding lot of bills for Christmas; new dress suit, for instance, the old one having gone for Parliament House; and new white shirts to live up to my new profession; I’m as gay and swell and gummy as can be; only all my boots leak; one pair water, and the other two simple black mud; so that my rig is more for the eye than a very solid comfort to myself. That is my budget. Dismal enough, and no prospect of any coin coming in; at least for months. So that here I am, I almost fear, for the winter; certainly till after Christmas, and then it depends on how my bills “turn out” whether it shall not be till spring. So, meantime, I must whistle in my cage. My cage is better by 193 one thing; I am an Advocate now. If you ask me why that makes it better, I would remind you that in the most distressing circumstances a little consequence goes a long way, and even bereaved relatives stand on precedence round the coffin. I idle finely. I read Boswell’s
Life of Johnson
, Martin’s
History of France
,
Allan Ramsay
,
Olivier Basselin
, all sorts of rubbish
àpropos
of
Burns
,
Commines
,
Juvénal des Ursins
, etc. I walk about the Parliament House five forenoons a week, in wig and gown; I have either a five or six mile walk, or an hour or two hard skating on the rink, every afternoon, without fail.
I have not written much; but, like the seaman’s parrot in the tale, I have thought a deal. You have never, by the way, returned me either
Spring
or
Béranger
, which is certainly a d — — d shame. I always comforted myself with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter to you. “Thus conscience” — O no, that’s not appropriate in this connection. — Ever yours,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
I say, is there any chance of your coming north this year? Mind you that promise is now more respectable for age than is becoming.
R. L. S.
To Charles Baxter
The following epistle in verse, with its mixed flavour of Burns and Horace, gives a lively picture of winter forenoons spent in the Parliament House: —
[
Edinburgh, October 1875.
]
Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green, Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean, An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’, To pass the winter. Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in, An’ snaws ahint her. I’ve seen’s hae days to fricht us a’, The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw, The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw, An’ half-congealin’, The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw Frae blae Brunteelan’. I’ve seen’s been unco sweir to sally, And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally, Seen’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally For near a minute — Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley, The deil was in it! — Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t! The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate, Wi’ cauld an’ weet, An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late, Bicker oor feet. And at the Court, tae, aft I saw Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’ In weeg an’ goon, To crack o’ what ye wull but Law The hale forenoon. That muckle ha’, maist like a kirk, I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk Like ghaists frae Hell, But whether Christian ghaists or Turk Deil ane could tell. The three fires lunted in the gloom, The wind blew like the blast o’ doom, The rain upo’ the roof abune Played Peter Dick — — Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room Your teeth to pick! But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you, The ling-lang lanely winter through, Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true To lore Horatian, We aye the ither bottle drew To inclination. Sae let us in the comin’ days Stand sicker on our auncient ways — The strauchtest road in a’ the maze Since Eve ate apples; An’ let the winter weet our cla’es — We’ll weet our thrapples. |