Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson Volume 1 Part 10

SWANSTON. END OF JUNE, 1875.

THURSDAY. - This day fortnight I shall fall or conquer. Outside the rain still soaks; but now and again the hilltop looks through the mist vaguely. I am very comfortable, very sleepy, and very much satisfied with the arrangements of Providence.

SAt.u.r.dAY - NO, SUNDAY, 12.45. - Just been - not grinding, alas! - I couldn't - but doing a bit of Fontainebleau. I don't think I'll be plucked. I am not sure though - I am so busy, what with this d-d law, and this Fontainebleau always at my elbow, and three plays (three, think of that!) and a story, all crying out to me, 'Finish, finish, make an entire end, make us strong, shapely, viable creatures!' It's enough to put a man crazy. Moreover, I have my thesis given out now, which is a fifth (is it fifth? I can't count) inc.u.mbrance.

SUNDAY. - I've been to church, and am not depressed - a great step.

I was at that beautiful church my PEt.i.t POEME EN PROSE was about.

It is a little cruciform place, with heavy cornices and string course to match, and a steep slate roof. The small kirkyard is full of old grave-stones. One of a Frenchman from Dunkerque - I suppose he died prisoner in the military prison hard by - and one, the most pathetic memorial I ever saw, a poor school-slate, in a wooden frame, with the inscription cut into it evidently by the father's own hand. In church, old Mr. Torrence preached - over eighty, and a relic of times forgotten, with his black thread gloves and mild old foolish face. One of the nicest parts of it was to see John Inglis, the greatest man in Scotland, our Justice- General, and the only born lawyer I ever heard, listening to the piping old body, as though it had all been a revelation, grave and respectful. - Ever your faithful

R. L. S.

CHAPTER III - ADVOCATE AND AUTHOR, EDINBURGH - PARIS - FONTAINEBLEAU, JULY 1875-JULY 1879

Letter: 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.

Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL

CHATEAU 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 ca.n.a.l, 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 gra.s.s 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 h.o.a.r, 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 G.o.d, but death is dire, And death is at the door - We'll walk the woods no more.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN

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 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); 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 ill.u.s.tration; 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 ma.n.u.scribing; 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 500,00 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 n.o.body 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 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 circ.u.mstances 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 BOSSELIN, all sorts of rubbish, APROPOS of BURNS, COMMINES, JUVENAL 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 BERANGER, which is certainly a d-d shame. I always comforted myself with that when my conscience p.r.i.c.ked 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.

Letter: TO CHARLES BAXTER