- Yours, dear Professor, academically,
R. L. S.
I am soon to be moved to Royat; an invalid valet goes with me! I got him cheap - second-hand.
In turning over my late friend Ferrier's commonplace book, I find three poems from VIOL AND FLUTE copied out in his hand: 'When Flower-time,' 'Love in Winter,' and 'Mistrust.' They are capital too. But I thought the fact would interest you. He was no poetist either; so it means the more. 'Love in W.!' I like the best.
Letter: TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON
HOTEL CHABASSIERE, ROYAT, [JULY 1884].
MY DEAR PEOPLE, - The weather has been demoniac; I have had a skiff of cold, and was finally obliged to take to bed entirely; to-day, however, it has cleared, the sun shines, and I begin to
(SEVERAL DAYS AFTER.)
I have been out once, but now am back in bed. I am better, and keep better, but the weather is a mere injustice. The imitation of Edinburgh is, at times, deceptive; there is a note among the chimney pots that suggests Howe Street; though I think the shrillest spot in Christendom was not upon the Howe Street side, but in front, just under the Miss Graemes' big chimney stack. It had a fine alto character - a sort of bleat that used to divide the marrow in my joints - say in the wee, slack hours. That music is now lost to us by rebuilding; another air that I remember, not regret, was the solo of the gas-burner in the little front room; a knickering, flighty, fleering, and yet spectral cackle. I mind it above all on winter afternoons, late, when the window was blue and spotted with rare rain-drops, and, looking out, the cold evening was seen blue all over, with the lamps of Queen's and Frederick's Street dotting it with yellow, and flaring east-ward in the squalls. Heavens, how unhappy I have been in such circumstances - I, who have now positively forgotten the colour of unhappiness; who am full like a fed ox, and dull like a fresh turf, and have no more spiritual life, for good or evil, than a French bagman.
We are at Chabassiere's, for of course it was nonsense to go up the hill when we could not walk.
The child's poems in a far extended form are likely soon to be heard of - which Cummy I dare say will be glad to know. They will make a book of about one hundred pages. - Ever your affectionate,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN
[ROYAT, JULY 1884.]
. . . HERE is a quaint thing, I have read ROBINSON, COLONEL JACK, MOLL FLANDERS, MEMOIRS OF A CAVALIER, HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE, HISTORY OF THE GREAT STORM, SCOTCH CHURCH AND UNION. And there my knowledge of Defoe ends - except a book, the name of which I forget, about Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not write, and could not have written if he wanted. To which of these does B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish Church. I jest; for, of course, I KNOW it must be a book I have never read, and which this makes me keen to read - I mean CAPTAIN SINGLETON. Can it be got and sent to me? If TREASURE ISLAND is at all like it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing T. I., as a mine for pirate tips. T. I. came out of Kingsley's AT LAST, where I got the Dead Man's Chest - and that was the seed - and out of the great Captain Johnson's HISTORY OF NOTORIOUS PIRATES. The scenery is Californian in part, and in part CHIC.
I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made man - till the next time.
R. L. STEVENSON.
If it was CAPTAIN SINGLETON, send it to me, won't you?
LATER. - My life dwindles into a kind of valley of the shadow picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as to-day) I must not speak above my breath, that to play patience, or to see my wife play it, is become the be-all and the end-all of my dim career. To add to my gaiety, I may write letters, but there are few to answer. Patience and Poesy are thus my rod and staff; with these I not unpleasantly support my days.
I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable.