V ALPINE WINTERS AND HIGHLAND SUMMERS, AUGUST 1880–OCTOBER 1882 (continued 2)

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 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 yesterdays—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 Edmund Gosse

Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire [July 1882].

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

[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.