Robert Stevenson - The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 24

Tell me something of your work, and your wife. – My dear fellow, I am yours ever,

My wife begs to be remembered to both of you; I cannot say as much for my dog, who has never seen you, but he would like, on general principles, to bite you.

By this time Treasure Island was out in book form, and the following is in reply to some reflections on its seamanship which had been conveyed to him through Mr. Henley: —

MY DEAR LAD, – … Of course, my seamanship is jimmy: did I not beseech you I know not how often to find me an ancient mariner – and you, whose own wife’s own brother is one of the ancientest, did nothing for me? As for my seamen, did Runciman ever know eighteenth century Buccaneers? No? Well, no more did I. But I have known and sailed with seamen too, and lived and eaten with them; and I made my put-up shot in no great ignorance, but as a put-up thing has to be made, i. e. to be coherent and picturesque, and damn the expense. Are they fairly lively on the wires? Then, favour me with your tongues. Are they wooden, and dim, and no sport? Then it is I that am silent, otherwise not. The work, strange as it may sound in the ear, is not a work of realism. The next thing I shall hear is that the etiquette is wrong in Otto’s Court! With a warrant, and I mean it to be so, and the whole matter never cost me half a thought. I make these paper people to please myself, and Skelt, and God Almighty, and with no ulterior purpose. Yet am I mortal myself; for, as I remind you, I begged for a supervising mariner. However, my heart is in the right place. I have been to sea, but I never crossed the threshold of a court; and the courts shall be the way I want ’em.

I’m glad to think I owe you the review that pleased me best of all the reviews I ever had; the one I liked best before that was – ’s on the Arabians . These two are the flowers of the collection, according to me. To live reading such reviews and die eating ortolans – sich is my aspiration.

Whenever you come you will be equally welcome. I am trying to finish Otto ere you shall arrive, so as to take and be able to enjoy a well-earned – O yes, a well-earned – holiday. Longman fetched by Otto : is it a spoon or a spoilt horn? Momentous, if the latter; if the former, a spoon to dip much praise and pudding, and to give, I do think, much pleasure. The last part, now in hand, much smiles upon me. – Ever yours,

MY DEAR MOTHER, – You must not blame me too much for my silence; I am over head and ears in work, and do not know what to do first. I have been hard at Otto , hard at Silverado proofs, which I have worked over again to a tremendous extent; cutting, adding, rewriting, until some of the worst chapters of the original are now, to my mind, as good as any. I was the more bound to make it good, as I had such liberal terms; it’s not for want of trying if I have failed.

I got your letter on my birthday; indeed, that was how I found it out about three in the afternoon, when postie comes. Thank you for all you said. As for my wife, that was the best investment ever made by man; but “in our branch of the family” we seem to marry well. I, considering my piles of work, am wonderfully well; I have not been so busy for I know not how long. I hope you will send me the money I asked however, as I am not only penniless, but shall remain so in all human probability for some considerable time. I have got in the mass of my expectations; and the £100 which is to float us on the new year cannot come due till Silverado is all ready; I am delaying it myself for the moment; then will follow the binders and the travellers and an infinity of other nuisances; and only at the last, the jingling-tingling.

Do you know that Treasure Island has appeared? In the November number of Henley’s Magazine, a capital number anyway, there is a funny publisher’s puff of it for your book; also a bad article by me. Lang dotes on Treasure Island : “Except Tom Sawyer and the Odyssey ,” he writes, “I never liked any romance so much.” I will inclose the letter though. The Bogue is angelic, although very dirty. It has rained – at last! It was jolly cold when the rain came.

I was overjoyed to hear such good news of my father. Let him go on at that! – Ever your affectionate,

Of the “small ships” here mentioned, Fontainebleau and The Character of Dogs are well known: A Misadventure in France is probably a draft of the Epilogue to an Inland Voyage , not published till five years later. The Travelling Companion (of which I remember little except that its scene was partly laid in North Italy and that a publisher to whom it was shown declared it a work of genius but indecent) was abandoned some two years later, as set forth on p. 193 of this volume.

Whereas Sidney Colvin, more generally known as the Guardian Angel, has vanished from the gaze of Mr. R. L. Stevenson, the above reward is offered as a means to discover the whereabouts of the misguided gentleman. He was known as a man of irregular habits, and his rowdy exterior would readily attract attention in a crowd. He was never known to resist a drink; whisky was his favourite dish. If any one will bring him to Mr. Stevenson’s back area door, dead or alive, the greatest rejoicing will be felt by a bereaved and uneasy family.

Also, wherefore not a word, dear Colvin? My news is: splendid health; great success of the Black Arrow ; another tale demanded, readers this time (the Lord lighten them!) pleased; a great variety of small ships launched or still upon the stocks – (also, why not send the annotated proof of Fontainebleau ? ce n’est pas d’un bon camarade); a paper on dogs for Carr; 7 7 Mr. J. Comyns Carr, at this time editing the English Illustrated Magazine. a paper called Old Mortality , a paper called A Misadventure in France , a tale entituled The Travelling Companion ; Otto arrested one foot in air; and last and not least, a great demand for news of Sidney Colvin and others. Herewith I pause, for why should I cast pearls before swine?

A word, Guardian Angel. You are much loved in this house, not by me only, but by the wife. The Wogg himself is anxious. – Ever yours affectionately,

MY DEAR COLVIN, – I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no shame. I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self-righteous spirit.

I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy’s ear.

I suppose you heard of Ferrier’s death: my oldest friend, except Bob. It has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am strangely concerned about it.

My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world – nest there like mavises.

(with the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyères, he has been interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden which he honoured for so long with his poetic presence.)