The Travelling Companion.

  The Torn Surplice (not final title).

  Yours ever,

  R. L. S.

  To Dr. Alexander Japp

  Dr. Japp (known in literature at this date and for some time afterwards under his pseudonym H. A. Page; later under his own name the biographer of De Quincey) had written to R. L. S. criticising statements of fact and opinion in his essay on Thoreau, and expressing the hope that they might meet and discuss their differences. In the interval between the last letter and this Stevenson with all his family had moved to Braemar.

  The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, Sunday [August 1881].

  MY DEAR SIR, — I should long ago have written to thank you for your kind and frank letter; but in my 322 state of health papers are apt to get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this (Sunday) morning.

  I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh; one visit to Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in that invaluable particular health; but if it should be at all possible for you to push on as far as Braemar, I believe you would find an attentive listener, and I can offer you a bed, a drive, and necessary food, etc.

  If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, I can promise you two things: First, I shall religiously revise what I have written, and bring out more clearly the point of view from which I regarded Thoreau; second, I shall in the Preface record your objection.

  The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such short paper is essentially only a section through a man) was this: I desired to look at the man through his books. Thus, for instance, when I mentioned his return to the pencil-making, I did it only in passing (perhaps I was wrong), because it seemed to me not an illustration of his principles, but a brave departure from them. Thousands of such there were I do not doubt; still, they might be hardly to my purpose, though, as you say so, some of them would be.

  Our difference as to pity I suspect was a logomachy of my making. No pitiful acts on his part would surprise me; I know he would be more pitiful in practice than most of the whiners; but the spirit of that practice would still seem to be unjustly described by the word pity.

  When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected of a sneaking unkindness for my subject; but you may be sure, sir, I would give up most other things to be so good a man as Thoreau. Even my knowledge of him leads me thus far.

  Should you find yourself able to push on to Braemar — it may even be on your way — believe me, your visit will be most welcome. The weather is cruel, but the place 323 is, as I dare say you know, the very “wale” of Scotland — bar Tummelside. — Yours very sincerely,

  Robert Louis Stevenson.

  To Mrs. Sitwell

  The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, [August 1881].

  ... Well, I have been pretty mean, but I have not yet got over my cold so completely as to have recovered much energy. It is really extraordinary that I should have recovered as well as I have in this blighting weather; the wind pipes, the rain comes in squalls, great black clouds are continually overhead, and it is as cold as March. The country is delightful, more cannot be said; it is very beautiful, a perfect joy when we get a blink of sun to see it in. The Queen knows a thing or two, I perceive; she has picked out the finest habitable spot in Britain.

  I have done no work, and scarce written a letter for three weeks, but I think I should soon begin again; my cough is now very trifling. I eat well, and seem to have lost but little flesh in the meanwhile. I was wonderfully well before I caught this horrid cold. I never thought I should have been as well again; I really enjoyed life and work; and, of course, I now have a good hope that this may return.

  I suppose you heard of our ghost stories. They are somewhat delayed by my cold and a bad attack of laziness, embroidery, etc., under which Fanny had been some time prostrate. It is horrid that we can get no better weather. I did not get such good accounts of you as might have been. You must imitate me. I am now one of the most conscientious people at trying to get better you ever saw. I have a white hat, it is much admired; also a plaid, and a heavy stoop; so I take my walks abroad, witching the world.

  Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under the blow. — Ever your faithful friend,

  R. L. S.

  To Edmund Gosse

  The Cottage (late the late Miss M’Gregor’s),

  Castleton of Braemar, August 10, 1881.

  MY DEAR GOSSE, — Come on the 24th, there is a dear fellow. Everybody else wants to come later, and it will be a godsend for, sir — Yours sincerely.

  You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, sir — Your obedient, humble servant.

  We have family worship in the home of, sir — Yours respectfully.

  Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also see) the maps of, sir — Yours in the Lord.

  A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of two before the house of, sir — Yours truly.

  The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the late Miss Macgregor and of, sir — Yours affectionately.

  It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know the halls of, sir — Yours emphatically.

  All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir — Yours ever.

  You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual collapse of, sir — Yours indeed.

  And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir — Yours,

  Robert Louis Stevenson.

  N.B. — Each of these clauses has to be read with extreme glibness, coming down whack upon the “Sir.” This is very important. The fine stylistic inspiration will else be lost.

  I commit the man who made, the man who sold, and the woman who supplied me with my present excruciating gilt nib to that place where the worm never dies.

  The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending 325 as it does to foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from the address, which would therefore run — The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar.

  To Edmund Gosse

  The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, August 19, 1881.

  If you had an uncle who was a sea captain and went to the North Pole, you had better bring his outfit. Verbum Sapientibus. I look towards you.

  R. L. Stevenson.

  To Edmund Gosse

  [Braemar, August 19, 1881.]

  MY DEAR WEG, — I have by an extraordinary drollery of Fortune sent off to you by this day’s post a P.C. inviting you to appear in sealskin. But this had reference to the weather, and not at all, as you may have been led to fancy, to our rustic raiment of an evening.

  As to that question, I would deal, in so far as in me lies, fairly with all men. We are not dressy people by nature; but it sometimes occurs to us to entertain angels. In the country, I believe, even angels may be decently welcomed in tweed; I have faced many great personages, for my own part, in a tasteful suit of sea-cloth with an end of carpet pending from my gullet. Still, we do maybe twice a summer burst out in the direction of blacks — and yet we do it seldom. In short, let your own heart decide, and the capacity of your portmanteau. If you came in camel’s hair, you would still, although conspicuous, be welcome.

  The sooner the better after Tuesday. — Yours ever,

  Robert Louis Stevenson.

  To W. E. Henley

  The following records the beginning of work upon Treasure Island, the name originally proposed for which was The Sea Cook: —

  [Braemar, August 25, 1881.]

  MY DEAR HENLEY, — Of course I am a rogue. Why, Lord, it’s known, man; but you should remember I have had a horrid cold. Now, I’m better, I think; and see here — nobody, not you, nor Lang, nor the devil, will hurry me with our crawlers. They are coming. Four of them are as good as done, and the rest will come when ripe; but I am now on another lay for the moment, purely owing to Lloyd, this one; but I believe there’s more coin in it than in any amount of crawlers: now, see here, The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Story for Boys.

  If this don’t fetch the kids, why, they have gone rotten since my day. Will you be surprised to learn that it is about Buccaneers, that it begins in the “Admiral Benbow” public-house on Devon coast, that it’s all about a map, and a treasure, and a mutiny, and a derelict ship, and a current, and a fine old Squire Trelawney (the real Tre, purged of literature and sin, to suit the infant mind), and a doctor, and another doctor, and a sea cook with one leg, and a sea-song with the chorus “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum” (at the third Ho you heave at the capstan bars), which is a real buccaneer’s song, only known to the crew of the late Captain Flint (died of rum at Key West, much regretted, friends will please accept this intimation); and lastly, would you be surprised to hear, in this connection, the name of Routledge? That’s the kind of man I am, blast your eyes. Two chapters are written, and have been tried on Lloyd with great success; the trouble is to work it off without oaths. Buccaneers without oaths — bricks without straw. But youth and the fond parent have to be consulted.

  And now look here — this is next day — and three chapters are written and read. (Chapter I. The Old Sea-dog at the “Admiral Benbow.” Chapter II. Black Dog appears and disappears. Chapter III. The Black Spot.) All now heard by Lloyd, F., and my father and mother, with high approval. It’s quite silly and horrid fun, and what I want is the best book about the Buccaneers that can be had — the latter B’s above all, Blackbeard and sich, and get Nutt or Bain to send it skimming by the fastest post. And now I know you’ll write to me, for The Sea Cook’s sake.

  Your Admiral Guinea is curiously near my line, but of course I’m fooling; and your Admiral sounds like a shublime gent, Stick to him like wax — he’ll do. My Trelawney is, as I indicate, several thousand sea-miles off the lie of the original or your Admiral Guinea; and besides, I have no more about him yet but one mention of his name, and I think it likely he may turn yet farther from the model in the course of handling. A chapter a day I mean to do; they are short; and perhaps in a month The Sea Cook may to Routledge go, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! My Trelawney has a strong dash of Landor, as I see him from here. No women in the story, Lloyd’s orders; and who so blithe to obey? It’s awful fun boys’ stories; you just indulge the pleasure of your heart, that’s all; no trouble, no strain. The only stiff thing is to get it ended — that I don’t see, but I look to a volcano. O sweet, O generous, O human toils. You would like my blind beggar in Chapter III. I believe; no writing, just drive along as the words come and the pen will scratch!

  R. L. S.

  Author of Boys’ Stories.

  To Dr. Alexander Japp

  This correspondent had paid his visit as proposed, discussed the Thoreau differences, listened delightedly to the first chapters of 328 Treasure Island, and proposed to offer the story for publication to his friend Mr. Henderson, proprietor and editor of Young Folks.

  [Braemar, September 1881.]

  MY DEAR DR. JAPP, — My father has gone, but I think I may take it upon me to ask you to keep the book. Of all things you could do to endear yourself to me, you have done the best, for my father and you have taken a fancy to each other.

  I do not know how to thank you for all your kind trouble in the matter of The Sea Cook, but I am not unmindful. My health is still poorly, and I have added intercostal rheumatism — a new attraction — which sewed me up nearly double for two days, and still gives me a list to starboard — let us be ever nautical!

  I do not think with the start I have there will be any difficulty in letting Mr. Henderson go ahead whenever he likes. I will write my story up to its legitimate conclusion; and then we shall be in a position to judge whether a sequel would be desirable, and I would then myself know better about its practicability from the story-teller’s point of view. — Yours ever very sincerely,

  R. L. Stevenson.

  To W. E. Henley

  This tells of the farther progress of Treasure Island, of the price paid for it, and of the modest hopes with which it was launched. “The poet” is Mr. Gosse. The project of a highway story, Jerry Abershaw, remained a favourite one with Stevenson until it was superseded three or four years later by another, that of the Great North Road, which in its turn had to be abandoned, from lack of health and leisure, after some six or eight chapters had been written.

  Braemar, September 1881.

  MY DEAR HENLEY, — Thanks for your last. The £100 fell through, or dwindled at least into somewhere about £30. However, that I’ve taken as a mouthful, so you may look out for The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Tale of the Buccaneers, in Young Folks. (The terms are 329 £2, 10s. a page of 4500 words; that’s not noble, is it? But I have my copyright safe. I don’t get illustrated — a blessing; that’s the price I have to pay for my copyright.)

  I’ll make this boys’ book business pay; but I have to make a beginning. When I’m done with Young Folks, I’ll try Routledge or some one. I feel pretty sure the Sea Cook will do to reprint, and bring something decent at that.

  Japp is a good soul. The poet was very gay and pleasant. He told me much: he is simply the most active young man in England, and one of the most intelligent. “He shall o’er Europe, shall o’er earth extend.” He is now extending over adjacent parts of Scotland.

  I propose to follow up The Sea Cook at proper intervals by Jerry Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath (which or its site I must visit): The Leading Light: A Tale of the Coast, The Squaw Men: or the Wild West, and other instructive and entertaining work. Jerry Abershaw should be good, eh? I love writing boys’ books. This first is only an experiment; wait till you see what I can make ‘em with my hand in. I’ll be the Harrison Ainsworth of the future; and a chalk better by St. Christopher; or at least as good. You’ll see that even by The Sea Cook.

  Jerry Abershaw — O what a title! Jerry Abershaw: d — n it, sir, it’s a poem. The two most lovely words in English; and what a sentiment! Hark you, how the hoofs ring! Is this a blacksmith’s? No, it’s a wayside inn. Jerry Abershaw. “It was a clear, frosty evening, not 100 miles from Putney,” etc. Jerry Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. The Sea Cook is now in its sixteenth chapter, and bids for well up in the thirties. Each three chapters is worth £2, 10s. So we’ve £12, 10s. already.

  Don’t read Marryat’s Pirate anyhow; it is written in sand with a salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, tottering production. 330 But then we’re not always all there. He was all somewhere else that trip. It’s damnable, Henley. I don’t go much on The Sea Cook; but, Lord, it’s a little fruitier than the Pirate by Cap’n. Marryat.

  Since this was written The Cook is in his nineteenth chapter. Yo-heave ho!

  R. L. S.

  To W. E. Henley

  Stevenson’s uncle, Dr. George Balfour, had recommended him to wear a specially contrived and hideous respirator for the inhalation of pine-oil.

  Braemar, 1881.

  Dear Henley, with a pig’s snout on

  I am starting for London,

  Where I likely shall arrive,

  On Saturday, if still alive:

  Perhaps your pirate doctor might

  See me on Sunday? If all’s right,

  I should then lunch with you and with she

  Who’s dearer to you than you are to me.

  I shall remain but little time

  In London, as a wretched clime,

  But not so wretched (for none are)

  As that of beastly old Braemar.

  My doctor sends me skipping. I

  Have many facts to meet your eye.

  My pig’s snout’s now upon my face;

  And I inhale with fishy grace,

  My gills outflapping right and left,

  Ol. pin. sylvest. I am bereft

  Of a great deal of charm by this —

  Not quite the bull’s eye for a kiss —

  But like a gnome of olden time

  Or bogey in a pantomime.

  For ladies’ love I once was fit,

  But now am rather out of it.

  Where’er I go, revolted curs

  Snap round my military spurs;

  The children all retire in fits

  And scream their bellowses to bits.

  Little I care: the worst’s been done:

  Now let the cold impoverished sun

  Drop frozen from his orbit; let

  Fury and fire, cold, wind and wet,

  And cataclysmal mad reverses

  Rage through the federate universes;

  Let Lawson triumph, cakes and ale,

  Whisky and hock and claret fail; —

  Tobacco, love, and letters perish,

  With all that any man could cherish:

  You it may touch, not me. I dwell

  Too deep already — deep in hell;

  And nothing can befall, O damn!

  To make me uglier than I am.

  R. L. S.

  This-yer refers to an ori-nasal respirator for the inhalation of pine-wood oil, oleum pini sylvestris.

  To Thomas Stevenson

  With all his throat and lung troubles actively renewed, Stevenson fled to Davos again in October. This time he and his wife and stepson occupied a small house by themselves, the Chalet am Stein, near the Buol Hotel. The election to the Edinburgh Professorship was still pending, and the following note to his father shows that he thought for a moment of giving the electors a specimen of his qualifications in the shape of a magazine article on the Appin murder — a theme afterwards turned to more vital account in the tales of Kidnapped and Catriona.

  [Chalet am Stein, Davos, October 1881.]

  MY DEAR FATHER, — It occurred to me last night in bed that I could write

  The Murder of Red Colin,

  A Story of the Forfeited Estates.

  332

  This I have all that is necessary for, with the following exceptions: —

  Trials of the Sons of Roy Rob with Anecdotes: Edinburgh, 1818, and

  The second volume of Blackwood’s Magazine.

  You might also look in Arnot’s Criminal Trials up in my room, and see what observations he has on the case (Trial of James Stewart in Appin for murder of Campbell of Glenure, 1752); if he has none, perhaps you could see — O yes, see if Burton has it in his two vols. of trial stories. I hope he hasn’t; but care not; do it over again anyway.