_April_, 1893.
1. _Slip_ 3. Davie would be _attracted_ into a similar dialect, as he
is later—e.g., with Doig, chapter XIX. This is truly Scottish.
4, _to lightly_; correct; ‘to lightly’ is a good regular Scots verb.
15. See Allan Ramsay’s works.
15, 16. Ay, and that is one of the pigments with which I am trying to
draw the character of Prestongrange. ’Tis a most curious thing to render
that kind, insignificant mask. To make anything precise is to risk my
effect. And till the day he died, _Davie_ was never sure of what P. was
after. Not only so; very often P. didn’t know himself. There was an
element of mere liking for Davie; there was an element of being
determined, in case of accidents, to keep well with him. He hoped his
Barbara would bring him to her feet, besides, and make him manageable.
That was why he sent him to Hope Park with them. But Davie cannot
_know_; I give you the inside of Davie, and my method condemns me to give
only the outside both of Prestongrange and his policy.
—I’ll give my mind to the technicalities. Yet to me they seem a part of
the story, which is historical, after all.
—I think they wanted Alan to escape. But when or where to say so? I
will try.
—20, _Dean_. I’ll try and make that plainer.
_Chap._ XIII., I fear it has to go without blows. If I could get the
pair—No, can’t be.
—XIV. All right, will abridge.
—XV. I’d have to put a note to every word; and he who can’t read Scots
can _never_ enjoy Tod Lapraik.
—XVII. Quite right. I _can_ make this plainer, and will.
—XVIII. I know, but I have to hurry here; this is the broken back of my
story; some business briefly transacted, I am leaping for Barbara’s
apron-strings.
_Slip_ 57. Quite right again; I shall make it plain.
_Chap._ XX. I shall make all these points clear. About Lady
Prestongrange (not _Lady_ Grant, only _Miss_ Grant, my dear, though
_Lady_ Prestongrange, quoth the dominie) I am taken with your idea of her
death, and have a good mind to substitute a featureless aunt.
_Slip_ 78. I don’t see how to lessen this effect. There is really not
much said of it; and I know Catriona did it. But I’ll try.
—89. I know. This is an old puzzle of mine. You see C.’s dialect is
not wholly a bed of roses. If only I knew the Gaelic. Well, I’ll try
for another expression.
* * * * *
_The end_. I shall try to work it over. James was at Dunkirk ordering
post-horses for his own retreat. Catriona did have her suspicions
aroused by the letter, and, careless gentleman, I told you so—or she did
at least.—Yes, the blood money, I am bothered about the portmanteau; it
is the presence of Catriona that bothers me; the rape of the pockmantie
is historic. . . .
To me, I own, it seems in the proof a very pretty piece of workmanship.
David himself I refuse to discuss; he _is_. The Lord Advocate I think a
strong sketch of a very difficult character, James More, sufficient; and
the two girls very pleasing creatures. But O dear me, I came near losing
my heart to Barbara! I am not quite so constant as David, and even
he—well, he didn’t know it, anyway! _Tod Lapraik_ is a piece of living
Scots: if I had never writ anything but that and _Thrawn Janet_, still
I’d have been a writer. The defects of _D.B._ are inherent, I fear. But
on the whole, I am far indeed from being displeased with the tailie.
They want more Alan? Well, they can’t get it.
I found my fame much grown on this return to civilisation. _Digito
monstrari_ is a new experience; people all looked at me in the streets in
Sydney; and it was very queer. Here, of course, I am only the white
chief in the Great House to the natives; and to the whites, either an
ally or a foe. It is a much healthier state of matters. If I lived in
an atmosphere of adulation, I should end by kicking against the pricks.
O my beautiful forest, O my beautiful shining, windy house, what a joy it
was to behold them again! No chance to take myself too seriously here.
The difficulty of the end is the mass of matter to be attended to, and
the small time left to transact it in. I mean from Alan’s danger of
arrest. But I have just seen my way out, I do believe.
* * * * *
_Easter Sunday_.
I have now got as far as slip 28, and finished the chapter of the law
technicalities. Well, these seemed to me always of the essence of the
story, which is the story of a _cause célébre_; moreover, they are the
justification of my inventions; if these men went so far (granting Davie
sprung on them) would they not have gone so much further? But of course
I knew they were a difficulty; determined to carry them through in a
conversation; approached this (it seems) with cowardly anxiety; and
filled it with gabble, sir, gabble. I have left all my facts, but have
removed 42 lines. I should not wonder but what I’ll end by re-writing
it. It is not the technicalities that shocked you, it was my bad art.
It is very strange that X. should be so good a chapter and IX. and XI. so
uncompromisingly bad. It looks as if XI. also would have to be
re-formed. If X. had not cheered me up, I should be in doleful dumps,
but X. is alive anyway, and life is all in all.
* * * * *
_Thursday_, _April_ 5_th_.
Well, there’s no disguise possible; Fanny is not well, and we are
miserably anxious. . . .
* * * * *
_Friday_, 7_th_.
I am thankful to say the new medicine relieved her at once. A crape has
been removed from the day for all of us. To make things better, the
morning is ah! such a morning as you have never seen; heaven upon earth
for sweetness, freshness, depth upon depth of unimaginable colour, and a
huge silence broken at this moment only by the far-away murmur of the
Pacific and the rich piping of a single bird. You can’t conceive what a
relief this is; it seems a new world. She has such extraordinary
recuperative power that I do hope for the best. I am as tired as man can
be. This is a great trial to a family, and I thank God it seems as if
ours was going to bear it well. And O! if it only lets up, it will be
but a pleasant memory. We are all seedy, bar Lloyd: Fanny, as per above;
self nearly extinct; Belle, utterly overworked and bad toothache; Cook,
down with a bad foot; Butler, prostrate with a bad leg. Eh, what a
faim’ly!
* * * * *
_Sunday_.
Grey heaven, raining torrents of rain; occasional thunder and lightning.
Everything to dispirit; but my invalids are really on the mend. The rain
roars like the sea; in the sound of it there is a strange and ominous
suggestion of an approaching tramp; something nameless and measureless
seems to draw near, and strikes me cold, and yet is welcome. I lie quiet
in bed to-day, and think of the universe with a good deal of equanimity.
I have, at this moment, but the one objection to it; the _fracas_ with
which it proceeds. I do not love noise; I am like my grandfather in
that; and so many years in these still islands has ingrained the
sentiment perhaps. Here are no trains, only men pacing barefoot. No
carts or carriages; at worst the rattle of a horse’s shoes among the
rocks. Beautiful silence; and so soon as this robustious rain takes off,
I am to drink of it again by oceanfuls.
* * * * *
_April_ 16_th_.
Several pages of this letter destroyed as beneath scorn; the wailings of
a crushed worm; matter in which neither you nor I can take stock. Fanny
is distinctly better, I believe all right now; I too am mending, though I
have suffered from crushed wormery, which is not good for the body, and
damnation to the soul. I feel to-night a baseless anxiety to write a
lovely poem _à propos des bottes de ma grandmère_. I see I am idiotic.
I’ll try the poem.
* * * * *
17_th_.
The poem did not get beyond plovers and lovers. I am still, however,
harassed by the unauthentic Muse; if I cared to encourage her—but I have
not the time, and anyway we are at the vernal equinox. It is funny
enough, but my pottering verses are usually made (like the God-gifted
organ voice’s) at the autumnal; and this seems to hold at the Antipodes.
There is here some odd secret of Nature. I cannot speak of politics; we
wait and wonder. It seems (this is partly a guess) Ide won’t take the C.
J. ship, unless the islands are disarmed; and that England hesitates and
holds off. By my own idea, strongly corroborated by Sir George, I am
writing no more letters. But I have put as many irons in against this
folly of the disarming as I could manage. It did not reach my ears till
nearly too late. What a risk to take! What an expense to incur! And
for how poor a gain! Apart from the treachery of it. My dear fellow,
politics is a vile and a bungling business. I used to think meanly of
the plumber; but how he shines beside the politician!
* * * * *
_Thursday_.
A general, steady advance; Fanny really quite chipper and jolly—self on
the rapid mend, and with my eye on _forests_ that are to fall—and my
finger on the axe, which wants stoning.
* * * * *
_Saturday_, 22.
Still all for the best; but I am having a heart-breaking time over
_David_. I have nearly all corrected. But have to consider _The Heather
on Fire_, _The Wood by Silvermills_, and the last chapter. They all seem
to me off colour; and I am not fit to better them yet. No proof has been
sent of the title, contents, or dedication.