The cold [of Colorado] was too rigorous for me; I could not
risk the long railway voyage, and the season was too late to
risk the Eastern, Cape Hatteras side of the steamer one; so
here we stuck and stick. We have a wooden house on a hill top,
overlooking a river, and a village about a quarter of a mile
away, and very wooded hills; the whole scene is very Highland,
bar want of heather and wooden houses.
I have got one good thing of my sea voyage; it is proved the
sea agrees heartily with me, and my mother likes it; so if
I get any better, or no worse, my mother will likely hire a
yacht for a month or so in summer. Good Lord! what fun! Wealth
is only useful for two things; a yacht and a string quartette.
For these two I will sell my soul. Except for these I hold
that £700 a year is as much as anybody can possibly want; and
I have had more, so I know, for the extry coins were of no
use excepting for illness, which damns everything.
I was so happy on board that ship, I could not have believed
it possible; we had the beastliest weather, and many
discomforts; but the mere fact of its being a tramp-ship
gave us many comforts; we could cut about with the men and
officers, stay in the wheel-house, discuss all manner of
things, and really be a little at sea. And truly there is
nothing else. I had literally forgotten what happiness was,
and the full mind—full of external and physical things, not
full of cares and labours and rot about a fellow's behaviour.
My heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing so much as
for that. We took so North a course that we saw Newfoundland;
no-one in the ship had ever seen it before.
It was beyond belief to me how she rolled; in seemingly smooth
water, the bell striking, the fittings bounding out of our
stateroom. It is worth having lived these last years, partly
because I have written some better books, which is always
pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy of this voyage. I
have been made a lot of here, and it is sometimes pleasant,
sometimes the reverse; but I could give it all up, and agree
that — was the author of my works, for a good seventy ton
schooner and the coins to keep her on. And to think there
are parties with yachts who would make the exchange! I know a
little about fame now; it is no good compared to a yacht; and
anyway there is more fame in a yacht, more genuine fame; to
cross the Atlantic and come to anchor in Newport (say) with
the Union Jack, and go ashore for your letters and hang about
the pier, among the holiday yachtsmen—that's fame, that's
glory—and nobody can take it away; they can't say your book
is bad; you _have_ crossed the Atlantic. I should do it South
by the West Indies, to avoid the damned banks; and probably
come home by steamer, and leave the skipper to bring the yacht
home.
Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe sail out of Southampton
water some of these days and take a run to Havre, and try the
Baltic, or somewhere.
Love to you all
Ever your afft.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Low was delightful as always. St. Gaudens, a very nice fellow
too, has done a medallion of me.
[The following refers to a review by Mr. Gosse of Stevenson's volume
of verse called "Underwoods." The book had been published a few weeks
previously, and is dedicated, as readers will remember, to a number of
physicians who had attended him at sundry times and places.]
SARANAC LAKE, Oct. 8th, 1887.
MY DEAR GOSSE,—I have just read your article twice, with
cheers of approving laughter; I do not believe you ever wrote
anything so funny; Tyndall's 'shell,' the passage on the
Davos press and its invaluable issues, and that on V. Hugo
and Swinburne, are exquisite; so, I say it more ruefully, is
the touch about the doctors. For the rest, I am very glad you
like my verses so well; and the qualities you ascribe to them
seem to me well found and well named. I own to that kind of
candour you attribute to me; when I am frankly interested, I
suppose I fancy the public will be so too—and when I am moved,
I am sure of it. It has been my luck hitherto to meet with no
staggering disillusion. 'Before' and 'After' may be two; and
yet I believe the habit is now too thoroughly ingrained to be
altered. About the doctors, you were right, that dedication
has been the subject of some pleasantries that made me grind,
and of your happily touched reproof which made me blush.
And to miscarry in a dedication is an abominable form of
book-wreck; I am a good captain, I would rather lose the tent
and save my dedication.
I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks, I suppose for
the winter; it seems a first-rate place; we have a house
in the eye of many winds, with a view of a piece of
running water—Highland, all but the dear hue of peat—and
of many hills—Highland also, but for the lack of heather.
Soon the snow will close on us; we are here some twenty
miles—twenty-seven they say, but this I profoundly
disbelieve—in the woods; communication by letter is slow and
(let me be consistent) aleatory; by telegram is as near as
may be impossible.
I had some experience of American appreciation; I liked a
little of it, but there is too much; a little of that would
go a long way to spoil a man; and I like myself better in the
woods. I am so damned candid and ingenuous (for a cynic), and
so much of a 'cweatu' of impulse—aw' (if you remember that
admirable Leech), that I begin to shirk any more taffy; I
think I begin to like it too well. But let us trust the Gods;
they have a rod in pickle; reverently I doff my trousers, and
with screwed eyes await the _amari aliquid_ of the great God
Busby.
I thank you for the article in all ways, and remain yours
affectionately,