The following will help the reader to understand the passage
referring to this undertaking in Stevenson's biographical essay on
his father where he has told how in the end "the sea proved too
strong for men's arts, and after expedients hitherto unthought of,
and on a scale hyper-Cyclopean, the work must be deserted, and now
stands a ruin in that bleak, God-forsaken bay." The Russels herein
mentioned are the family of Sheriff Russel. The tombstone of Miss
Sara Russel is to be seen in Wick cemetery.
_Pulteney, Wick, Sunday, September 1868._
MY DEAR MOTHER,--Another storm: wind higher, rain thicker: the wind
still rising as the night closes in and the sea slowly rising along with
it; it looks like a three days' gale.
Last week has been a blank one: always too much sea.
I enjoyed myself very much last night at the Russels'. There was a
little dancing, much singing and supper.
Are you not well that you do not write? I haven't heard from you for
more than a fortnight.
The wind fell yesterday and rose again to-day; it is a dreadful evening;
but the wind is keeping the sea down as yet. Of course, nothing more has
been done to the poles; and I can't tell when I shall be able to leave,
not for a fortnight yet, I fear, at the earliest, for the winds are
persistent. Where's Murra? Is Cummy struck dumb about the boots? I wish
you would get somebody to write an interesting letter and say how you
are, for you're on the broad of your back I see. There hath arrived an
inroad of farmers to-night; and I go to avoid them to Macdonald if he's
disengaged, to the Russels if not.
_Sunday_ (_later_).--Storm without: wind and rain: a confused mass of
wind-driven rain-squalls, wind-ragged mist, foam, spray, and great, grey
waves. Of this hereafter; in the meantime let us follow the due course
of historic narrative.
Seven P.M. found me at Breadalbane Terrace, clad in spotless blacks,
white tie, shirt, et caetera, and finished off below with a pair of
navvies' boots. How true that the devil is betrayed by his feet! A
message to Cummy at last. Why, O treacherous woman! were my dress boots
withheld?
Dramatis personae: pere Russel, amusing, long-winded, in many points like
papa; mere Russel, nice, delicate, likes hymns, knew Aunt Margaret
('t'ould man knew Uncle Alan); fille Russel, nominee Sara (no h), rather
nice, lights up well, good voice, _interested_ face; Miss L., nice also,
washed out a little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils Russel, in
a Leith office, smart, full of happy epithet, amusing. They are very
nice and very kind, asked me to come back--"any night you feel dull: and
any night doesn't mean no night: we'll be so glad to see you." _C'est la
mere qui parle._
I was back there again to-night. There was hymn-singing, and general
religious controversy till eight, after which talk was secular. Mrs.
Sutherland was deeply distressed about the boot business. She consoled
me by saying that many would be glad to have such feet whatever shoes
they had on. Unfortunately, fishers and seafaring men are too facile to
be compared with! This looks like enjoyment! better speck than Anster.
I have done with frivolity. This morning I was awakened by Mrs.
Sutherland at the door. "There's a ship ashore at Shaltigoe!" As my
senses slowly flooded, I heard the whistling and the roaring of wind,
and the lashing of gust-blown and uncertain flaws of rain. I got up,
dressed, and went out. The mizzled sky and rain blinded you.
She was a Norwegian: coming in she saw our first gauge-pole, standing at
point E. Norse skipper thought it was a sunk smack, and dropped his
anchor in full drift of sea: chain broke: schooner came ashore. Insured:
laden with wood: skipper owner of vessel and cargo: bottom out.
I was in a great fright at first lest we should be liable; but it seems
that's all right.
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