In the following is related Stevenson's first introduction to Mr. W.
E. Henley. The acquaintance thus formed ripened quickly, as is well
known, into a close and stimulating friendship. Of the story called
_A Country Dance_ no trace remains.
_Edinburgh, Tuesday [February 1875]._
I got your nice long gossiping letter to-day--I mean by that that there
was more news in it than usual--and so, of course, I am pretty jolly. I
am in the house, however, with such a beastly cold in the head. Our east
winds begin already to be very cold.
O, I have such a longing for children of my own; and yet I do not think
I could bear it if I had one. I fancy I must feel more like a woman than
like a man about that. I sometimes hate the children I see on the
street--you know what I mean by hate--wish they were somewhere else, and
not there to mock me; and sometimes, again, I don't know how to go by
them for the love of them, especially the very wee ones.
_Thursday._--I have been still in the house since I wrote, and I _have_
worked. I finished the Italian story; not well, but as well as I can
just now; I must go all over it again, some time soon, when I feel in
the humour to better and perfect it. And now I have taken up an old
story, begun years ago; and I have now re-written all I had written of
it then, and mean to finish it. What I have lost and gained is odd. As
far as regards simple writing, of course, I am in another world now; but
in some things, though more clumsy, I seem to have been freer and more
plucky: this is a lesson I have taken to heart. I have got a jolly new
name for my old story. I am going to call it _A Country Dance_; the two
heroes keep changing places, you know; and the chapter where the most of
this changing goes on is to be called "Up the middle, down the middle."
It will be in six or (perhaps) seven chapters. I have never worked
harder in my life than these last four days. If I can only keep it up.
_Saturday._--Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down here to lecture,
called on me and took me up to see a poor fellow, a sort of poet who
writes for him, and who has been eighteen months in our infirmary, and
may be, for all I know, eighteen months more. It was very sad to see him
there, in a little room with two beds, and a couple of sick children in
the other bed; a girl came in to visit the children, and played dominoes
on the counterpane with them; the gas flared and crackled, the fire
burned in a dull economical way; Stephen and I sat on a couple of
chairs, and the poor fellow sat up in his bed with his hair and beard
all tangled, and talked as cheerfully as if he had been in a King's
palace, or the great King's palace of the blue air. He has taught
himself two languages since he has been lying there. I shall try to be
of use to him.
We have had two beautiful spring days, mild as milk, windy withal, and
the sun hot. I dreamed last night I was walking by moonlight round the
place where the scene of my story is laid; it was all so quiet and
sweet, and the blackbirds were singing as if it was day; it made my
heart very cool and happy.--Ever yours,