_Sydney_, _January_ 19_th_, 1891.
MY DEAR SIR,—_Sapristi_, _comme vous y allez_! Richard III. and Dumas,
with all my heart; but not Hamlet. Hamlet is great literature; Richard
III. a big, black, gross, sprawling melodrama, writ with infinite spirit
but with no refinement or philosophy by a man who had the world, himself,
mankind, and his trade still to learn. I prefer the Vicomte de
Bragelonne to Richard III.; it is better done of its kind: I simply do
not mention the Vicomte in the same part of the building with Hamlet, or
Lear, or Othello, or any of those masterpieces that Shakespeare survived
to give us.
Also, _comme vous y allez_ in my commendation! I fear my _solide
éducation classique_ had best be described, like Shakespeare’s, as
‘little Latin and no Greek,’ and I was educated, let me inform you, for
an engineer. I shall tell my bookseller to send you a copy of _Memories
and Portraits_, where you will see something of my descent and education,
as it was, and hear me at length on my dear Vicomte. I give you
permission gladly to take your choice out of my works, and translate what
you shall prefer, too much honoured that so clever a young man should
think it worth the pains. My own choice would lie between _Kidnapped_
and the _Master of Ballantrae_. Should you choose the latter, pray do
not let Mrs. Henry thrust the sword up to the hilt in the frozen
ground—one of my inconceivable blunders, an exaggeration to stagger Hugo.
Say ‘she sought to thrust it in the ground.’ In both these works you
should be prepared for Scotticisms used deliberately.
I fear my stepson will not have found time to get to Paris; he was
overwhelmed with occupation, and is already on his voyage back. We live
here in a beautiful land, amid a beautiful and interesting people. The
life is still very hard: my wife and I live in a two-roomed cottage,
about three miles and six hundred and fifty feet above the sea; we have
had to make the road to it; our supplies are very imperfect; in the wild
weather of this (the hurricane) season we have much discomfort: one night
the wind blew in our house so outrageously that we must sit in the dark;
and as the sound of the rain on the roof made speech inaudible, you may
imagine we found the evening long. All these things, however, are
pleasant to me. You say _l’artiste inconscient_ set off to travel: you
do not divide me right. 0.6 of me is artist; 0.4, adventurer. First, I
suppose, come letters; then adventure; and since I have indulged the
second part, I think the formula begins to change: 0.55 of an artist,
0.45 of the adventurer were nearer true. And if it had not been for my
small strength, I might have been a different man in all things.
Whatever you do, do not neglect to send me what you publish on Villon: I
look forward to that with lively interest. I have no photograph at hand,
but I will send one when I can. It would be kind if you would do the
like, for I do not see much chance of our meeting in the flesh: and a
name, and a handwriting, and an address, and even a style? I know about
as much of Tacitus, and more of Horace; it is not enough between
contemporaries, such as we still are. I have just remembered another of
my books, which I re-read the other day, and thought in places
good—_Prince Otto_. It is not as good as either of the others; but it
has one recommendation—it has female parts, so it might perhaps please
better in France.
I will ask Chatto to send you, then—_Prince Otto_, _Memories and
Portraits_, _Underwoods_, and _Ballads_, none of which you seem to have
seen. They will be too late for the New Year: let them be an Easter
present.
You must translate me soon; you will soon have better to do than to
transverse the work of others.—Yours very truly,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
With the worst pen in the South Pacific.