R. L. S.
To Thomas Stevenson
[Menton], Monday, January 26th, 1874.
MY DEAR FATHER, — Heh! Heh! business letter finished. Receipt acknowledged without much ado, and I think with a certain commercial decision and brevity. The signature is good but not original.
I should rather think I had lost my heart to the wee princess. Her mother demanded the other day “À quand les noces?” which Mrs. Stevenson will translate for you in case you don’t see it yourself.
I had a political quarrel last night with the American; it was a real quarrel for about two minutes; we relieved our feelings and separated; but a mutual feeling of shame led us to a most moving reconciliation, in which the American vowed he would shed his best blood for England. In looking back upon the interview, I feel that I have learned something; I scarcely appreciated how badly England had behaved, and how well she deserves the hatred the Americans bear her. It would have made you laugh if you could have been present and seen your unpatriotic son thundering anathemas in the moonlight against all those that were not the friend of England. Johnson being nearly as nervous as I, we were both very ill after it, which added a further pathos to the reconciliation.
There is no good in sending this off to-day, as I have sent another letter this morning already.
O, a remark of the Princess’s amused me the other day. Somebody wanted to give Nelitchka garlic as a medicine. “Quoi? Une petite amour comme ça, qu’on ne pourrait pas baiser? Il n’y a pas de sens en cela!”
I am reading a lot of French histories just now, and the spelling keeps one in a good humour all day long — I mean the spelling of English names. — Your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
[Menton, January 29, 1874], Thursday.
Marot vol. 1 arrived. The post has been at its old games. A letter of the 31st and one of the 2nd arrive at the same moment.
I have had a great pleasure. Mrs. Andrews had a 113 book of Scotch airs, which I brought over here, and set Madame Z. to work upon. They are so like Russian airs that they cannot contain their astonishment. I was quite out of my mind with delight. “The Flowers of the Forest” — ”Auld Lang Syne” — ”Scots wha hae” — ”Wandering Willie” — ”Jock o’ Hazeldean” — ”My Boy Tammie,” which my father whistles so often — I had no conception how much I loved them. The air which pleased Madame Zassetsky the most was “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin yet?” It is certainly no end. And I was so proud that they were appreciated. No triumph of my own, I am sure, could ever give me such vain-glorious satisfaction. You remember, perhaps, how conceited I was to find “Auld Lang Syne” popular in its German dress; but even that was nothing to the pleasure I had yesterday at the success of our dear airs.
The edition is called The Songs of Scotland without Words for the Pianoforte, edited by J. T. Surenne, published by Wood in George Street. As these people have been so kind to me, I wish you would get a copy of this and send it out. If that should be too dear, or anything, Mr. Mowbray would be able to tell you what is the best substitute, would he not? This I really would like you to do, as Madame proposes to hire a copyist to copy those she likes, and so it is evident she wants them. — Ever your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Thomas Stevenson
With reference to the political allusions in the following it will be remembered that this was the date of Mr. Gladstone’s dissolution, followed by his defeat at the polls notwithstanding his declared intention of abolishing the income-tax.
[Menton], February 1st, 1874.
I am so sorry to hear of poor Mr. M.’s death. He was really so amiable and kind that no one could help liking 114 him, and carrying away a pleasant recollection of his simple, happy ways. I hope you will communicate to all the family how much I feel with them.
Madame Zassetsky is Nelitchka’s mamma. They have both husbands, and they are in Russia, and the ladies are both here for their health. They make it very pleasant for me here. To-day we all went a drive to the Cap Martin, and the Cap was adorable in the splendid sunshine.
I read J. H. A. Macdonald’s speech with interest; his sentiments are quite good, I think. I would support him against M’Laren at once. What has disgusted me most as yet about this election is the detestable proposal to do away with the income tax. Is there no shame about the easy classes? Will those who have nine hundred and ninety-nine thousandths of the advantage of our society, never consent to pay a single tax unless it is to be paid also by those who have to bear the burthen and heat of the day, with almost none of the reward? And the selfishness here is detestable, because it is so deliberate. A man may not feel poverty very keenly and may live a quiet self-pleasing life in pure thoughtlessness; but it is quite another matter when he knows thoroughly what the issues are, and yet wails pitiably because he is asked to pay a little more, even if it does fall hardly sometimes, than those who get almost none of the benefit. It is like the healthy child crying because they do not give him a goody, as they have given to his sick brother to take away the taste of the dose. I have not expressed myself clearly; but for all that, you ought to understand, I think.
Friday, February 6th. — The wine has arrived, and a dozen of it has been transferred to me; it is much better than Folleté’s stuff. We had a masquerade last night at the Villa Marina; Nellie in a little red satin cap, in a red satin suit of boy’s clothes, with a funny little black tail that stuck out behind her, and wagged as she danced about the room, and gave her a look of Puss in Boots; 115 Pella as a contadina; Monsieur Robinet as an old woman, and Mademoiselle as an old lady with blue spectacles.
Yesterday we had a visit from one of whom I had often heard from Mrs. Sellar — Andrew Lang. He is good-looking, delicate, Oxfordish, etc.
My cloak is the most admirable of all garments. For warmth, unequalled; for a sort of pensive, Roman stateliness, sometimes warming into Romantic guitarism, it is simply without concurrent; it starts alone. If you could see me in my cloak, it would impress you. I am hugely better, I think: I stood the cold these last few days without trouble, instead of taking to bed, as I did at Monte Carlo. I hope you are going to send the Scotch music.
I am stupid at letter-writing again; I don’t know why. I hope it may not be permanent; in the meantime, you must take what you can get and be hopeful. The Russian ladies are as kind and nice as ever. — Ever your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Sitwell
[Menton, February 6, 1874], Friday.
Last night we had a masquerade at the Villa Marina. Pella was dressed as a contadina and looked beautiful; and little Nellie, in red satin cap and wonderful red satin jacket and little breeches as of a nondescript impossible boy; to which Madame Garschine had slily added a little black tail that wagged comically behind her as she danced about the room, and got deliriously tilted up over the middle bar of the back of her chair as she sat at tea, with an irresistible suggestion of Puss in Boots — well, Nellie thus masqueraded (to get back to my sentence again) was all that I could have imagined. She held herself so straight and stalwart, and had such an infinitesimal dignity of carriage; and then her big baby face, already quite definitely marked with her sex, came in so funnily atop that she got clear away from all my power 116 of similes and resembled nothing in the world but Nellie in masquerade. Then there was Robinet in a white night gown, old woman’s cap (mutch, in my vernacular), snuff-box and crutch doubled up and yet leaping and gyrating about the floor with incredible agility; and lastly, Mademoiselle in a sort of elderly walking-dress and with blue spectacles. And all this incongruous impossible world went tumbling and dancing and going hand in hand, in flying circles to the music; until it was enough to make one forget one was in this wicked world, with Conservative majorities and Presidents MacMahon and all other abominations about one.
Also last night will be memorable to me for another reason, Madame Zassetsky having given me
a light as to my own intellect. They were talking about things in history remaining in their minds because they had assisted them to generalisations. And I began to explain how things remained in my mind yet more vividly for no reason at all. She got interested, and made me give her several examples; then she said, with her little falsetto of discovery, “Mais c’est que vous êtes tout simplement enfant!” This mot I have reflected on at leisure and there is some truth in it. Long may I be so. Yesterday too I finished Ordered South and at last had some pleasure and contentment with it. S. C. has sent it off to Macmillan’s this morning and I hope it may be accepted; I don’t care whether it is or no except for the all-important lucre; the end of it is good, whether the able editor sees it or no. — Ever your faithful friend,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
[Menton], February 22nd, 1874.
MY DEAR MOTHER, — I am glad to hear you are better again: nobody can expect to be quite well in February, that is the only consolation I can offer you.
Madame Garschine is ill, I am sorry to say, and was confined to bed all yesterday, which made a great difference to our little society. À propos of which, what keeps me here is just precisely the said society. These people are so nice and kind and intelligent, and then as I shall never see them any more I have a disagreeable feeling about making the move. With ordinary people in England, you have more or less chance of re-encountering one another; at least you may see their death in the papers; but with these people, they die for me and I die for them when we separate.
Andrew Lang, O you of little comprehension, called on Colvin.
You had not told me before about the fatuous person who thought Roads like Ruskin — surely the vaguest of contemporaneous humanity. Again my letter writing is of an enfeebled sort. — Ever your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
[Menton], March 1st, 1874.
MY DEAR MOTHER, — The weather is again beautiful, soft, warm, cloudy and soft again, in provincial sense. Very interesting, I find Robertson; and Dugald Stewart’s life of him a source of unquenchable laughter. Dugald Stewart is not much better than McCrie, and puts me much in mind of him. By the way, I want my father to find out whether any more of Knox’s Works was ever issued than the five volumes, as I have them. There are some letters that I am very anxious to see, not printed in any of the five, and perhaps still in MS.
I suppose you are now home again in Auld Reekie: that abode of bliss does not much attract me yet a bit.
Colvin leaves at the end of this week, I fancy.
How badly yours sincerely writes. O! Madame Zassetsky has a theory that “Dumbarton Drums” is an epitome of my character and talents. She plays it, and goes into ecstasies over it, taking everybody to witness that each note, as she plays it, is the moral of Berecchino. Berecchino is my stereotype name in the world now. I am announced as M. Berecchino; a German hand-maiden came to the hotel, the other night, asking for M. Berecchino; said hand-maiden supposing in good faith that sich was my name.
Your letter come. O, I am all right now about the parting, because it will not be death, as we are to write. Of course the correspondence will drop off: but that’s no odds, it breaks the back of the trouble. — Ever your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
[Menton], Monday, March 9th, 1874.
We have all been getting photographed, and the proofs are to be seen to-day. How they will look I know not. Madame Zassetsky arranged me for mine, and then said to the photographer: “C’est mon fils. Il vient d’avoir dix-neuf ans. Il est tout fier de sa jeune moustache. Tâchez de la faire paraître,” and then bolted leaving me solemnly alone with the artist. The artist was quite serious, and explained that he would try to “faire ressortir ce que veut Madame la Princesse” to the best of his ability; he bowed very much to me, after this, in quality of Prince you see. I bowed in return and handled the flap of my cloak after the most princely fashion I could command. — Ever your affectionate son,
R. L. S.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
[Menton], March 20, 1874.
I. My Cloak. — An exception occurs to me to the frugality described a letter (or may be two) ago; my 119 cloak: it would certainly have been possible to have got something less expensive; still it is a fine thought for absent parents that their son possesses simply the greatest vestment in Mentone. It is great in size, and unspeakably great in design; qua raiment, it has not its equal.
........
III. About Spain. — Well, I don’t know about me and Spain. I am certainly in no humour and in no state of health for voyages and travels. Towards the end of May (see end), up to which time I seem to see my plans, I might be up to it, or I might not; I think not myself. I have given up all idea of going on to Italy, though it seems a pity when one is so near; and Spain seems to me in the same category. But for all that, it need not interfere with your voyage thither: I would not lose the chance, if I wanted.
IV. Money. — I am much obliged. That makes £180 now. This money irks me, one feels it more than when living at home. However, if I have health, I am in a fair way to make a bit of a livelihood for myself. Now please don’t take this up wrong; don’t suppose I am thinking of the transaction between you and me; I think of the transaction between me and mankind. I think of all this money wasted in keeping up a structure that may never be worth it — all this good money sent after bad. I shall be seriously angry if you take me up wrong.
V. Roads. — The familiar false concord is not certainly a form of colloquialism that I should feel inclined to encourage. It is very odd; I wrote it very carefully, and you seem to have read it very carefully, and yet none of us found it out. The Deuce is in it.
VI. Russian Prince. — A cousin of these ladies is come to stay with them — Prince Léon Galitzin. He is the image of — whom? — guess now — do you give it up? — Hillhouse.
VII. Miscellaneous. — I send you a pikler of me in the 120 cloak. I think it is like a hunchback. The moustache is clearly visible to the naked eye — O diable! what do I hear in my lug? A mosquito — the first of the season. Bad luck to him!
Good nicht and joy be wi’ you a’. I am going to bed. — Ever your affectionate son,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Note to III. — I had counted on being back at Embro’ by the last week or so of May.
To Mrs. Thomas Stevenson
This describes another member of the Russian party, recently arrived at Mentone, who did his best, very nearly with success, to persuade Stevenson to join him in the study of law for some terms under the celebrated Professor Jhering at Göttingen.
[Menton], March 28, 1874.
MY DEAR MOTHER, — Beautiful weather, perfect weather; sun, pleasant cooling winds; health very good; only incapacity to write.
The only new cloud on my horizon (I mean this in no menacing sense) is the Prince, I have philosophical and artistic discussions with the Prince. He is capable of talking for two hours upon end, developing his theory of everything under Heaven from his first position, which is that there is no straight line. Doesn’t that sound like a game of my father’s — I beg your pardon, you haven’t read it — I don’t mean my father, I mean Tristram Shandy’s. He is very clever, and it is an immense joke to hear him unrolling all the problems of life — philosophy, science, what you will — in this charmingly cut-and-dry, here-we-are-again kind of manner. He is better to listen to than to argue withal. When you differ from him, he lifts up his voice and thunders; and you know that the thunder of an excited foreigner often miscarries. One stands aghast, marvelling how such a colossus of a man, 121 in such a great commotion of spirit, can open his mouth so much and emit such a still small voice at the hinder end of it all. All this while he walks about the room, smokes cigarettes, occupies divers chairs for divers brief spaces, and casts his huge arms to the four winds like the sails of a m
ill. He is a most sportive Prince.
R. L. S.
To Mrs. Sitwell
[Menton, April 1874], Monday.
My last night at Mentone. I cannot tell how strange and sad I feel. I leave behind me a dear friend whom I have but little hope of seeing again between the eyes.
To-day, I hadn’t arranged all my plans till five o’clock: I hired a poor old cabman, whose uncomfortable vehicle and sorry horse make everyone despise him, and set off to get money and say farewells. It was a dark misty evening; the mist was down over all the hills; the peach-trees in beautiful pink bloom. Arranged my plans; that merits a word by the way if I can be bothered. I have half arranged to go to Göttingen in summer to a course of lectures. Galitzin is responsible for this. He tells me the professor is to law what Darwin has been to Natural History, and I should like to understand Roman Law and a knowledge of law is so necessary for all I hope to do.
My poor old cabman; his one horse made me three-quarters of an hour too late for dinner, but I had not the heart to discharge him and take another. Poor soul, he was so pleased with his pourboire, I have made Madame Zassetsky promise to employ him often; so he will be something the better for me, little as he will know it.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 702
