I am exulting to do nothing. It pours with rain from the westward, very unusual kind of weather; I was standing out on the little verandah in front of my room this morning, and there went through me or over me a wave of extraordinary and apparently baseless emotion. I literally staggered. And then the explanation came, and I knew I had found a frame of mind and body that belonged to Scotland, and particularly to the neighbourhood of Callander. Very odd these identities of sensation, and the world of connotations implied; highland huts, and peat smoke, and the brown, swirling rivers, and wet clothes, and whiskey, and the romance of the past, and that indescribable bite of the whole thing at a man's heart, which is - or rather lies at the bottom of - a story.
I don't know if you are a Barbey d'Aurevilly-an. I am. I have a great delight in his Norman stories. Do you know the CHEVALIER DES TOUCHES and L'ENSORCELEE? They are admirable, they reek of the soil and the past. But I was rather thinking just now of LE RIDEAU CRAMOISI, and its adorable setting of the stopped coach, the dark street, the home-going in the inn yard, and the red blind illuminated. Without doubt, THERE was an identity of sensation; one of those conjunctions in life that had filled Barbey full to the brim, and permanently bent his memory.
I wonder exceedingly if I have done anything at all good; and who can tell me? and why should I wish to know? In so little a while, I, and the English language, and the bones of my descendants, will have ceased to be a memory! And yet - and yet - one would like to leave an image for a few years upon men's minds - for fun. This is a very dark frame of mind, consequent on overwork and the conclusion of the excruciating EBB TIDE. Adieu.
What do you suppose should be done with THE EBB TIDE? It would make a volume of 200 pp.; on the other hand, I might likely have some more stories soon: THE OWL, DEATH IN THE POT, THE SLEEPER AWAKENED; all these are possible. THE OWL might be half as long; THE SLEEPER AWAKENED, ditto; DEATH IN THE POT a deal shorter, I believe. Then there's the GO-BETWEEN, which is not impossible altogether. THE OWL, THE SLEEPER AWAKENED, and the GO-BETWEEN end reasonably well; DEATH IN THE POT is an ungodly massacre. O, well, THE OWL only ends well in so far as some lovers come together, and nobody is killed at the moment, but you know they are all doomed, they are Chouan fellows.
FRIDAY, 9TH.
Well, the mail is in; no Blue-book, depressing letter from C.; a long, amusing ramble from my mother; vast masses of Romeike; they ARE going to war now; and what will that lead to? and what has driven, them to it but the persistent misconduct of these two officials? I know I ought to rewrite the end of this bluidy EBB TIDE: well, I can't. CEST PLUS FORT QUE MOI; it has to go the way it is, and be jowned to it! From what I make out of the reviews, I think it would be better not to republish THE EBB TIDE: but keep it for other tales, if they should turn up. Very amusing how the reviews pick out one story and damn the rest I and it is always a different one. Be sure you send me the article from LE TEMPS.
SATURDAY, 17TH.
Since I wrote this last, I have written a whole chapter of my grandfather, and read it to-night; it was on the whole much appreciated, and I kind of hope it ain't bad myself. 'Tis a third writing, but it wants a fourth. By next mail, I believe I might send you 3 chapters. That is to say FAMILY ANNALS, THE SERVICE OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS, and THE BUILDING OF THE BELL ROCK. Possibly even 4 - A HOUSEFUL OF BOYS. I could finish my grandfather very easy now; my father and Uncle Alan stop the way. I propose to call the book:
NORTHERN LIGHTS: MEMOIRS OF A FAMILY of ENGINEERS. I tell you, it is going to be a good book. My idea in sending Ms. would be to get it set up; two proofs to me, one to Professor Swan, Ardchapel, Helensburgh - mark it private and confidential - one to yourself; and come on with criticisms!
But I'll have to see. The total plan of the book is this - i. Domestic Annals. ii. The Service of the Northern Lights. iii. The Building of the Bell Rock. iv. A Houseful of Boys (or, 'The Family in Baxter's Place). v. Education of an Engineer. vi. The Grandfather. vii. Alan Stevenson. viii. Thomas Stevenson.
There will be an Introduction 'The Surname of Stevenson' which has proved a mighty queer subject of inquiry. But, Lord! if I were among libraries.
SUNDAY, 18TH.
I shall put in this envelope the end of the ever-to-be-execrated EBB TIDE, or Stevenson's Blooming Error. Also, a paper apart for DAVID BALFOUR. The slips must go in another enclosure, I suspect, owing to their beastly bulk. Anyway, there are two pieces of work off my mind, and though I could wish I had rewritten a little more of DAVID, yet it was plainly to be seen it was impossible. All the points indicated by you have been brought out; but to rewrite the end, in my present state of over-exhaustion and fiction - phobia, would have been madness; and I let it go as it stood.
My grandfather is good enough for me, these days. I do not work any less; on the whole, if anything, a little more. But it is different.
The slips go to you in four packets; I hope they are what they should be, but do not think so. I am at a pitch of discontent with fiction in all its form - or my forms - that prevents me being able to be even interested. I have had to stop all drink; smoking I am trying to stop also. It annoys me dreadfully: and yet if I take a glass of claret, - I have a headache the next day! O, and a good headache too; none of your trifles.
Well, sir, here's to you, and farewell. - Yours ever.
R. L. S.