A LETTER TO EDMUND GOSSE
VAILIMA, SAMOA, December 1, 1894.
I AM afraid, MY DEAR WEG, that this must
be the result of bribery and corruption!
The volume to which the dedication stands
as preface seems to me to stand alone in
your work; it is so natural, so personal,
so sincere, so articulate in substance,
and what you always were sure of -- so
rich in adornment.
Let me speak first of the dedication. I
thank you for it from the heart. It is
beautifully said, beautifully and kindly
felt; and I should be a churl indeed if
I were not grateful, and an ass if I were
not proud. I remember when Symonds dedicated
a book to me; I wrote and told him of
"the pang of gratified vanity" with which
I had read it. The pang was present again,
but how much more sober and autumnal --
like your volume. Let me tell you a story,
or remind you of a story. In the year of
grace something or other, anything between
'76 and '78, I mentioned to you in my usual
autobiographical and inconsiderate manner
that I was hard up. You said promptly that
you had a balance at your banker's, and
could make it convenient to let me have a
cheque, and I accepted and got the money
-- how much was it? -- twenty, or perhaps
thirty pounds? I know not -- but it was a
great convenience. The same evening, or
the next day, I fell in conversation (in
my usual autobiographical and . . . see
above) with a denizen of the Savile Club,
name now gone from me, only his figure and
a dim three-quarter view of his face remaining.
To him I mentioned that you had given me
a loan, remarking easily that of course it
didn't matter to you. Whereupon he read me
a lecture, and told me how it really stood
with you financially. He was pretty serious,
fearing, as I could not help perceiving,
that I should take too light a view of the
responsibility and the service (I was always
thought too light -- the irresponsible
jester -- you remember. O, quantum mutatus
ab illo!) If I remember rightly, the money
was repaid before the end of the week -- or,
to be more exact and a trifle pedantic, the
sennight -- but the service has never been
forgotten; and I send you back this piece
of ancient history, consule Planco, as a
salute for your dedication, and propose
that we should drink the health of the
nameless one, who opened my eyes as to
the true nature of what you did for me
on that occasion.
But here comes my Amanuensis, so we'll get
on more swimmingly now. You will understand
perhaps that what so particularly pleased
me in the new volume, what seems to me to
have so personal and original a note, are
the middle-aged pieces in the beginning.
The whole of them, I may say, though I
must own an especial liking to --
I yearn not for the fighting fate,
That holds and hath achieved;
I live to watch and meditate
And dream -- and be deceived.
You take the change gallantly. Not I, I
must confess. It is all very well to talk
of renunciation, and of course it has to be
done. But, for my part, give me a roaring
toothache! I do like to be deceived and to
dream, but I have very little use for either
watching or meditation. I was not born for
age. And, curiously enough, I seem to see
a contrary drift in my work from that which
is so remarkable in yours. You are going
on sedately travelling through your ages,
decently changing with the years to the
proper tune. And here am I, quite out of
my true course, and with nothing in my
foolish elderly head but love-stories. This
must repose upon some curious distinction
of temperaments. I gather from a phrase,
boldly autobiographical, that you are -- well,
not precisely growing thin. Can that be
the difference?
It is rather funny that this matter should
come up just now, as I am at present engaged
in treating a severe case of middle age in
one of my stories -- "The Justice-Clerk."
The case is that of a woman, and I think
that I am doing her justice. You will be
interested, I believe, to see the difference
in our treatments. Secreta Vitae, comes
nearer to the case of my poor Kirstie. Come
to think of it, Gosse, I believe the main
distinction is that you have a family growing
up around you, and I am a childless, rather
bitter, very clear-eyed, blighted youth.
I have, in fact, lost the path that makes
it easy and natural for you to descend the
hill. I am going at it straight. And where
I have to go down it is a precipice.
I must not forget to give you a word of
thanks for "An English Village." It reminds
me strongly of Keats, which is enough to
say; and I was particularly pleased with
the petulant sincerity of the concluding
sentiment.
Well, my dear Gosse, here's wishing you all
health and prosperity, as well as to the
mistress and the bairns. May you live long,
since it seems as if you would continue to
enjoy life. May you write many more books
as good as this one -- only there's one
thing impossible, you can never write another
dedication that can give the same pleasure
to the vanished
TUSITALA.
[The above letter was dated just two days
before Robert Louis Stevenson's death. It
acknowledged the dedication "To Tusitala"
of that gentleman's volume of poems,
"In Russet and Silver," just received.]
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