to Sidney Colvin

Pitlochry, August 1881.

MY DEAR COLVIN,—This is the first letter I have written this good while.  I have had a brutal cold, not perhaps very wisely treated; lots of blood—for me, I mean.  I was so well, however, before, that I seem to be sailing through with it splendidly.  My appetite never failed; indeed, as I got worse, it sharpened—a sort of reparatory instinct.  Now I feel in a fair way to get round soon.

Monday, August (2nd, is it?).—We set out for the Spital of Glenshee, and reach Braemar on Tuesday.  The Braemar address we cannot learn; it looks as if ‘Braemar’ were all that was necessary; if particular, you can address 17 Heriot Row.  We shall be delighted to see you whenever, and as soon as ever, you can make it possible.

. . . I hope heartily you will survive me, and do not doubt it.  There are seven or eight people it is no part of my scheme in life to survive—yet if I could but heal me of my bellowses, I could have a jolly life—have it, even now, when I can work and stroll a little, as I have been doing till this cold.  I have so many things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that other one thing—health.  But though you will be angry to hear it, I believe, for myself at least, what is is best.  I believed it all through my worst days, and I am not ashamed to profess it now.

Landor has just turned up; but I had read him already.  I like him extremely; I wonder if the ‘cuts’ were perhaps not advantageous.  It seems quite full enough; but then you know I am a compressionist.

If I am to criticise, it is a little staid; but the classical is apt to look so.  It is in curious contrast to that inexpressive, unplanned wilderness of Forster’s; clear, readable, precise, and sufficiently human.  I see nothing lost in it, though I could have wished, in my Scotch capacity, a trifle clearer and fuller exposition of his moral attitude, which is not quite clear ‘from here.’

He and his tyrannicide!  I am in a mad fury about these explosions.  If that is the new world!  Damn O’Donovan Rossa; damn him behind and before, above, below, and roundabout; damn, deracinate, and destroy him, root and branch, self and company, world without end.  Amen.  I write that for sport if you like, but I will pray in earnest, O Lord, if you cannot convert, kindly delete him!

Stories naturally at—halt.  Henley has seen one and approves.  I believe it to be good myself, even real good.  He has also seen and approved one of Fanny’s.  It will snake a good volume.  We have now

Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day.

The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny’s copying).

The Merry Men (scrolled).

The Body Snatchers (scrolled).

In germis

The Travelling Companion.

The Torn Surplice (not final title).

Yours ever,

R. L. S.