to J. M. Barrie

[Vailima, December 1892.]

DEAR J. M. BARRIE,—You will be sick of me soon; I cannot help it.  I have been off my work for some time, and re-read the Edinburgh Eleven, and had a great mind to write a parody and give you all your sauce back again, and see how you would like it yourself.  And then I read (for the first time—I know not how) the Window in Thrums; I don’t say that it is better than The Minister; it’s less of a tale—and there is a beauty, a material beauty, of the tale ipse, which clever critics nowadays long and love to forget; it has more real flaws; but somehow it is—well, I read it last anyway, and it’s by Barrie.  And he’s the man for my money.  The glove is a great page; it is startlingly original, and as true as death and judgment.  Tibbie Birse in the Burial is great, but I think it was a journalist that got in the word ‘official.’  The same character plainly had a word to say to Thomas Haggard.  Thomas affects me as a lie—I beg your pardon; doubtless he was somebody you knew, that leads people so far astray.  The actual is not the true.

I am proud to think you are a Scotchman—though to be sure I know nothing of that country, being only an English tourist, quo’ Gavin Ogilvy.  I commend the hard case of Mr. Gavin Ogilvy to J. M. Barrie, whose work is to me a source of living pleasure and heartfelt national pride.  There are two of us now that the Shirra might have patted on the head.  And please do not think when I thus seem to bracket myself with you, that I am wholly blinded with vanity.  Jess is beyond my frontier line; I could not touch her skirt; I have no such glamour of twilight on my pen.  I am a capable artist; but it begins to look to me as if you were a man of genius.  Take care of yourself, for my sake.  It’s a devilish hard thing for a man who writes so many novels as I do, that I should get so few to read.  And I can read yours, and I love them.

A pity for you that my amanuensis is not on stock to-day, and my own hand perceptibly worse than usual.—Yours,

Robert Louis Stevenson.

December 5th, 1892.

P.S.—They tell me your health is not strong.  Man, come out here and try the Prophet’s chamber.  There’s only one bad point to us—we do rise early.  The Amanuensis states that you are a lover of silence—and that ours is a noisy house—and she is a chatterbox—I am not answerable for these statements, though I do think there is a touch of garrulity about my premises.  We have so little to talk about, you see.  The house is three miles from town, in the midst of great silent forests.  There is a burn close by, and when we are not talking you can hear the burn, and the birds, and the sea breaking on the coast three miles away and six hundred feet below us, and about three times a month a bell—I don’t know where the bell is, nor who rings it; it may be the bell in Hans Andersen’s story for all I know.  It is never hot here—86 in the shade is about our hottest—and it is never cold except just in the early mornings.  Take it for all in all, I suppose this island climate to be by far the healthiest in the world—even the influenza entirely lost its sting.  Only two patients died, and one was a man nearly eighty, and the other a child below four months.  I won’t tell you if it is beautiful, for I want you to come here and see for yourself.  Everybody on the premises except my wife has some Scotch blood in their veins—I beg your pardon—except the natives—and then my wife is a Dutchwoman—and the natives are the next thing conceivable to Highlanders before the forty-five.  We would have some grand cracks!

R. L. S.

Come, it will broaden your mind, and be the making of me.