RLS sailed from Hiva-oa in the Marquesas Islands on a dangerous voyage through many coral atolls bound for Fakarava in the Paumotu (or Tuamotu) Archipelago, also known as the Dangerous Archipelago. See RLS’s diary in ‘In the South Seas’, Pt. II, ch. I.
[As usual, dots between square brackets indicate cuts made by Sidney Colvin. For correct and critical edition of this letter see Mehew 6, 2107.]
To Charles Baxter [Colvin 1911, 3, pp. 77-8]
Yacht Casco, at sea, near the Paumotus,
7 a.m., September 6th, 1888, with a dreadful pen
My dear Charles,
Last night as I lay under my blanket in the cockpit,
courting sleep, I had a comic seizure. There was nothing visible but the southern stars,
and the steersman there out by the binnacle lamp;
we were all looking forward to a most deplorable landfall on the morrow, praying God we should fetch a tuft of palms which are to indicate the Dangerous Archipelago;
the night was as warm as milk, and all of a sudden I had a vision of – Drummond Street.
It came on me like a flash of lightning: I simply returned thither, and into the past. And when I remember all I hoped and feared as I pickled about Rutherford’s
in the rain and the east wind; how I feared I should make a mere shipwreck, and yet timidly hoped not; how I feared I should never have a friend, far less a wife, and yet passionately hoped I might; how I hoped (if I did not take to drink) I should possibly write one little book, etc. etc.
And then now – what a change! I feel somehow as if I should like the incident set upon a brass plate at the corner of that dreary thoroughfare for all students to read, poor devils, when their hearts are down. And I felt I must write one word to you. Excuse me if I write little: when I am at sea, it gives me a headache; when I am in port, I have my diary crying ‘Give, give.’ I shall have a fine book of travels, I feel sure;
and will tell you more of the South Seas after very few months than any other writer has done – except Herman Melville perhaps, who is a howling cheese.
Good luck to you, God bless you. – Your affectionate friend,
On 20 July 1888, after 22 days at sea and 3000 miles, the yacht Casco dropped anchor in Anaho Bay in Nuka Hiva, the largest of the Marquesas Islands. All RLS’s literary energies were devoted to his journal, The Cruise of the Casco, which has never been fully published. From it he later quarried Parts I and II of the South Seas Letters syndicated by McClure in 1891 and posthumously published in 1896 as In the South Seas.
[For correct and critical edition of this letter, see Mehew 6, 2106.]
To Sidney Colvin [Colvin 1911, 3, p. 76]
Yacht Casco, Anaho Bay, Nouka Hiva,
Marquesas Islands [28 July 1888]
My dear Colvin,
From this somewhat (ahem) out of the way place, I write to say how d’ye do.
It is all a swindle: I chose these isles as having the most beastly population, and they are far better, and far more civilised than we.
I know one old chief Ko-o-amua, a great cannibal in his day, who ate his enemies even as he walked home from killing ’em, and he is a perfect gentleman and exceedingly amiable and simple-minded: no fool, though.
The climate is delightful; and the harbour where we lie one of the loveliest spots imaginable.
Yesterday evening we had near a score natives on board; lovely parties. We have a native god; very rare now. Very rare and equally absurd to view.
This sort of work is not favourable to correspondence: it takes me all the little strength I have to go about and see, and then come home and note, the strangeness around us. I shouldn’t wonder if there came trouble here some day, all the same. I could name a nation that is not beloved in certain islands –
and it does not know it! Strange: like ourselves, perhaps, in India!
RLS, his mother, stepson Lloyd and servant Valentine left New York on 2 June 1888 and travelled by train to San Francisco, where Fanny joined them. The agreement to charter the schooner Casco was signed on 21 June with her owner Dr Samuel Merritt (1822-90), former mayor of Oakland, for a cruise to various islands in the Pacific Ocean. Captain A.H. Otis was in command of the yacht, then anchored at Oakland.
[As usual, for correct and critical edition of this letter, see Mehew 6, 2102.]
I cannot recover from this affair, though crossing the continent picked me up for the time, and I long to get to sea. Shall I ever return? I have no great mind to see England any more, I must confess, bur time is a great healer.
I wish you would tell Henley how heartily I have enjoyed his verses.
My wife and I were both rejoiced to see him at last do something worthy of myself, as I do think this volume is; some of the pieces are as good as I want to see, both old friends and new. If I write woodenly, it is simply because I have no spirit and am very weary and out of sorts; but I read the book with sincere emotion and am to quote one in an article.
And now business: First, we are going to build houses on the Oakland property; the money could be raised here on the houses, but this at eight per cent, which is absurd; and I wish you would communicate with Young and send him my other thousand for this purpose. It should be a good investment itself, and besides it will turn what has been an expense into a source of profit. He is to write you himself.
2nd. Please communicate with Colvin as to his insurances: I am to help him (if needful) to keep them up, and this of course is to be done; however I may have to raise the money to do it with. Any step you find necessary, I approve beforehand.
Good bye, my dear old fellow. We all send you the kindest wishes, and whether or not we never meet again, you stand near in my heart.
It is easy to send a last word to you, but just in case of accidents, I wish to send one to W.E.H. also. These words will do: “Auld Lang Syne”.
To Katharine, if I come again no more, I send these: “It is never too late to repent and make amends”.
But these are of course only testamentary.
Good bye to yourself.
Yours ever affectionately,
Robert Louis Stevenson
I am going to have a job to manage to enjoy myself, but I’ll try!
Second Sheet. [25 June 1888]
Since this (continual wild porridge of affairs delaying us still) your letter to Fanny and yours to me have come. I thank you for both. I agree with you as usual; do no more about this endowment till I have time to be a man again, for I own there is in the proposal an ugly spice of vengeance.
I have arranged with Young to call on you for as little as possible, preferring to keep some ready money, even if I have to pay dearer in the mortgage. He will write; but I do not fancy he will ask more than £600 or less than £400. Whatever he wants let him have; it is a sound investment, I believe. I was delighted to hear we were out of the shipping business, for which I have less taste than none.
I was rejoiced you agreed with me. I have no natural taste for harshness, and to return an apology cut me to the soul. But I was very certain I was right all the same; and indeed such a letter could not have been shown to my wife – she would never have forgiven it and she would have been right. A strange suspicion which I cannot – or rather will not – write hangs over this affair, and may a little more excuse Henley if it be correct; but I would fain not believe it. When we meet we may speak of it.
You should have seen us counting over the ship’s specie today: Treasure Island wasn’t a circumstance.
My wife and I both owe you very much, dear man, and are not ungrateful. You can imagine what a shatterer it was for her – or perhaps you scarcely can. She had a special fondness for K.; she was indeed stabbed in the house of her friends.
I am a little better; the blood has stopped again, and I hope when I am fairly at sea, I may get rested.
[As usual, dots between square brackets indicate cuts made by Sidney Colvin. For full, correct and critical edition of this letter, see Mehew 6, 2098.]
To Henry James [Colvin 1911, 3, pp. 70-7]
Manasquan (ahem!), New Jersey [28 May 1888]
My dear James,
With what a torrent it has come at last! Up to now, what I like best is the first number of a London Life. You have never done anything better, and I don’t know if perhaps you have ever done anything so good as the girl’s outburst: tip-top.
I have been preaching your later works in your native land. I had to present the Beltraffio volume to Low, and it has brought him to his knees; he was amazed at the first part of Georgina’s Reasons, although (like me) not so well satisfied with Part II.
It is annoying to find the American public as stupid as the English, but they will waken up in time: I wonder what they will think of Two Nations? […]
This, dear James, is a valedictory. On June 15th the schooner yacht Casco will (weather and a jealous providence permitting) steam
through the Golden Gates
and – I hope not the bottom of the Pacific.
It will contain your obedient ’umble servant and party.
It seems too good to be true, and is a very good way of getting through the green-sickness of maturity which, with all its accompanying ills, is now declaring itself in my mind and life. They tell me it is not so severe as that of youth: if I (and the Casco) are spared, I shall tell you more exactly, as I am one of the few people in the world who do not forget their own lives.
Good-bye, then, my dear fellow, and please write us a word; we expect to have three mails in the next two months: Honolulu,
But letters will be forwarded from Scribner’s,
if you hear nothing more definite directly. In 3 (three) days I leave for San Francisco.
The following is addressed to the son of the Irish-American sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens, who was at that time 8 years old.
[For correct and critical edition of this letter, see Mehew 6, 2097.]
To Homer Saint-Gaudens [Colvin 1911, 3, pp. 69-70]
Manasquan, New Jersey, 27th May 1888
Dear Homer St. Gaudens,
Your father has brought you this day to see me, and he tells me it is his hope you may remember the occasion. I am going to do what I can to carry out his wish; and it may amuse you, years after, to see this little scrap of paper and to read what I write.
I must begin by testifying that you yourself took no interest whatever in the introduction, and in the most proper spirit displayed a single-minded ambition to get back to play, and this I thought an excellent and admirable point in your character.
You were also (I use the past tense, with a view to the time when you shall read, rather than to that when I am writing) a very pretty boy, and (to my European views) startlingly self-possessed.
My time of observation was so limited that you must pardon me if I can say no more: what else I marked, what restlessness of foot and hand, what graceful clumsiness, what experimental designs upon the furniture, was but the common inheritance of human youth.
But you may perhaps like to know that the lean flushed man in bed, who interested you so little, was in a state of mind extremely mingled and unpleasant: harassed with work which he thought he was not doing well, troubled with difficulties to which you will in time succeed,
and yet looking forward to no less matter than a voyage to the South Seas and the visitation of savage and desert islands.
I shall just have to ask you to write no more about this affair for a while; I can open no more letters that bear upon it. It has quite smashed me, and I am beginning to fear I may loose my cruise after all, which would be hard on Lloyd.
I cannot sleep; I can never get the thought out of my head. I had the most hideous revulsion after writing so sternly to Katharine, and it was three days before I could forgive myself.
But even now, when I am more sure that I did right, and the only thing right, my heart is wretched. I was not meant to punish sinners.
Of course I am sure you will make it right in time with Henley, but do not let me hear for awhile.
I could not bear another disappointment. Really, something would happen.
I wish you would be prepared to pay £10 per mensem to Young the San Francisco man.
It is an allowance to Belle, which I have been paying myself;
but if I go to the voyage, I shall have to pass on the duty to him, and tell him to draw on you. He will communicate with you when I have seen him. I am also about to give a little charge to Miss Boodle to look after our Mary Ann, and if she finds it necessary to help the family, pray give her what she may require.
I am, my dear fellow, the most purely unhappy card on ground
– or so my egotism thinks, when there are (I daresay) a thousand who might envy me.
Ever yours affectionately,
P.S. We leave Monday, if I shall be able – a dreadful doubt which I keep to myself, but I am doubtful.
Your letter is heart-breaking, and I do not know how to reply to it, for it convicts me (I now see) of a piece of real unkindness, unworthy of myself and our old true friendship. You may blame me in the bitterest terms you will for the cruel blunder I made in opening my mind to you, and I shall not complain, for I deserve them all. I should, I know now, have said nothing; and I shall never cease from regretting that I gave you this useless, this unnecessary pain.
You must not believe, though, that I struck to hurt. I did not. I thought the matter one of little consequence. It seemed right that you should know how it looked to myself, and that there might well be the end of it. I was elbows deep in the business from the first, and I had (I thought) a right to make remarks. It was surely as well (I reasoned) that you should hear of certain coincidences from me as from another quarter. That I had any feeling of unfriendliness is what I want now explicitly to deny. It is your mistake, dear lad, to imagine that I’ve ever been any other than your true friend and servant. I have not; I could not. Twice before (I want you to remember) you have put this same charge upon me: each time, as you know, to my astonishment. In this case, as in the others, I can truly say the amazement is the same. How much greater the distress has been I leave you to judge.
All this, and more, I should have said long since, but I could not answer your first letter. It put me (as it were) into the dock, and I preferred to keep silence till I could speak on the old footing and in the old terms. Now I can do that, I make haste to own that I spoke without a full sense of the regard that was due to you, and that I beg your forgiveness.
The good Charles was with us not long since, and our talk ran much on you. I doubt not that he has written, and told you all he could, and that you know ere this why I have not spoken and how I – we – have felt. Let me add that neither he nor you can know how grievous the estrangement has been to all of us, nor what a relief it is to us to think that it may now be at an end.
Forgive me if I write no more. I am far from well, and there are many things for which I am perplexed. And do not doubt me again, if you can help it. Life is short enough and cruel enough, as it is; and you and I, dear Louis, should know better than to waste the good that is in it – the good that we have made for ourselves – like this.
Ever your friend,
[a note in RLS’s hand at the top of Henley’s letter, when sending it to Baxter, see below, Letter 2093:]
His original position carefully saved throughout; (1) and yet I gave him my word as to certain matters of fact; (2) and yet the letter (in consequence of this) can never be shown to my wife; (3) and yet, even if he still thinks he did, I think a kind spirit would have even lied.
That was best. I am afraid to speak or breathe. There is devilry in the air.
K. de M.
[a note in RLS’s hand at Katharine’s letter, when sending it to Baxter, see below, Letter 2093:]
This precious scrap is all she says when I sent her, as sole answer to her former letter, the information that I should never tell Fanny of it, and enclosed a message from Fanny – I now forget its terms – to the effect that letters might be misunderstood and we must not judge K. in the meantime. If there is not even thanks, I must explain it to myself as hopeless. Poor woman, she has put her foot in it deep, but this stubborn pride in wrong-doing can lead only to greater misery in the end. I do not envy her night thoughts!
You say ‘that was best’. I thought it best for you. But is that all you have to say? Have you no thanks to make me for an act which I own I thought generous? I suppressed a letter which deeply affected my wife’s character from the person most concerned;
a letter which, if I know anything of life, there is no other human being but myself who would have even tried to pardon; a letter of which (permit me to remind you) you were so much ashamed that you followed it up with two vague notes of apology and deprecation. Up to this moment you have never had one word of reproach from me. Henley came to see you, that which I myself so vividly remember. By so doing you might have saved me a friendship of which I have great need; and you would have saved yourself, when your better nature speaks, cruel reproaches.
But it would have been better still if you had found it in your generosity to respond to my wife’s message, which I was surprised to receive from her, which I was rejoiced to send on to you, and which I am now cast down to find has elicited no answer in your heart.
So much I will say; for I find that my silence is misconstrued, and it is necessary to be frank. I know, and you know, how you have used my wife. I know, and you know, how when this matter came up you failed me with Henley. I know, and you know, how you wrote in answer. I know, and you know, how, as soon as you had sent the letter off, your heart misgave you. I know, and you know, how I have sought to spare you till today. I now remind you nakedly of the truth. I do not know how to say what I wish to say. There is always a door open: it is never too late to say, I have sinned – if not for others, at least for oneself. God knows my heart is heavy enough with my own offences to make me sicken at the thought of seeming harsh. But I counsel you, if you wish peace of mind, to do the right thing, and do it now.
I have had a sore mail. You were right; and Henley should not have written. I send you his letter, and I must ask you somehow or other to get me out of the task of answering it.
I will say frankly this tread of the elephant’s foot is too heavy for me.
You will observe that my delicacy in never referring to my wife’s miserable position is constructed (I must suppose) as a tacit condemnation; that to me, a married man, he writes a letter of reconciliation which I could never dare to show my wife! I have been even using my wife ill, by my treatment of this matter, but this passes the measure.
Henley and Katharine may make their peace with her if they are able.
I am weary of trying to think and plan, and suppress letters, for their sake; not one thought do they give to me. And you must try to explain to him that for his sake and mine, I must simply not be supposed to have received the enclosed specimen of correspondence. Explain to him also, if you are able, that when a man in a matter of this description does not swell on his wife’s feelings, the suppression does not imply that she his dead.
But I feel he will never understand.
O, I go on my journey with a bitter heart. It will be best for all, I daresay, if the Casco goes down with me. For there’s devilish little left to live for.
And don’t think me ungrateful, my dear; God bless you, for your kindness and your wisdom. And would God I had had your letter before I wrote. For this wooden incapacity to understand any feeling that can inspire one word of my correspondence or one act of my life is the severest blow of all.
By the same mail I had a pencil note from Katharine, also enclosed, along with my answer. I do not know whether it is that I am “weary of well-doing”. I think not. I think I perceive that I injure these people by treating them with too great delicacy, which they misconstrue – and what drives me wild, miscontrue to the disadvantage of my wife.
O, Henley’s letter! I cannot rise from it. What does the man think? Has he never met a human being on his way through life? – Well, well, here I am writing all night again, with all my reams of work in hand, and within 9 days of leaving for San Francisco.
This business has been my headstone;
I will never be reconciled to life. O, I speak wildly – but it will never be the same to me. Katharine has behaved in a manner that I shall leave herself to qualify if she please; Henley, poor devil, seems unable to understand a single impulse of my heart or a single necessity of my position; he seems also quite unable to believe my plain word.
Well, I mean to beat the wind. I will have a good time on the Casco. It means a hard heart; well, harden it, O Lord! and let’s be done.
Lord, man! I can’t help loving him either. I would give a leg that this were blotted out, and I could sit down with him as of yore.
Does he suppose my wife enjoyed this business? God, what a want – what a corpse-like want of thought for others this displays! Don’t you see me going to my wife and showing her this letter, and – read it!
Truly, I have found in myself wonderful things, but I believe in my widest flights of unconcern for my neighbours, I never flew one-third of this. But the affair is back in your hand. The trouble is, dear Charles, and this I feel wretched about: they will have to put off Rodin to next year.
I lost more than a month over this business. I had this chance of a schooner, which I thought I might enjoy – and I mean to, if the devil’s in it – and which might do me good;
and I am in dreadful arrears. I have still two articles which must be done in eight days, a feat I know not how to accomplish:
and in short – the Rodin must go over to next year. For I cannot do it on board.
Next day [22 May 1888]: the horrible part here begins.
Of other business – I have the pretty complete certainty that the £2,000 will carry me well through my seven months. What you have in hand, and what we may hope you shall receive in the interim from publishers, Skerryvore etc.,
may thus collect, and should amount to something ere my return. If I come back in any health I should make another £300 in six months by finishing my novel, The Master of Ballantrae.
Pretty soon after, Lloyd and I should have one of our ships at the harbour mouth.
And they should go far to keep us for the year, so that (what I am particularly anxious to manage) the Casco letters may go towards repayment of the capital now borrowed.
I shall think it unlucky if I cannot get from 10 to 15 hundred out of them, and this should go (or a great part of it should) toward the hole made in capital. I now find myself in debt to my heirs, for I scarce think myself entitled to decrease the little stock.
But now there remains the question of buying the deferred annuity for Katharine’s child. I do not think this quarrel should be allowed to interfere with that design, which seems to me highly desirable. At the same time I mean the expense to fall on Katharine’s share of what I have left to her. I wish you would inquire into the thing. After this letter of mine, it is unlikely we shall have further correspondence; nor unless she chooses to own the truth, do I much desire it. So if you find, at the child’s present age, the thing to be possible and not too expensive, you had better just manage it for me personally, and send me a little codicil by which I can reduce Katharine’s share in a proportion. I think, considering all things, it could scarce seem mean if I added the amount to Lloyd’s? He at least is a comfort to me;
and in all this trouble, he and yourself are my only stand-by’s. My wife feels the thing too bitterly to be much help – she had a very strong affection for Katharine;
and I have to steer my own course often much against her will, though of course as she is in S.F.
I am playing off my own bat. Lloyd approves of the letter to Katharine; we both feel it is impossible I should continue to appear to accept this unfair usage of my wife, and that I have done as much in the way of hanging off, and giving Katharine a chance to do the right thing spontaneously, as the oldest friend has any right to ask. It is just possible this business will delay my sailing! At least today work is once more impossible.
As to Henley’s letter, then, you will try to explain to him, as kindly as you can, what it appears to me are its defects, and how from the nature of these defects, it is better I should not be supposed to have received it. I cannot describe with what disappointment I read it, but upon this you will not dwell. My plan, in not receiving it, and not answering it, is to keep the door open for the return of friendship. I could not write to him myself, and point out to him the position in which he leaves me as to my wife, because I am too proud to do so, and because if I tried I should but open the wound. I lay the burthen, then, upon your shoulders, and should I receive any letters from W.E.H. before I have heard from you, I shall act upon your original proposal and send them to you unopened.
He says he was “in the business from the first.” He was in it enough to have known a little more, as I reminded him, were he not under an influence which I fear is (just now at least) an evil one. But it is true: I know how easy he is to lead.
You will hear from me again ere I sail, my dear Charles – I trust in better spirits.
I cannot say I think I act harshly. I am trying to do the best for all. The Lord knows there is in my soul this morning no hatred and no anger; a very weary disappointment, a dread of the future, and a doubt of all – that is my sentiment. With my voyage in front of me – the dream of a life realised – I must still say, Would God I had died at Hyères!
I have never been well enough since then to enjoy life as I once did; I have had a considerable success, which is a disappointing circumstance in life, believe me; and – well, now, I feel as if I were moving among bladders.
For either I am a very unjust judge, or I am being hardly used by those whom I loved and tried to serve.
Your kindness, your countenance, and the affection you show to me, my dear, has been of the most incalculable support, and I thank you again and again, and am – O, I hope – Ever yours,
Because I say nothing of my wife’s position and my wife’s feelings, you at least will not misunderstand me. There are things of which a man cannot write, but dear God, that he must feel.
And think of my wooden Henley! I shall never get an answer to this before I am on the sea – if all goes well. Better address to Scribner’s, and I shall hear at our first escale.
To my wife, I shall (God forgive me) pretend that your plan has held all the time, and that I have not communicated with Henley. So here you see I am still tricking and lying for him, and he cannot think once of my position. It is indeed disheartening. Words cannot describe my wearyness of life. And it seems it would have been so easy for Henley to have made his letter presentable! Lloyd is in a great state of doubt too: hating to go to sea without a friendly hail! to Henley, and yet not knowing how or whether.
Some of the first of this letter, being the usual steam escape, I have deleted in a cooler moment.