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present of； I expect； and； I suppose； deserve to be torn to pieces；
but there was all that good work lying useless； and I had to finish
it！
All your news of your family is pleasant to hear。 My wife has been
very ill； but is now better； I may say I am ditto； THE EBB TIDE
having left me high and dry； which is a good example of the mixed
metaphor。 Our home； and estate； and our boys； and the politics of
the island； keep us perpetually amused and busy； and I grind away
with an odd； dogged； down sensation … and an idea IN PETTO that the
game is about played out。 I have got too realistic； and I must
break the trammels … I mean I would if I could； but the yoke is
heavy。 I saw with amusement that Zola says the same thing； and
truly the DEBACLE was a mighty big book； I have no need for a
bigger； though the last part is a mere mistake in my opinion。 But
the Emperor； and Sedan； and the doctor at the ambulance； and the
horses in the field of battle； Lord； how gripped it is！ What an
epical performance！ According to my usual opinion； I believe I
could go over that book and leave a masterpiece by blotting and no
ulterior art。 But that is an old story； ever new with me。 Taine
gone； and Renan； and Symonds； and Tennyson； and Browning； the suns
go swiftly out； and I see no suns to follow； nothing but a
universal twilight of the demi…divinities； with parties like you
and me and Lang beating on toy drums and playing on penny whistles
about glow…worms。 But Zola is big anyway； he has plenty in his
belly； too much； that is all； he wrote the DEBACLE and he wrote LA
BETE HUMAINE； perhaps the most excruciatingly silly book that I
ever read to an end。 And why did I read it to an end； W。 E。 G。？
Because the animal in me was interested in the lewdness。 Not
sincerely； of course； my mind refusing to partake in it； but the
flesh was slightly pleased。 And when it was done； I cast it from
me with a peal of laughter； and forgot it； as I would forget a
Montepin。 Taine is to me perhaps the chief of these losses； I did
luxuriate in his ORIGINES； it was something beyond literature； not
quite so good； if you please； but so much more systematic； and the
pages that had to be 'written' always so adequate。 Robespierre；
Napoleon； were both excellent good。
JUNE 18TH； '93
Well； I have left fiction wholly； and gone to my GRANDFATHER； and
on the whole found peace。 By next month my GRANDFATHER will begin
to be quite grown up。 I have already three chapters about as good
as done； by which； of course； as you know； I mean till further
notice or the next discovery。 I like biography far better than
fiction myself： fiction is too free。 In biography you have your
little handful of facts； little bits of a puzzle； and you sit and
think； and fit 'em together this way and that； and get up and throw
'em down； and say damn； and go out for a walk。 And it's real
soothing； and when done； gives an idea of finish to the writer that
is very peaceful。 Of course； it's not really so finished as quite
a rotten novel； it always has and always must have the incurable
illogicalities of life about it； the fathoms of slack and the miles
of tedium。 Still； that's where the fun comes in； and when you have
at last managed to shut up the castle spectre （dulness）； the very
outside of his door looks beautiful by contrast。 There are pages
in these books that may seem nothing to the reader； but you
REMEMBER WHAT THEY WERE； YOU KNOW WHAT THEY MIGHT HAVE BEEN； and
they seem to you witty beyond comparison。 In my GRANDFATHER I've
had （for instance） to give up the temporal order almost entirely；
doubtless the temporal order is the great foe of the biographer； it
is so tempting； so easy； and lo！ there you are in the bog！ … Ever
yours；
R。 L。 STEVENSON。
With all kind messages from self and wife to you and yours。 My
wife is very much better； having been the early part of this year
alarmingly ill。 She is now all right； only complaining of trifles；
annoying to her； but happily not interesting to her friends。 I am
in a hideous state； having stopped drink and smoking； yes； both。
No wine； no tobacco； and the dreadful part of it is that … looking
forward … I have … what shall I say？ … nauseating intimations that
it ought to be for ever。
Letter： TO HENRY JAMES
VAILIMA PLANTATION； SAMOAN ISLANDS； JUNE 17TH； 1893。
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES； … I believe I have neglected a mail in
answering yours。 You will be very sorry to hear that my wife was
exceedingly ill； and very glad to hear that she is better。 I
cannot say that I feel any more anxiety about her。 We shall send
you a photograph of her taken in Sydney in her customary island
habit as she walks and gardens and shrilly drills her brown
assistants。 She was very ill when she sat for it； which may a
little explain the appearance of the photograph。 It reminds me of
a friend of my grandmother's who used to say when talking to
younger women； 'Aweel； when I was young； I wasnae just exactly what
ye wad call BONNY； but I was pale； penetratin'； and interestin'。'
I would not venture to hint that Fanny is 'no bonny；' but there is
no doubt but that in this presentment she is 'pale； penetratin'；
and interesting。'
As you are aware； I have been wading deep waters and contending
with the great ones of the earth； not wholly without success。 It
is； you may be interested to hear； a dreary and infuriating
business。 If you can get the fools to admit one thing； they will
always save their face by denying another。 If you can induce them
to take a step to the right hand； they generally indemnify
themselves by cutting a caper to the left。 I always held （upon no
evidence whatever； from a mere sentiment or intuition） that
politics was the dirtiest； the most foolish； and the most random of
human employments。 I always held； but now I know it！ Fortunately；
you have nothing to do with anything of the kind； and I may spare
you the horror of further details。
I received from you a book by a man by the name of Anatole France。
Why should I disguise it？ I have no use for Anatole。 He writes
very prettily； and then afterwards？ Baron Marbot was a different
pair of shoes。 So likewise is the Baron de Vitrolles； whom I am
now perusing with delight。 His escape in 1814 is one of the best
pages I remember anywhere to have read。 But Marbot and Vitrolles
are dead； and what has become of the living？ It seems as if
literature were coming to a stand。 I am sure it is with me； and I
am sure everybody will say so when they have the privilege of
reading THE EBB TIDE。 My dear man； the grimness of that story is
not to be depicted in words。 There are only four characters； to be
sure； but they are such a troop of swine！ And their behaviour is
really so deeply beneath any possible standard； that on a
retrospect I wonder I have been able to endure them myself until
the yarn was finished。 Well； there is always one thing； it will
serve as a touchstone。 If the admirers of Zola admire him for his
pertinent ugliness and pessimism； I think they should admire this；
but if； as I have long suspected； they neither admire nor
understand the man's art； and only wallow in his rancidness like a
hound in offal； then they will certainly be disappointed in THE EBB
TIDE。 ALAS！ poor little tale； it is not EVEN rancid。
By way of an antidote or febrifuge； I am going on at a great rate
with my HISTORY OF THE STEVENSONS； which I hope may prove rather
amusing； in some parts at least。 The excess of materials weighs
upon me。 My grandfather is a delightful comedy part； and I have to
treat him besides as a serious and （in his way） a heroic figure；
and at times I lose my way； and I fear in the end will blur the
effect。 However； A LA GRACE DE DIEU！ I'll make a spoon or spoil a
horn。