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superstitions； coming； going； but yet enduring； only most men are
so wise （or the poet in them so dead） that they keep their follies
for themselves。 … I am； yours very truly；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
Letter： TO EDMUND GOSSE
VAILIMA； APRIL 1891。
MY DEAR GOSSE； … I have to thank you and Mrs。 Gosse for many
mementoes； chiefly for your LIFE of your father。 There is a very
delicate task； very delicately done。 I noted one or two
carelessnesses； which I meant to point out to you for another
edition； but I find I lack the time； and you will remark them for
yourself against a new edition。 They were two； or perhaps three；
flabbinesses of style which （in your work） amazed me。 Am I right
in thinking you were a shade bored over the last chapters？ or was
it my own fault that made me think them susceptible of a more
athletic compression？ （The flabbinesses were not there； I think；
but in the more admirable part； where they showed the bigger。）
Take it all together； the book struck me as if you had been hurried
at the last； but particularly hurried over the proofs； and could
still spend a very profitable fortnight in earnest revision and
（towards the end） heroic compression。 The book； in design；
subject； and general execution； is well worth the extra trouble。
And even if I were wrong in thinking it specially wanted； it will
not be lost； for do we not know； in Flaubert's dread confession；
that 'prose is never done'？ What a medium to work in； for a man
tired； perplexed among different aims and subjects； and spurred by
the immediate need of 'siller'！ However； it's mine for what it's
worth； and it's one of yours； the devil take it； and you know； as
well as Flaubert； and as well as me； that it is NEVER DONE； in
other words； it is a torment of the pit； usually neglected by the
bards who （lucky beggars！） approached the Styx in measure。 I speak
bitterly at the moment； having just detected in myself the last
fatal symptom； three blank verses in succession … and I believe；
God help me； a hemistich at the tail of them； hence I have deposed
the labourer； come out of hell by my private trap； and now write to
you from my little place in purgatory。 But I prefer hell： would I
could always dig in those red coals … or else be at sea in a
schooner； bound for isles unvisited： to be on shore and not to
work is emptiness … suicidal vacancy。
I was the more interested in your LIFE of your father； because I
meditate one of mine； or rather of my family。 I have no such
materials as you； and （our objections already made） your attack
fills me with despair； it is direct and elegant； and your style is
always admirable to me … lenity； lucidity； usually a high strain of
breeding； an elegance that has a pleasant air of the accidental。
But beware of purple passages。 I wonder if you think as well of
your purple passages as I do of mine？ I wonder if you think as ill
of mine as I do of yours？ I wonder； I can tell you at least what
is wrong with yours … they are treated in the spirit of verse。 The
spirit … I don't mean the measure； I don't mean you fall into
bastard cadences； what I mean is that they seem vacant and smoothed
out； ironed； if you like。 And in a style which （like yours） aims
more and more successfully at the academic； one purple word is
already much； three … a whole phrase … is inadmissible。 Wed
yourself to a clean austerity： that is your force。 Wear a linen
ephod； splendidly candid。 Arrange its folds； but do not fasten it
with any brooch。 I swear to you； in your talking robes； there
should be no patch of adornment； and where the subject forces； let
it force you no further than it must； and be ready with a twinkle
of your pleasantry。 Yours is a fine tool； and I see so well how to
hold it； I wonder if you see how to hold mine？ But then I am to
the neck in prose； and just now in the 'dark INTERSTYLAR cave；' all
methods and effects wooing me； myself in the midst impotent to
follow any。 I look for dawn presently； and a full flowing river of
expression； running whither it wills。 But these useless seasons；
above all； when a man MUST continue to spoil paper； are infinitely
weary。
We are in our house after a fashion； without furniture； 'tis true；
camping there； like the family after a sale。 But the bailiff has
not yet appeared； he will probably come after。 The place is
beautiful beyond dreams； some fifty miles of the Pacific spread in
front； deep woods all round； a mountain making in the sky a profile
of huge trees upon our left； about us； the little island of our
clearing； studded with brave old gentlemen （or ladies； or 'the twa
o' them'） whom we have spared。 It is a good place to be in； night
and morning； we have Theodore Rousseaus （always a new one） hung to
amuse us on the walls of the world； and the moon … this is our good
season； we have a moon just now … makes the night a piece of
heaven。 It amazes me how people can live on in the dirty north；
yet if you saw our rainy season （which is really a caulker for
wind； wet； and darkness … howling showers； roaring winds； pit…
blackness at noon） you might marvel how we could endure that。 And
we can't。 But there's a winter everywhere； only ours is in the
summer。 Mark my words： there will be a winter in heaven … and in
hell。 CELA RENTRE DANS LES PROCEDES DU BON DIEU； ET VOUS VERREZ！
There's another very good thing about Vailima； I am away from the
little bubble of the literary life。 It is not all beer and
skittles； is it？ By the by； my BALLADS seem to have been dam bad；
all the crickets sing so in their crickety papers； and I have no
ghost of an idea on the point myself： verse is always to me the
unknowable。 You might tell me how it strikes a professional bard：
not that it really matters； for； of course； good or bad； I don't
think I shall get into THAT galley any more。 But I should like to
know if you join the shrill chorus of the crickets。 The crickets
are the devil in all to you： 'tis a strange thing； they seem to
rejoice like a strong man in their injustice。 I trust you got my
letter about your Browning book。 In case it missed； I wish to say
again that your publication of Browning's kind letter； as an
illustration of HIS character； was modest； proper； and in radiant
good taste。 … In Witness whereof； etc。； etc。；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
Letter： TO MISS RAWLINSON
VAILIMA； APIA； SAMOA； APRIL 1891。
MY DEAR MAY； … I never think of you by any more ceremonial name； so
I will not pretend。 There is not much chance that I shall forget
you until the time comes for me to forget all this little turmoil
in a corner （though indeed I have been in several corners） of an
inconsiderable planet。 You remain in my mind for a good reason；
having given me （in so short a time） the most delightful pleasure。
I shall