&w=3840&q=75)
&w=3840&q=75)
&w=3840&q=75)
&w=3840&q=75)
&w=3840&q=75)
&w=3840&q=75)
213
STEVENSON Robert Louis (1850-1894).
The item was sold for 6 500 €
Fees include commission and taxes.
STEVENSON Robert Louis (1850-1894).
L.A.S. "Robert Louis Stevenson", Yacht Heron, Oban [Scotland, July 1874], to HIS MOTHER| 4 pages in-8 with his engraved monogram.
Beautiful letter from his youth, in the happy days of his early travels.
[Stevenson, who had been contributing to magazines since the previous year, sailed the Hebrides archipelago in the summer of 1874 with his university friends Walter Simpson and Thomas Barclay, on a sixteen-barrel schooner, living the bohemian life he loved, happy despite the rudimentary living conditions and canned food: "Some of the brightest moments of my life", he recalls in The
Silverado Squatters (1883)] "My dear mother, I shall try to write you a note at last, although I hope almost in irony that you may be able to read it, as the pen is bad and my hands are hard and stiff and I have forgotten how to write. That is scarcely a joke| but when I say that I have forgotten how to think, it is in bitter seriousness. I am so stupid, I never do think, I prattle and am very easily satisfied with my own and other people's jests, I eat, I drink, I bathe in the briny, I sleep | generally I live as a beast with the beasts of the field. It is so nice. It is also so healthful... It is my thick-headed, stolid, real satisfaction. Simpson and I sleep at one end of the cabin, Stout and Barclay at the other.
In the middle, we batten over food. It is dirty. We try to keep our own glasses, but occasionally Tom [Thomas Barclay] mixes them up in what he calls cleaning it. Simpson looking at his glass the other day suspiciously through half-shut eyes, opined that "Tom had been tampering with it"| and the word was hailed with acclamation.
However he doesn't tamper much with anything. We have the most of the mercies packed up in small tins, by a dear man in Aberdeen. I don't think mercies are improved by packing up in tins. Apart from the dear man's preparations, we live principally on chops and steaks, with every now and again a leg of mutton: a leg of mutton is a very great thing. It is boiled and we have mutton broth. Real mutton broth is better than mutton broth out of the dear man's tins. You observe how I use the word real there| it is a common locution with us| things out of the Aberdonian tins are called sham"...
Translation: "My dear mother, I'm going to try and write you a note at last, although I almost ironically hope you manage to read it, since the pen is bad, my hands are hard and stiff, and I've forgotten how to write. That's hardly a joke| but when I say I've forgotten how to think, I mean it with bitter seriousness. I'm so stupid, I never think, I gossip and am easily satisfied with my own and other people's good words, I eat, I drink, I bathe in brine, I sleep| in general, I live like a beast with the beasts of the field. It's so pleasant. It's also so healthy... It's my unbalanced, unshakeable, true satisfaction.
Simpson and I sleep on one side of the cabin, Stout and Barclay on the other. In the middle, we keep food under slats. It's dirty. We try to keep our glasses separate, but sometimes Tom mixes them up when he does what he calls cleaning them.
Simpson, looking askance at his glass the other day with half-closed eyes, voiced the opinion that "Tom had fiddled with it"| and the term was given a standing ovation. Nevertheless, there's not much he fiddles with. We make the most of alms canned by a kind gentleman in Aberdeen. I don't think it improves the alms to be canned.
The nice man's preparations aside, we live on chops and steaks, with the occasional leg of mutton: a leg of mutton is a great thing. It gets boiled and we have mutton stew. A real mutton brouet is better than a mutton brouet from the nice man's boxes. You notice how I use the word "real" here| it's a common expression among us| things out of Aberdonian boxes are called "fake"...
PROVENANCE: Isobel Salisbury Field, Stevenson's daughter-in-law (New York
York, Anderson Galleries, February 16, 1916, no. 154). Robert Louis Stevenson
Stevenson, Selected Letters (New Haven, London, Yale, University
Press 2001), p. 89.
L.A.S. "Robert Louis Stevenson", Yacht Heron, Oban [Scotland, July 1874], to HIS MOTHER| 4 pages in-8 with his engraved monogram.
Beautiful letter from his youth, in the happy days of his early travels.
[Stevenson, who had been contributing to magazines since the previous year, sailed the Hebrides archipelago in the summer of 1874 with his university friends Walter Simpson and Thomas Barclay, on a sixteen-barrel schooner, living the bohemian life he loved, happy despite the rudimentary living conditions and canned food: "Some of the brightest moments of my life", he recalls in The
Silverado Squatters (1883)] "My dear mother, I shall try to write you a note at last, although I hope almost in irony that you may be able to read it, as the pen is bad and my hands are hard and stiff and I have forgotten how to write. That is scarcely a joke| but when I say that I have forgotten how to think, it is in bitter seriousness. I am so stupid, I never do think, I prattle and am very easily satisfied with my own and other people's jests, I eat, I drink, I bathe in the briny, I sleep | generally I live as a beast with the beasts of the field. It is so nice. It is also so healthful... It is my thick-headed, stolid, real satisfaction. Simpson and I sleep at one end of the cabin, Stout and Barclay at the other.
In the middle, we batten over food. It is dirty. We try to keep our own glasses, but occasionally Tom [Thomas Barclay] mixes them up in what he calls cleaning it. Simpson looking at his glass the other day suspiciously through half-shut eyes, opined that "Tom had been tampering with it"| and the word was hailed with acclamation.
However he doesn't tamper much with anything. We have the most of the mercies packed up in small tins, by a dear man in Aberdeen. I don't think mercies are improved by packing up in tins. Apart from the dear man's preparations, we live principally on chops and steaks, with every now and again a leg of mutton: a leg of mutton is a very great thing. It is boiled and we have mutton broth. Real mutton broth is better than mutton broth out of the dear man's tins. You observe how I use the word real there| it is a common locution with us| things out of the Aberdonian tins are called sham"...
Translation: "My dear mother, I'm going to try and write you a note at last, although I almost ironically hope you manage to read it, since the pen is bad, my hands are hard and stiff, and I've forgotten how to write. That's hardly a joke| but when I say I've forgotten how to think, I mean it with bitter seriousness. I'm so stupid, I never think, I gossip and am easily satisfied with my own and other people's good words, I eat, I drink, I bathe in brine, I sleep| in general, I live like a beast with the beasts of the field. It's so pleasant. It's also so healthy... It's my unbalanced, unshakeable, true satisfaction.
Simpson and I sleep on one side of the cabin, Stout and Barclay on the other. In the middle, we keep food under slats. It's dirty. We try to keep our glasses separate, but sometimes Tom mixes them up when he does what he calls cleaning them.
Simpson, looking askance at his glass the other day with half-closed eyes, voiced the opinion that "Tom had fiddled with it"| and the term was given a standing ovation. Nevertheless, there's not much he fiddles with. We make the most of alms canned by a kind gentleman in Aberdeen. I don't think it improves the alms to be canned.
The nice man's preparations aside, we live on chops and steaks, with the occasional leg of mutton: a leg of mutton is a great thing. It gets boiled and we have mutton stew. A real mutton brouet is better than a mutton brouet from the nice man's boxes. You notice how I use the word "real" here| it's a common expression among us| things out of Aberdonian boxes are called "fake"...
PROVENANCE: Isobel Salisbury Field, Stevenson's daughter-in-law (New York
York, Anderson Galleries, February 16, 1916, no. 154). Robert Louis Stevenson
Stevenson, Selected Letters (New Haven, London, Yale, University
Press 2001), p. 89.