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the Samoan language； which is full of words written thus： la'u；
ti'e ti'e。 As the Samoan language uses but a very small proportion
of the consonants； we should require a double or treble stock of
all vowels and of F； G； L； U； N； P； S； T； and V。
The other day in Sydney； I think you might be interested to hear； I
was sculpt a second time by a man called …； as well as I can
remember and read。 I mustn't criticise a present； and he had very
little time to do it in。 It is thought by my family to be an
excellent likeness of Mark Twain。 This poor fellow； by the by； met
with the devil of an accident。 A model of a statue which he had
just finished with a desperate effort was smashed to smithereens on
its way to exhibition。
Please be sure and let me know if anything is likely to come of
this letter business； and the exact cost of each letter； so that I
may count the cost before ordering。 … Yours sincerely；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
Letter： TO EDMUND GOSSE
JUNE 10TH； 1893。
MY DEAR GOSSE； … My mother tells me you never received the very
long and careful letter that I sent you more than a year ago； or is
it two years？
I was indeed so much surprised at your silence that I wrote to
Henry James and begged him to inquire if you had received it； his
reply was an （if possible） higher power of the same silence；
whereupon I bowed my head and acquiesced。 But there is no doubt
the letter was written and sent； and I am sorry it was lost； for it
contained； among other things； an irrecoverable criticism of your
father's LIFE； with a number of suggestions for another edition；
which struck me at the time as excellent。
Well； suppose we call that cried off； and begin as before？ It is
fortunate indeed that we can do so； being both for a while longer
in the day。 But； alas！ when I see 'works of the late J。 A。 S。；' I
can see no help and no reconciliation possible。 I wrote him a
letter； I think； three years ago； heard in some roundabout way that
he had received it； waited in vain for an answer （which had
probably miscarried）； and in a humour between frowns and smiles
wrote to him no more。 And now the strange； poignant； pathetic；
brilliant creature is gone into the night； and the voice is silent
that uttered so much excellent discourse； and I am sorry that I did
not write to him again。 Yet I am glad for him； light lie the turf！
The SATURDAY is the only obituary I have seen； and I thought it
very good upon the whole。 I should be half tempted to write an IN
MEMORIAM； but I am submerged with other work。 Are you going to do
it？ I very much admire your efforts that way； you are our only
academician。
So you have tried fiction？ I will tell you the truth： when I saw
it announced； I was so sure you would send it to me； that I did not
order it！ But the order goes this mail； and I will give you news
of it。 Yes； honestly； fiction is very difficult； it is a terrible
strain to CARRY your characters all that time。 And the difficulty
of according the narrative and the dialogue （in a work in the third
person） is extreme。 That is one reason out of half a dozen why I
so often prefer the first。 It is much in my mind just now； because
of my last work； just off the stocks three days ago； THE EBB TIDE：
a dreadful； grimy business in the third person； where the strain
between a vilely realistic dialogue and a narrative style pitched
about （in phrase） 'four notes higher' than it should have been； has
sown my head with grey hairs； or I believe so … if my head escaped；
my heart has them。
The truth is； I have a little lost my way； and stand bemused at the
cross…roads。 A subject？ Ay； I have dozens； I have at least four
novels begun； they are none good enough； and the mill waits； and
I'll have to take second best。 THE EBB TIDE I make the world a
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