ich, 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.

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 w