Stuart Campbell's Blog
The letter
I’m still not convinced that I can’t take them with me. When I first started collecting books, and Stevenson in particular, the decades seemed to stretch so far ahead that the ultimate destination of the library seemed irrelevant. That is no longer the case. I have tried to cultivate a Buddhist acceptance of the transitory nature of life and book collections; I acknowledge that attachment if unhelpful but I still don’t see why they shouldn’t accompany me on my last journey.
Perhaps it would be possible to be walled up with them in an IKEA self assembly flat pack mausoleum perfectly suited for the typical urban back yard. Failing that I could have a deathbed conversion to Hinduism and exercise the right, newly enshrined in law, to be burned in situ on a funeral pyre of books on the neighbouring railway embankment. Presumably once the transition to the other side is complete the ash from a collection of nearly six hundred books on RLS would reconstitute itself into pristine tomes, and resume their rightful order on celestial shelves.
If by any chance I were to commit some outrageous atrocity in the name of Jihad, it would not be the prospect of an eternity spent with forty virgins that would inspire me, rather the guaranteed companionship of the first editions, British and American lovingly assembled over many years that are the corner stone of the present collection. What would one do with forty virgins for goodness sake, apart from the obvious? The novelty would soon wear thin and, imagine shopping for forty jealous giggly virgins obsessed with their appearance with no chit chat all, just a repertoire of lustful groans. To conclude this guide to world religions, and in the interest of ecumenicism, there could also be the possibility that the virgins would be the self same foolish ones who neglected their lamps thereby making it impossible to read any of the books that were lying around.
I had hoped that actually giving something back to the Stevenson canon by publishing RLS in Love would assuage the manic urge to collect books by and about him. Certainly there was a temporary respite from the endless perusal of booksellers catalogues, but it came to an end when a friend pointed out that there was an original, unpublished letter by the man going for a sum measurably less than a small fortune on e bay. Despite much inner wrestling I stoically waited until the deadline passed and tried to get on with my life, smug in the knowledge that restraint and fiscal prudence had prevailed. But I was soon consumed with regret. By not bidding I had missed an unique opportunity to set the seal on the collection.
After moping for several days I told my friend that I deeply regretted not taking part in the on line auction. Ever resourceful he offered to find out if the letter had in fact met the reserve price. He returned with the news that the item was unsold and that the current owner was willing to enter into negotiations. There followed a civilised but ruthless electronic wrangle with the owner, an established American poet who was intent on decluttering his life. Eventually the deed was done, and the letter arrived in Edinburgh. It is a thing of beauty but does raise a few questions to which I would genuinely welcome answers. The text reads as follows:-
My Dear Misus (according to the previous owner the curator at the Silverado Museum thought the addressee was Nemesis but this is a misreading.) Proposal: Suppose you and yours dined with me and mine on Christmas as Rai San’s; and then went and finished the evening at your house? I am willing to listen to and amendments and am,
Yours to command R.L.S.
Who was the woman and who or what was Rai San? Is it a person or a place? A Samoan pub or a takeaway perhaps? I vaguely remember conducting an internet search and discovering that Rai San was a local missionary, but my efforts to refind the reference have been so totally unsuccessful that I genuinely think I may have dreamed it.
I have looked all of the letters he wrote round about the 25th December and am none the wiser although there is an intriguing mention in a letter written to Thomas Archer on 18th December 1888 in which he describes himself and Fanny sharing a four-wheeled gig with two Tahiti natives, one of whom was the sub-chief of the village, and according to Stevenson a great ally. Indeed we have changed names; so that he is now called Rui, the nearest they can come to Louis, for they have no l and no s in their language. Rui is six feet three in his stockings, and a magnificent man. Given Stevenson’s difficult handwriting, Rai could be Rui but I am far from certain.
So, if anyone can cast any light on this letter their reward will be a signed copy of RLS in Love. Meanwhile I had best go and count my book – and letter – collection while I still can.