I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a few days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that structure. I have worked very hard at it, and so do not expect any great public favour. _In moments of effort_, _one learns to do the easy things that people like_. There is the golden maxim; thus one should strain and then play, strain again and play again. The strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers would have called ‘rank conformity,’ and to pour forth cheap replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, and still more insidiously present, to forget that art is a diversion and a decoration, that no triumph or effort is of value, nor anything worth reaching except charm.—Yours affectionately, R. L. S. TO MISS FERRIER _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, [_March_ 22, 1884]. MY DEAR MISS FERRIER,—Are you really going to fall us? This seems a dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for friends on this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have been promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know how delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a visit. Look at the names: ‘The Solitude’—is that romantic? The palm-trees?—how is that for the gorgeous East? ‘Var’? the name of a river—‘the quiet waters by’! ’Tis true, they are in another department, and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a music, what a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we have skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English May—for, considering we are in France and serve up our song-birds, I am ashamed to say, on a little field of toast and with a sprig of thyme (my own receipt) in their most innocent and now unvocal bellies—considering all this, we have a wonderfully fair wood-music round this Solitude of ours. What can I say more?—All this awaits you. _Kennst du das Land_, in short.—Your sincere friend, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO W. H. LOW _La Solitude_, _Hyères-les-Palmiers_, _Var_, [_April_ 1884]. MY DEAR LOW,—The blind man in these sprawled lines sends greeting. I have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The news—‘great news—glorious news—sec-ond ed-ition!’—went the round in England. Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me) much liked.