_Saturday._--Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down here to lecture, called on me and took me up to see a poor fellow, a sort of poet who writes for him, and who has been eighteen months in our infirmary, and may be, for all I know, eighteen months more. It was very sad to see him there, in a little room with two beds, and a couple of sick children in the other bed; a girl came in to visit the children, and played dominoes on the counterpane with them; the gas flared and crackled, the fire burned in a dull economical way; Stephen and I sat on a couple of chairs, and the poor fellow sat up in his bed with his hair and beard all tangled, and talked as cheerfully as if he had been in a King's palace, or the great King's palace of the blue air. He has taught himself two languages since he has been lying there. I shall try to be of use to him. We have had two beautiful spring days, mild as milk, windy withal, and the sun hot. I dreamed last night I was walking by moonlight round the place where the scene of my story is laid; it was all so quiet and sweet, and the blackbirds were singing as if it was day; it made my heart very cool and happy.--Ever yours, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO SIDNEY COLVIN _[Edinburgh] February 8, 1875._ MY DEAR COLVIN,--Forgive my bothering you. Here is the proof of my second _Knox_. Glance it over, like a good fellow, and if there's anything very flagrant send it to me marked. I have no confidence in myself; I feel such an ass. What have I been doing? As near as I can calculate, nothing. And yet I have worked all this month from three to five hours a day, that is to say, from one to three hours more than my doctor allows me; positively no result. No, I can write no article just now; I am _pioching_, like a madman, at my stories, and can make nothing of them; my simplicity is tame and dull--my passion tinsel, boyish, hysterical. Never mind--ten years hence, if I live, I shall have learned, so help me God. I know one must work, in the meantime (so says Balzac) _comme le mineur enfoui sous un éboulement_. _J'y parviendrai, nom de nom de nom!_ But it's a long look forward.--Ever yours, R. L. S. TO MRS. SITWELL As the spring advanced Stevenson had again been much out of sorts, and had gone for a change, in the company of Mr. R. A. M. Stevenson, on his first visit to the artist haunts of Fontainebleau which were afterwards so much endeared to him. [_Barbizon, April 1875._]