r, saw two pages of his work that I could not have put in one
without the smallest loss of material. That is the only test I know of
writing. If there is anywhere a thing said in two sentences that could
have been as clearly and as engagingly and as forcibly said in one, then
it's amateur work. Then you will bring me up with old Dumas. Nay, the
object of a story is to be long, to fill up hours; the story-teller's
art of writing is to water out by continual invention, historical and
technical, and yet not seem to water; seem on the other hand to practise
that same wit of conspicuous and declaratory condensation which is the
proper art of writing. That is one thing in which my stories fail: I am
always cutting the flesh off their bones.

I would rise from the dead to preach!

Hope all well. I think my wife better, but she's not allowed to write;
and this (only wrung from me by desire to Boss and Parsonise and
Dominate, strong in sickness) is my first letter for days, and will
likely be my last for many more. Not blame my wife for her silence:
doctor's orders. All much interested by your last, and fragment from
brother, and anecdotes of Tomarcher.--The sick but still Moral

R. L. S.

Tell Shaw to hurry up: I want another.

TO WILLIAM ARCHER

In early days in Paris, Stevenson's chivalrous feelings had once been
shocked by the scene in the _Demi-Monde_ of Dumas fils, where Suzanne
d'Ange is trapped by Olivier de Jalin. His correspondent had asked
what exactly took place.

[_Saranac Lake, February 1888 ?_]

MY DEAR ARCHER,--It happened thus. I came forth from that performance in
a breathing heat of indignation. (Mind, at this distance of time and
with my increased knowledge, I admit there is a problem in the piece;
but I saw none then, except a problem in brutality; and I still consider
the problem in that case not established.) On my way down the _Francais_
stairs, I trod on an old gentleman's toes, whereupon with that suavity
that so well becomes me, I turned about to apologise, and on the
instant, repenting me of that intention, stopped the apology midway, and
added something in French to this effect: No, you are one of the
_laches_ who have been applauding that piece. I retract my apology. Said
the old Frenchman, laying his hand on my arm, and with a smile that was
truly heavenly in temperance, irony, good-nature, and knowledge of the
world, "Ah, monsieur, vous etes bien jeune!"--Y