CHAPTER II: RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
TUSITALA
We spoke of a rest in a Fairy hill of the north, but he Far from the firths of the east and the racing tides of the west Sleeps in the sight and the sound of the infinite southern sea, Weary and well content, in his grave on the Vaea crest.
Tusitala, the lover of children, the teller of tales, Giver of counsel and dreams, a wonder, a world's delight, Looks o'er the labour of men in the plain and the hill, and the sails Pass and repass on the sea that he loved, in the day and the night.
Winds of the west and the east in the rainy season blow, Heavy with perfume, and all his fragrant woods are wet, Winds of the east and the west as they wander to and fro, Bear him the love of the lands he loved, and the long regret.
Once we were kindest, he said, when leagues of the limitless sea, Flowed between us, but now that no range of the refluent tides Sunders us each from each, yet nearer we seem to be, When only the unbridged stream of the River of Death divides.
Before attempting to give any "reminiscences" of Mr. Stevenson, it isright to observe that reminiscences of him can best be found in his ownworks. In his essay on "Child's Play," and in his "Child's Garden ofVerse," he gave to the world his vivid recollections of his imaginativeinfancy. In other essays he spoke of his boyhood, his health, hisdreams, his methods of work and study. "The Silverado Squatters" revealspart of his experience in America. The Parisian scenes in "The Wrecker"are inspired by his sojourn in French Bohemia; his journeys are recordedin "Travels with a Donkey" and "An Inland Voyage"; while his South Seasketches, which appeared in periodicals, deal with his Oceanicadventures. He was the most autobiographical of authors, with an egoismnearly as complete, and to us as delightful, as the egoism of Montaigne.Thus, the proper sources of information about the author of "Kidnapped"are in his delightful books.
"John's own John," as Dr. Holmes says, may be very unlike his neighbour'sJohn; but in the case of Mr. Stevenson, his Louis was very similar to myLouis; I mean that, as he presents his personality to the world in hiswritings, even so did that personality appear to me in our intercourse.The man I knew was always a boy.
"Sing me a song of the lad that is gone,"
he wrote about Prince Charlie, but in his own case the lad was never"gone." Like Keats and Shelley, he was, and he looked, of the immortallyyoung. He and I were at school together, but I was an elderly boy ofseventeen, when he was lost in the crowd of "gytes," as the members ofthe lowest form are called. Like all Scotch people, we had a vaguefamily connection; a great-uncle of his, I fancy, married an aunt of myown, called for her beauty, "The Flower of Ettrick." So we had bothheard; but these things were before our day. A lady of my kindredremembers carrying Stevenson about when he was "a rather peevish baby,"and I have seen a beautiful photograph of him, like one of Raffael'schildren, taken when his years were three or four. But I never had heardof his existence till, in 1873, I think, I was at Mentone, in theinterests of my health. Here I met Mr. Sidney Colvin, now of the BritishMuseum, and, with Mr. Colvin, Stevenson. He looked as, in my eyes, healways did look, more like a lass than a lad, with a rather long, smoothoval face, brown hair worn at greater length than is common, large lucideyes, but whether blue or brown I cannot remember, if brown, certainlylight brown. On appealing to the authority of a lady, I learn that brown_was_ the hue. His colour was a trifle hectic, as is not unusual atMentone, but he seemed, under his big blue cloak, to be of slender, yetagile frame. He was like nobody else whom I ever met. There was a sortof uncommon celerity in changing expression, in thought and speech. Hiscloak and Tyrolese hat (he would admit the innocent impeachment) weredecidedly dear to him. On the frontier of Italy, why should he not do asthe Italians do? It would have been well for me if I could have imitatedthe wearing of the cloak!
I shall not deny that my first impression was not wholly favourable."Here," I thought, "is one of your aesthetic young men, though a veryclever one." What the talk was about, I do not remember; probably ofbooks. Mr. Stevenson afterwards told me that I had spoken of MonsieurPaul de St. Victor, as a fine writer, but added that "he was not aBritish sportsman." Mr. Stevenson himself, to my surprise, was unable towalk beyond a very short distance, and, as it soon appeared, he thoughthis thread of life was nearly spun. He had just written his essay,"Ordered South," the first of his published works, for his "PentlandRising" pamphlet was unknown, a boy's performance. On reading "OrderedSouth," I saw, at once, that here was a new writer, a writer indeed; onewho could do what none of us, _nous autres_, could rival, or approach. Iwas instantly "sealed of the Tribe of Louis," an admirer, a devotee, afanatic, if you please. At least my taste has never altered. From thisessay it is plain enough that the author (as is so common in youth, butwith better reason than many have) thought himself doomed. Most of ushave gone through that, the Millevoye phase, but who else has shown sucha wise and gay acceptance of the apparently inevitable? We parted; Iremember little of our converse, except a shrewd and hearty piece ofencouragement given me by my junior, who already knew so much more oflife than his senior will ever do. For he ran forth to embrace life likea lover: _his_ motto was never Lucy Ashton's--
"Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die."
Mr. Stevenson came presently to visit me at Oxford. I make no hand ofreminiscences; I remember nothing about what we did or said, with oneexception, which is not going to be published. I heard of him, writingessays in the _Portfolio_ and the _Cornhill_, those delightful views oflife at twenty-five, so brave, so real, so vivid, so wise, so exquisite,which all should know. How we looked for "R. L. S." at the end of anarticle, and how devout was our belief, how happy our pride, in the youngone!
About 1878, I think (I was now a slave of the quill myself), I received abrief note from Mr. Stevenson, introducing to me the person whom, in hisessay on his old college magazine, he called "Glasgow Brown." What hisreal name was, whence he came, whence the money came, I never knew. G.B. was going to start a weekly Tory paper. Would I contribute? G. B.came to see me. Mr. Stevenson has described him, _not_ as I would havedescribed him: like Mr. Bill Sikes's dog, I have the Christianpeculiarity of not liking dogs "as are not of my breed." G. B.'s paper,_London_, was to start next week. He had no writer of political leadingarticles. Would I do a "leader"? But I was _not_ in favour of LordLytton's Afghan policy. How could I do a Tory leader? Well, I did aneutral-tinted thing, with citations from Aristophanes! I foundpresently some other scribes for G. B.
What a paper that was! I have heard that G. B. paid in handfuls of gold,in handfuls of bank-notes. Nobody ever read _London_, or advertised init, or heard of it. It was full of the most wonderfully clever verses inold French forms. They were (it afterwards appeared) by Mr. W. E.Henley. Mr. Stevenson himself astonished and delighted the public of_London_ (that is, the contributors) by his "New Arabian Nights." Nobodyknew about them but ourselves, a fortunate few. Poor G. B. died and Mr.Henley became the editor. I may not name the contributors, the flower ofthe young lions, elderly lions now, there is a new race. But one lion, adistinguished and learned lion, said already that fiction, not essay, wasMr. Stevenson's field. Well, both fields were his, and I cannot saywhether I would be more sorry to lose _Virginibus Puerisque_ and "Studiesof Men and Books," or "Treasure Island" and "Catriona." With the deceaseof G. B., Pactolus dried up in its mysterious sources, _London_ struggledand disappeared.
Mr. Stevenson was in town, now and again, at the old Saville Club, inSaville Row, which had the tiniest and blackest of smoking-rooms. Here,or somewhere, he spoke to me of an idea of a tale, a Man who was Two Men.I said "'William Wilson' by Edgar Poe," and declared that it would neverdo. But his "Brownies," in a vision of the night, showed him a centralscene, and he wrote "Jekyll and Hyde." My "friend of these days and ofall days," Mr. Charles Longman, sent me the manuscript. In a verycommonplace London drawing-room, at 10.30 P.M.
, I began to read it.Arriving at the place where Utterson the lawyer, and the butler waitoutside the Doctor's room, I threw down the manuscript and fled in ahurry. I had no taste for solitude any more. The story won its greatsuccess, partly by dint of the moral (whatever that may be), more by itsterrible, lucid, visionary power. I remember Mr. Stevenson telling me,at this time, that he was doing some "regular crawlers," for this puristhad a boyish habit of slang, and I _think_ it was he who called JuliusCaesar "the howlingest cheese who ever lived." One of the "crawlers" was"Thrawn Janet"; after "Wandering Willie's Tale" (but certainly _after_it), to my taste, it seems the most wonderful story of the "supernatural"in our language.
Mr. Stevenson had an infinite pleasure in Boisgobey, Montepin, and, ofcourse, Gaboriau. There was nothing of the "cultured person" about him.Concerning a novel dear to culture, he said that he would die by my side,in the last ditch, proclaiming it the worst fiction in the world. I makehaste to add that I have only known two men of letters as free as Mr.Stevenson, not only from literary jealousy, but from the writer'snatural, if exaggerated, distaste for work which, though in his own line,is very different in aim and method from his own. I do not rememberanother case in which he dispraised any book. I do remember hisobservations on a novel then and now very popular, but not to his taste,nor, indeed, by any means, impeccable, though stirring; his censure andpraise were both just. From his occasional fine efforts, the author ofthis romance, he said, should have cleared away acres of brushwood, ofineffectual matter. It was so, no doubt, as the writer spoken of wouldbe ready to acknowledge. But he was an improviser of genius, and Mr.Stevenson was a conscious artist.
Of course we did by no means always agree in literary estimates; no twopeople do. But when certain works--in his line in one way--were stupidlyset up as rivals of his, the person who was most irritated was not he,but his equally magnanimous contemporary. There was no thought ofrivalry or competition in either mind. The younger romancists who aroseafter Mr. Stevenson went to Samoa were his friends by correspondence;from them, who never saw his face, I hear of his sympathy andencouragement. Every writer knows the special temptations of his tribe:they were temptations not even felt, I do believe, by Mr. Stevenson. Hisheart was far too high, his nature was in every way as generous as hishand was open. It is in thinking of these things that one feels afreshthe greatness of the world's loss; for "a good heart is much more thanstyle," writes one who knew him only by way of letters.
It is a trivial reminiscence that we once plotted a Boisgobesque storytogether. There was a prisoner in a Muscovite dungeon.
"We'll extract information from him," I said.
"How?"
"With corkscrews."
But the mere suggestion of such a process was terribly distasteful tohim; not that I really meant to go to these extreme lengths. We never,of course, could really have worked together; and, his maladiesincreasing, he became more and more a wanderer, living at Bournemouth, atDavos, in the Grisons, finally, as all know, in Samoa. Thus, though wecorresponded, not unfrequently, I never was of the inner circle of hisfriends. Among men there were school or college companions, orcompanions of Paris or Fontainebleau, cousins, like Mr. R. A. M.Stevenson, or a stray senior, like Mr. Sidney Colvin. From some of them,or from Mr. Stevenson himself, I have heard tales of "the wild Prince andPoins." That he and a friend travelled utterly without baggage, buying ashirt where a shirt was needed, is a fact, and the incident is used in"The Wrecker." Legend says that once he and a friend _did_ possess abag, and also, nobody ever knew why, a large bottle of scent. But therewas no room for the bottle in the bag, so Mr. Stevenson spilled the wholecontents over the other man's head, taking him unawares, that nothingmight be wasted. I think the tale of the endless staircase, in "TheWrecker," is founded on fact, so are the stories of the _atelier_, whichI have heard Mr. Stevenson narrate at the Oxford and Cambridge Club. Fora nocturnal adventure, in the manner of the "New Arabian Nights," alearned critic already spoken of must be consulted. It is not my story.In Paris, at a cafe, I remember that Mr. Stevenson heard a Frenchman saythe English were cowards. He got up and slapped the man's face.
"_Monsieur, vous m'avez frappe_!" said the Gaul.
"_A ce qu'il parait_," said the Scot, and there it ended. He also toldme that years ago he was present at a play, I forget what play, in Paris,where the moral hero exposes a woman "with a history." He got up andwent out, saying to himself:
"What a play! what a people!"
"_Ah, Monsieur, vous etes bien jeune_!" said an old French gentleman.
Like a right Scot, Mr. Stevenson was fond of "our auld ally of France,"to whom our country and our exiled kings owed so much.
I rather vaguely remember another anecdote. He missed his train fromEdinburgh to London, and his sole portable property was a return ticket,a meerschaum pipe, and a volume of Mr. Swinburne's poems. The last hefound unmarketable; the pipe, I think, he made merchandise of, butsomehow his provender for the day's journey consisted in one bath bun,which he could not finish.
These trivial tales illustrate a period in his life and adventures whichI only know by rumour. Our own acquaintance was, to a great degree,literary and bookish. Perhaps it began "with a slight aversion," but itseemed, like madeira, to be ripened and improved by his long sea voyage;and the news of his death taught me, at least, the true nature of theaffection which he was destined to win. Indeed, our acquaintance waslike the friendship of a wild singing bird and of a punctual,domesticated barn-door fowl, laying its daily "article" for the breakfast-table of the citizens. He often wrote to me from Samoa, sometimes withnews of native manners and folklore. He sent me a devil-box, the "luck"of some strange island, which he bought at a great price. After partingwith its "luck," or fetish (a shell in a curious wooden box), the islandwas unfortunate, and was ravaged by measles.
I occasionally sent out books needed for Mr. Stevenson's studies, ofwhich more will be said. But I must make it plain that, in the body, wemet but rarely. His really intimate friends were Mr. Colvin and Mr.Baxter (who managed the practical side of his literary business betweenthem); Mr. Henley (in partnership with whom he wrote several plays); hiscousin, Mr. R. A. M. Stevenson; and, among other _literati_, Mr. Gosse,Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr. Saintsbury, Mr Walter Pollock, knew him well. Thebest portrait of Mr. Stevenson that I know is by Sir. W. B. Richmond,R.A., and is in that gentleman's collection of contemporaries, with theeffigies of Mr. Holman Hunt, Mr. William Morris, Mr. Browning, andothers. It is unfinished, owing to an illness which stopped thesittings, and does not show the subject at his best, physically speaking.There is also a brilliant, slight sketch, almost a caricature, by Mr.Sargent. It represents Mr. Stevenson walking about the room inconversation.
The people I have named, or some of them, knew Mr. Stevenson moreintimately than I can boast of doing. Unlike each other, opposites in adozen ways, we always were united by the love of letters, and ofScotland, our dear country. He was a patriot, yet he spoke his mindquite freely about Burns, about that apparent want of heart in the poet'samours, which our countrymen do not care to hear mentioned. Well,perhaps, for some reasons, it had to be mentioned once, and so no more ofit.
Mr. Stevenson possessed, more than any man I ever met, the power ofmaking other men fall in love with him. I mean that he excited apassionate admiration and affection, so much so that I verily believesome men were jealous of other men's place in his liking. I once met astranger who, having become acquainted with him, spoke of him with atouching fondness and pride, his fancy reposing, as it seemed, in a fondcontemplation of so much genius and charm. What was so taking in him?and how is one to analyse that dazzling surface of pleasantry, thatchangeful shining humour, wit, wisdom, recklessness; beneath which beatthe most kind and tolerant of hearts?
People were fond of him, and people were proud of him: his achievements,as it were, sensibly raised their pleasure in the world, and, to them,became parts of themselves. They warmed their hands at that centre oflight and he
at. It is not every success which has these beneficentresults. We see the successful sneered at, decried, insulted, even whensuccess is deserved. Very little of all this, hardly aught of all this,I think, came in Mr. Stevenson's way. After the beginning (when thepraises of his earliest admirers were irritating to dull scribes) hefound the critics fairly kind, I believe, and often enthusiastic. He wasso much his own severest critic that he probably paid little heed toprofessional reviewers. In addition to his "Rathillet," and other MSS.which he destroyed, he once, in the Highlands, long ago, lost aportmanteau with a batch of his writings. Alas, that he should have lostor burned anything! "King's chaff," says our country proverb, "is betterthan other folk's corn."
I have remembered very little, or very little that I can write, and aboutour last meeting, when he was so near death, in appearance, and so fullof courage--how can I speak? His courage was a strong rock, not to betaken or subdued. When unable to utter a single word, his pencilledremarks to his attendants were pithy and extremely characteristic. Thiscourage and spiritual vitality made one hope that he would, if he desiredit, live as long as Voltaire, that reed among oaks. There were ofcourse, in so rare a combination of characteristics, some which were notequally to the liking of all. He was highly original in costume, but, ashis photographs are familiar, the point does not need elucidation. Lifewas a drama to him, and he delighted, like his own British admirals, todo things with a certain air. He observed himself, I used to think, ashe observed others, and "saw himself" in every part he played. There wasnothing of the _cabotin_ in this self-consciousness; it was theunextinguished childish passion for "playing at things" which remainedwith him. I have a theory that all children possess genius, and that itdies out in the generality of mortals, abiding only with people whosegenius the world is forced to recognise. Mr. Stevenson illustrates, andperhaps partly suggested, this private philosophy of mine.
I have said very little; I have no skill in reminiscences, no art tobring the living aspect of the man before those who never knew him. Ifaintly seem to see the eager face, the light nervous figure, the fingersbusy with rolling cigarettes; Mr. Stevenson talking, listening, oftenrising from his seat, standing, walking to and fro, always full of vividintelligence, wearing a mysterious smile. I remember one pleasant darkafternoon, when he told me many tales of strange adventures, narrativeswhich he had heard about a murderous lonely inn, somewhere in the States.He was as good to hear as to read. I do not recollect much of thatdelight in discussion, in controversy, which he shows in his essay onconversation, where he describes, I believe, Mr. Henley as "Burley," andMr. Symonds as "Opalstein." He had great pleasure in the talk of thelate Professor Fleeming Jenkin, which was both various and copious. Butin these _noctes coenaeque deum_ I was never a partaker. In many topics,such as angling, golf, cricket, whereon I am willingly diffuse, Mr.Stevenson took no interest. He was very fond of boating and sailing inevery kind; he hazarded his health by long expeditions among the fairyisles of ocean, but he "was not a British sportsman," though for hismeasure of strength a good pedestrian, a friend of the open air, and ofall who live and toil therein.
As to his literary likings, they appear in his own confessions. Herevelled in Dickens, but, about Thackeray--well, I would rather havetalked to somebody else! To my amazement, he was of those (I think) whofind Thackeray "cynical." "He takes you into a garden, and then peltsyou with"--horrid things! Mr. Stevenson, on the other hand, had a freeadmiration of Mr. George Meredith. He did not so easily forgive the_longueus_ and lazinesses of Scott, as a Scot should do. He read Frenchmuch; Greek only in translations.
Literature was, of course, his first love, but he was actually anadvocate at the Scottish Bar, and, as such, had his name on a brazen door-plate. Once he was a competitor for a Chair of Modern History inEdinburgh University; he knew the romantic side of Scottish history verywell. In his novel, "Catriona," the character of James Mohr Macgregor iswonderfully divined. Once I read some unpublished letters of Catriona'sunworthy father, written when he was selling himself as a spy (and lyingas he spied) to the Hanoverian usurper. Mr. Stevenson might have writtenthese letters for James Mohr; they might be extracts from "Catriona."
In turning over old Jacobite pamphlets, I found a forgotten romance ofPrince Charles's hidden years, and longed that Mr. Stevenson shouldretell it. There was a treasure, an authentic treasure; there were realspies, a real assassin; a real, or reported, rescue of a lovely girl froma fire at Strasbourg, by the Prince. The tale was to begin _sur le pontd'Avignon_: a young Scotch exile watching the Rhone, thinking how much ofit he could cover with a salmon fly, thinking of the Tay or Beauly. Tohim enter another shady tramping exile, Blairthwaite, a murderer. And soit was to run on, as the author's fancy might lead him, with Alan Breckand the Master for characters. At last, in unpublished MSS. I found anactual Master of Ballantrae, a Highland chief--noble, majesticallyhandsome--and a paid spy of England! All these papers I sent out toSamoa, too late. The novel was to have been dedicated to me, and thatchance of immortality is gone, with so much else.
Mr. Stevenson's last letters to myself were full of his concern for acommon friend of ours, who was very ill. Depressed himself, Mr.Stevenson wrote to this gentleman--why should I not mention Mr. JamesPayn?--with consoling gaiety. I attributed his depression to any causebut his own health, of which he rarely spoke. He lamented the"ill-staged fifth act of life"; he, at least, had no long hopeless yearsof diminished force to bear.
I have known no man in whom the pre-eminently manly virtues of kindness,courage, sympathy, generosity, helpfulness, were more beautifullyconspicuous than in Mr. Stevenson, no man so much loved--it is not toostrong a word--by so many and such various people. He was as unique incharacter as in literary genius.