EUROPE AND THE BRITISH ISLES.
When the newly married pair reached Scotland all the fears of the
American bride vanished like mist before the sun, for her husband's
parents instantly took her to their hearts as though she had been
their own choice. In _The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson_ Sir
Sidney Colvin says:
"Of her new family Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson, brought thus strangely
and from afar into their midst, made an immediate conquest. To her
husband's especial happiness, there sprang up between her and his
father the closest possible affection and confidence. Parents and
friends, if it is permissible for one of the latter to say as much,
rejoiced to recognize in Stevenson's wife a character as strong, as
interesting, and romantic as his own; an inseparable sharer of all his
thoughts, and staunch companion of all his adventures; the most
open-hearted of friends to all who loved him, the most shrewd and
stimulating critic of his work; and in sickness ... the most devoted
and efficient of nurses."
Mr. Edmund Gosse writes in the _Century Magazine_, 1895:
"He had married in California a charming lady whom we all learned to
regard as the most appropriate and helpful companion that Louis could
possibly have secured."
Concerning her relations with her mother-in-law, another friend, Lady
Balfour, writes:
"It is a testimonial both to her and to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson that
though they were as the poles apart in character, yet each loved and
appreciated the other most fully." How different they were in training
and ideas of life is illustrated by a trivial incident that occurred
when the younger woman was visiting at the home of her husband's
parents in Scotland. Her mother-in-law asked her if she never
"worked." In some surprise she replied that she had indeed worked, and
then found out that the elder lady meant fancy-work. Thereupon the two
went out shopping and bought all the things needful for a piano-cover
to be embroidered with roses. In a few days the piano-cover,
exquisitely finished, was triumphantly brought for Mrs. Thomas
Stevenson's inspection, but that lady, shocked at this American
strenuousness, threw up her hands and exclaimed: "Oh, Fanny! How could
you! That piece should have lasted you all summer!"
Thomas Stevenson, however, was far more formidable; to the female
members of his family his word was law, but to his pretty
daughter-in-law he capitulated--horse, foot, and dragoons--and his son
was heard to say that he had never seen his father so completely
subjugated. It is true, on the other hand, that she made every effort
to please him, and took pains not to offend his old-fashioned and
rigidly conventional ideas. For instance, when he objected to black
stockings, which were just then coming into vogue for ladies, she
yielded to his prejudice and always wore white ones while at his
house. He had a deep respect for her judgment in literary matters, and
made his son promise "never to publish anything without her approval."
This regard was mutual, and she said of him: "I shall always believe
that something unusual and great was lost to the world in Thomas
Stevenson. One could almost see the struggle between the creature of
cramped hereditary conventions and the man nature had intended him to
be." As his health failed he grew to depend upon her more and more,
and there was between them an interchange of much friendliness and
many little jests. A rather amusing thing happened once when the two
were together in London picking out furnishings for the house he had
bought for her at Bournemouth. One afternoon they dropped in at a
hotel for tea. It had been ordered by the doctors that he should have
bicarbonate of soda in his tea, which it seems he did not like if he
saw it put in, but if he did not see it never knew the difference.
When the tea was brought his daughter-in-law, having diverted his
attention, slyly dropped in the soda. Glancing up, she saw in the
looking-glass the reflection of the horrified face of the waiter. When
she told this story to her husband he immediately began to weave a
thrilling plot around the suspicion that might have fallen upon her if
her father-in-law had happened to die suddenly just then, especially
as his son was his chief heir. Uncle Tom, as she usually called him,
had all sorts of pet names for her, but the usual remark was "I doot
ye're a besom."[18] She was in all ways a true daughter to him, a
comfort in his old age and last distressing illness, and when he died
she mourned him sincerely.
[Footnote 18: In American phrase, a "bossy" person.]
To the Scotch servants in her mother-in-law's house she was something
of an enigma. One of them told her she "spoke English very well for a
foreigner." One day she heard two of them talking about a Mr. McCollop
who had just returned from Africa. "He's merrit a black woman," said
one, and in a mirror the other was seen to point to Mrs. Stevenson's
back and put her finger to her lips, as though to say: "Don't mention
black wives before her!"
It was soon seen that Louis could not face a Scotch winter, with its
raw winds and cold, drizzling rains, and sometimes his wife felt
regrets for the sunny perch on the California mountainside, where
health and strength had once come back to him so marvellously. It was
finally decided to try the dry, clear air of Davos Platz, in the high
Alps of Switzerland, which was just then coming into prominence as a
cure for lung diseases, and in October, 1880, the little family,
husband, wife, and the boy, Lloyd Osbourne, set forth on the arduous
journey thither.
To see publishers and for other necessary business, they stopped in
London on the way, where Mrs. Stevenson was much troubled lest her
husband should suffer harm from the thick, foggy atmosphere and the
fatigue of meeting people. Because he was too weak to see many
visitors, she kept them off, which threw a sort of mystery about him,
and led to his being called in London "the veiled prophet." The only
persons she had trouble with were the doctors, who were themselves so
fascinated by his conversation that they often stayed too long. The
task of keeping his parents informed of his state was now added to her
duties, and in letters to her mother-in-law from London she says:
"As it is short and often that seems to be wanted, I thought I would
send off a note to-night to say that if nothing happens we leave
London to-morrow, and glad enough I shall be to get away.... For no
one in the world will I stop in London another hour after the time
set. It is a most unhealthful place at this season, and Louis knows
far too many people to get a moment's rest.... Company comes in at all
hours from early morning till late at night, so that I almost never
have a moment alone, and if we do not soon get away from London I
shall become an embittered woman. It is not good for my mind, nor my
body either, to sit smiling at Louis's friends until I feel like a
hypocritical Cheshire cat, talking stiff nothings with one and another
in order to let Louis have a chance with the one he cares the most
for, and all the time furtively watching the clock and thirsting for
their blood because they stay so late...."
The vigilant eyes of love had taught her by this time something yet
undiscovered by the scientists, that is, the contagious nature of
influenza, and, having observed that whenever her husband came in
contact with any one suffering from a cold, he invariably caught it--a
very serious matter for one in his condition--she kept guard over him
like a fiery little watch-dog, never allowing any one with a cold to
enter the house. If she had one herself she kept away from him till
it was over. There were many quarrels on the subject, for his friends,
some of whom refused to recognize the necessity for such precautions,
would be furious; but the worst trouble was with the doctors
themselves, who would come to attend him with sneezing and snorting,
and find their way blocked. One doctor said she was silly about it,
for it was absolutely impossible to catch a cold from anything but an
open window, or wet feet, or a draught. Her friends, or rather Louis's
friends, were well trained in time, and she would sometimes get a
message something like this: "I can't keep my engagement to see Louis
to-day, for I have a cold, but as soon as I am over it I will let you
know." Mr. Stevenson himself had a humourous way of referring to
persons with colds as "pizon sarpints," and strangers may have
wondered to hear him say: "I'm not seeing my friend So-and-so just
now, because he's a pizon sarpint." Once at Saranac, in the Adirondack
Mountains in America, their friends the Fairchilds came to see them,
but, as both had colds, they were not permitted to enter, and
conversed by signs with Mr. Stevenson through a closed window. They
were good-natured, however, about what they probably regarded as Mrs.
Stevenson's whim, and when both were well came again, waving from a
distance perfectly clean handkerchiefs as their passport.
Having at last escaped from the dreaded London fogs, they reached
Troyes in France, where Fanny's heart expanded under the brighter
skies that brought back memories of her own land. She writes: "We have
had lovely weather--warm, sunny, fragrant. I did not realize before
how much like America France is. The sky seems so high, and the world
so big and fresh." Reluctantly these two sun-loving people turned
their steps from this pleasant place towards the frozen heights of
Davos, where they arrived on November 4, and were pleased to find
congenial friends in John Addington Symonds and his wife.
Life was far from exciting in this remote place, and the shut-in
feeling of its situation, enclosed by hills and with no outlook,
sometimes made the sick man impatient, yet his health improved and he
was even able to take part in outdoor sports, such as tobogganing.
Mrs. Stevenson writes:
"Life is most monotonous here, which is after all the best thing for
Louis, although he tires of it sometimes. We have had a few badly
acted plays and one snowstorm; there was a quarrel between a lady and
her son's tutor, and a lady lost a ring. Otherwise the current of our
lives flows on without change.... I have made a couple of pretty caps
for the ladies' bazaar, and if I can get the use of a sitting room
will paint them some things.... We have an enormous porcelain stove
like a monument that reaches from the floor to the ceiling. It has,
however, to be fed only twice a day, and then not in great quantities.
Louis has long boots and is very proud of them. He said himself that
he looked like 'puss in boots,' but was much hurt because the
suggestion was received as a good one. He thought we would say: 'How
ridiculous! Why, you look just like a brigand!' But the great thing is
that the climate is doing Louis good. To have him recover entirely
will be so splendid that I must murmur at nothing." The last is
perhaps a reference to the bad effect of the altitude on her own
health, for her heart was so severely affected that she was compelled
to spend much of the time lying on a couch, and was finally obliged to
go away for a time.
These two were congenially alike in their careless indifference to the
minor details of life. Neither ever dated a letter, and both
invariably forgot all anniversaries, even having to be reminded of
their own wedding-day by his scandalized mother. What Mr. S. S.
McClure called Fanny Stevenson's "robust, inconsequential philosophy
of life" permitted her to accept with calm situations which would have
driven another woman to distraction. Even in that sad colony of the
sick she found compensations, and writing of this she says:
"It is depressing to live with dying and suffering people all about
you, but a sanatorium develops a great deal of human interest and
sympathy. Every one knows what the others should do, and each among
the patients helps to look after the rest. The path of duty always
lies so plain before other people's feet.... Then there are always
little kindnesses going on that warm the heart. The other morning I
told Louis I had dreamed that Alfred Cornish had made him a present of
his toboggan, and sure enough the first thing when Louis went out up
came Cornish and presented him with the toboggan. I had never thought
of such a thing and don't see why I dreamed it."
At Davos they had a great deal of trouble with their little dog,
Woggs, a beautiful but eccentric Skye terrier that had been given them
by Sir Walter Simpson. Both were tenderly considerate of animals, and
when this little creature was ill with a cankered ear they took turns
sitting up at night with him. She writes of him: "Woggs is
ill-tempered, and obstinate, and rather sly, but he is lovable and
intelligent. I imagine that it is with dogs as with people--it is not
for being good alone that we love them."
Here Stevenson wrote but little. Of his work she says:
"Louis is worried because he thinks he cannot write as gracefully as
he used to, but I believe his writing is more direct and stronger, and
that when he is able to join his old style with the new he will do
better work than he dreams of now. His later work is fuller of
thought, more manly in every way."
With the month of March came Mrs. Stevenson's birthday, and, to her
great surprise and confusion, it was made the occasion of a general
fête in which the whole colony took part. She thus describes the
affair:
"I was told there was to be a dance in the dining-room and cake and
ices in my honor, so Louis and I went down in the evening. I watched
the dancing awhile, when suddenly I found myself seated alone at the
end of the room. Judge of my surprise, and I must confess, dismay,
when I saw the two little Doney children, in Watteau costumes, looking
just like bits of porcelain painting, coming down the center towards
me, one bearing a large birthday cake and the other a bouquet of
flowers. The beautiful little creatures dropped on their knees at my
feet and presented their offerings. I suppose I should have said
something, but Louis said I did the best thing possible; I only kissed
both the darlings. Other people had had birthdays and only received
congratulations, so I felt horribly embarrassed by all these grand
doings in a public room, though I was very grateful for the friendly
feelings of those who arranged the affair."
The snow came late, but during the winter it lay deep and heavy on the
ground, making the roads almost impassable and their isolation more
complete. Both husband and wife began to feel an almost uncontrollable
depression amid these bleak surroundings, aggravated as they were by
many deaths among the patients. As spring approached Mrs. Stevenson
wrote:
"Louis is not very well and not very ill. Spring, I think, sits upon
him, and so also all these deaths and Bertie's[19] illness. As soon as
he is a little stronger the doctor is going to send him to some place
in the neighborhood for a change."
[Footnote 19: The son of Mrs. Sitwell, now Lady Colvin.]
And she, to whom warmth and colour were a very part of her nature, was
an exotic, a lost tropic bird, in these icy mountains. In a letter to
her mother-in-law her heart cried out: "I cannot deny that living here
is like living in a well of desolation. Sometimes I feel quite frantic
to look out somewhere, and almost as though I should suffocate. But
may Davos forgive me! It has done so much for Louis that I am ashamed
to say anything against it."
In the latter part of April their discontent went beyond endurance,
and, believing his health now sufficiently improved to warrant the
risk, they turned their steps once more towards their beloved France,
where they spent a month between Barbizon, St. Germain, and Paris.
In Paris their haunting Nemesis gave them a little breathing spell,
and when Louis's strength permitted, they wandered about the streets
in their own careless, irresponsible fashion, having a delightful time
poking into all sorts of strange places, in one of which he insisted
on spending practically his last _sou_ for an antique watch for which
she had expressed admiration. "Now we'll starve," said she, but after
reaching home he happened to put his hand in the pocket of an old coat
and drew out an uncashed cheque which had been forgotten. One day when
out alone she went into a dismal-looking pawn-shop in a part of the
city that was not considered exactly safe. She was puzzled by the
evident superiority of the proprietor to his surroundings, and when he
invited her to follow him, she went without hesitation back through
winding passages until they stepped out into a beautiful garden, where
sat a charming invalid lady, wife of the pawnbroker. It seemed that
they were people who had fallen from a high estate, and, through
devotion to his wife, who was helplessly confined to her chair, he had
for years kept the secret of his occupation from her, and she had
lived in her garden like a fair flower, uncontaminated by the slums of
Paris. In this shop Mrs. Stevenson bought four rich mahogany posts,
part of an antique bedstead, which she used many years afterwards as
pillars in the drawing-room of her San Francisco house.
But alas, their pleasant jaunting soon came to an end, for Louis had a
relapse which brought desperate disappointment to them both, and of
which she writes to his mother: "I felt compelled to tell him that he
must be prepared for whatever may happen. Naturally the poor boy
yearned for his mother. I think it must be very sweet to you to have
this grown-up man of thirty still clinging to you with his child
love."
The setback dashed their spirits so severely that his conscientious
Scotch parents thought it their duty to lecture them on the sin of
ingratitude for the blessings that were still theirs. In great
contrition their daughter-in-law writes:
"I was just about to write when a double letter from you and Mr. Tommy
came to hand. When I read what Mr. Tommy said about gratitude I felt
more conscience-stricken than words can express. Neither Louis nor I
have any right to feel even annoyed about anything. Certainly God has
been good. I have seen others, apparently no more ill than Louis was
at one time, laid in their graves, and I see others, quite as ill,
struggling wearily for their daily bread. We see misery and
wretchedness on every hand, and here we sit, none of it touching us,
Louis feeling better, and both of us complaining shamefully because in
the smallest things the world does not go round smoothly enough for
us.... I fancy we shall start for Scotland Tuesday, but will travel
slowly on account of Louis's fatigue and nervous exhaustion from the
shaking of the train."
Edinburgh was reached on May 31, 1881, and a few days later,
accompanied by his mother, they went to Pitlochry, where they spent
two months in Kinnaird Cottage, on the banks of a lovely river. This
was a beautiful but inclement region, and cold winds and rain
prevailed almost constantly. The two ladies never ventured out without
umbrellas, and even then usually returned in a drenched condition.
Imprisoned by the weather, the sick man was compelled to spend all his
waking time in the sitting-room, where his confinement was made the
more penitential by the absence of books. It happened that the only
books in the house were two volumes of Voltaire, and these were taken
from the younger pair one dreary Sunday by their stern parents as not
proper "Sabba'-day" reading.
Thrown entirely on their own resources, they decided to write stories
and read them to each other. These tales, coloured by the
surroundings, were of a sombre cast. Here _Thrawn Janet_ was begun. In
a preface, written years later, Mrs. Stevenson gives a graphic
description of the first writing of this gloomy but powerful story.
"That evening is as clear in my memory as though it were
yesterday--the dim light of our one candle, with the acrid smell of
the wick that we had forgotten to snuff, the shadows in the corners of
the 'lang, laigh, mirk chamber, perishing cauld,' the driving rain on
the roof close above our heads, and the gusts of wind that shook our
windows. The very sound of the names, 'Murdock Soulis, the Hangin'
Shaw in the beild of the Black Hill, Balweary in the vale of Dule,'
sent a 'cauld grue' along my bones. By the time the tale was finished
my husband had fairly frightened himself, and we crept down the stairs
clinging hand in hand like two scared children."
"Weather wet, bad weather, still wet, afraid to go out, pouring rain,"
appeared almost constantly in Mrs. Thomas Stevenson's diary, and
though Stevenson, whether inspired by home scenes or driven in upon
himself for relief from the outer dreariness, did some of his best
work here, it became clear that a more favourable spot must be sought.
From Pitlochry they went to Braemar, but that place proved to be no
improvement. Mrs. Stevenson writes of it in her preface to _Treasure
Island_:
"It was a season of rain and chill weather that we spent in the
cottage of the late Miss McGregor, though the townspeople called the
cold, steady, penetrating drizzle 'just misting,' In Scotland a fair
day appears to mean fairly wet. 'It is quite fair now,' they will say,
when you can hardly distinguish the houses across the street. Queen
Victoria, who had endeared herself greatly to the folk in the
neighborhood, showed a true Scotch spirit in her indifference to the
weather. Her Majesty was in the habit of driving out to take tea in
the open, accompanied by a couple of ladies-in-waiting. The road to
Balmoral ran not far behind the late Miss McGregor's cottage, and as
the Queen always drove in an open carriage, with her tea basket
strapped on behind, we could see her pass very plainly. Our admiration
for the sturdy old lady was very much tempered by our sympathy with
the ladies-in-waiting, with whom driving backward on the front seat
did not apparently agree. Their poor noses were very red, and the
expression of their faces anxious, not to say cross, as they miserably
coughed and sneezed."
At Braemar the working fever continued, and _Treasure Island_ was
planned, but when autumn came they fled before the Scotch mists, and
once more wended their way to the frozen Alps, settling for the winter
in the Châlet am Stein. From mist to snow was but a rueful change, but
this time Louis's health seemed to gain greater benefit, and a
reasonable amount of work was accomplished.
So the level current of their lives flowed on through a rather mild
winter, with an occasional _föhn_[20] wailing about their châlet as
the "rocs might have wailed in the valley of diamonds," until one
morning they heard a bird sing, and soon the snow on the higher levels
began to melt and send the water with a rush down the sides of the
streets. Almost in a breath the hill slopes about them turned as white
with crocus blooms as they had been in their winter covering of snow.
Into their hearts something of the springtime entered, and one day
Louis sat singing beside his wife, who writes: "I do not care for the
music, but it makes me feel so happy to see him so well. When I wake
in the morning I wonder what it is that brings such a glow to my
heart, and then I remember!"
[Footnote 20: Föhn--a violent south wind in
Switzerland.]
Yet it was then, as the flowers began to bloom and the birds to sing,
that many of those to whom they had become attached with the pitiful
bond of a common affliction broke the slender cord that held them to
life and quietly slipped away. Of these she writes: "Louis is much cut
up because a young man whom he liked and had been tobogganing with has
been found dead in his bed. Bertie still hovers between life and
death. Poor little Mrs. Doney is gone; my heart is sad for those two
lovely little girls. In a place like this there are many depressing
things, but it is encouraging to know that many are going away cured."
Their own case had gone better, and Doctor Ruedi had given them leave
"to live in France, fifteen miles as the crow flies from the sea, and
if possible near a fir wood."
In April they left the Alps and ventured back to their misty island,
where they spent an unsatisfactory summer, moving from place to place
in a fruitless search for better weather. Several hemorrhages forced
them to the conclusion that they must be once more on the wing, and as
both felt an unconquerable repugnance to spending another winter at
bleak Davos, it was finally decided to go where their hearts led them,
and seek a suitable place in the south of France. As Mrs. Stevenson
was too ill just then to travel, the invalid, accompanied by his
cousin, Mr. R. A. M. Stevenson, started about the middle of September,
1882, for Marseilles. The wife's anxiety, however, gave her little
rest, and almost before she was able to stand she set out after him,
arriving in an alarmed and fatigued condition, of which he wrote to
his mother in his humourous way: "The wreck was towed into port
yesterday evening at seven P.M. She bore the reversed ensign in
every feature; the population of Marseilles, who were already vastly
exercised, wept when they beheld her jury masts and helpless hull."
To her mother-in-law she wrote from here: "This is a lovely spot, and
I cannot tell you how my heart goes out to it. It is so like Indiana
that it would not surprise me to hear my father or mother speak to me
at any moment, and yet it is not like home either. The houses and the
ships look foreign, but the color of the sky and the quality of the
air, the corn, the grapes, the yellow pumpkins, the flowers, and the
trees, are the same. Everything seems as it is at home, steeped in
sunshine."
In a few days they found a house, the Campagne Defli, in the suburbs
of St. Marcel, "in a lovely spot, among lovely wooded and cliffy
hills," where they fondly hoped their pursuing fate would forget them
for a time. Of Campagne Defli she joyfully writes to her
mother-in-law: "Of all the houses in the world I think I should choose
this one. It is a garden of paradise, and I cannot tell you how I long
to have you here to enjoy things with me. It is such happiness to be
in a place that combines the features of the land where I was born and
California, where I have spent the best years of my life."
She set eagerly to work to turn this charming but neglected place into
a pleasant home, directing servants in the cleaning and scrubbing,
hanging curtains over draughty doors, repapering walls, putting fresh
coverings on old furniture, planting flowers and vegetables in the
garden--in fact, pouring out her Dutch housekeeping soul in a thousand
and one ways. The French servants, amazed at these activities,
thought she was very queer. Once when she was on a step-ladder, with a
hammer in her hand, putting up some pictures, she heard some one
whisper outside: "_Elle est folle._" As the two servants came in she
cried out indignantly, waving the hammer for emphasis, "Pas folle!
Beaucoup d'intelligence!" and then, losing her balance, fell over,
step-ladder and all, while the servants fled shrieking. To her
mother-in-law she writes: "For Louis's birthday I found a violet
blooming at the back of the house, and yesterday I discovered in our
reserve a large magnolia tree, the delight of my heart. I am
continually finding something new."
Two things were to her as a closed book: one was foreign languages and
the other was music. She could not sing a note nor hardly tell one
tune from another, yet she liked to listen to music. Her speaking
voice was low, modulated, and sweet, but with few inflections, and her
husband once compared it to the pleasantly monotonous flow of a
running brook under ice. As to languages, although she never seemed
able to acquire any extended knowledge of the tongue of any foreign
land in which she dwelt, she always managed in some mysterious way of
her own to communicate freely with the inhabitants. In Spanish she
only learned _si_, yet, supplemented with much gay laughter and many
expressive gesticulations, that one word went a long way. She writes
amusingly of this difficulty from Marseilles:
"Yesterday the servant and I went out shopping, which was difficult
for me, but, although she knows no English, she seems to understand,
as did the shopkeepers, my strange lingo. I had to put on the manner
of an old experienced shopper and housekeeper, and count my change
with great care, for it was important that I should impress both the
woman and the shop people with the notion that I knew what was what. I
have been in town all day, making arrangements with butchers, buying
an American stove--for the enormous gaudy French range is of no
account whatever--and even went and got my luncheon in a restaurant,
and all upon my pidgin French. To Louis's great amusement I sometimes
address him in it. I bought some cups and saucers to-day of a man who
said 'yes' to all I said, while to all his remarks I answered '_oui_.'
The servant we have is very anxious to please us, and I have finally
got her to the length of bringing the knives to the table cleaned; she
could hardly believe at first that I was serious in wanting clean
knives when there was no company."
It was very pleasant to her to be received everywhere in France with a
warm cordiality on the ground of her being an American, and she tells
a little story about this in one of her letters:
"When I went in search of doctors I arrived in town at an hour when
they all refused to see me, being at luncheon. One man, however, had
not yet come in, though his luncheon was waiting for him, so I waited
too and caught him in his own hall. He was quite furious and said the
most dreadful things to his servant because she had let me in. I sat
in a chair and waited till he had done abusing her, and then politely
explained my errand. After much beating about the bush, he gave me the
information that I wanted, and then, to the astonishment of his
servant, went downstairs with me and put me into my cab with the most
impressive politeness. Just as I left he told me he had allowed me to
break his rule and spoil his lunch because I was an American."
To their deep disappointment, Louis's health gained little or nothing
in this charming place, and for a time a heavy sadness fell upon his
wife, and in desperation her thoughts turned towards the frozen Alps,
which they both disliked and where she had suffered so much. She
writes: "I am sorry to say that Louis has had another hemorrhage. I
begin almost to think we had better go back to Davos and become
Symondses[21] and just stay there. Symonds himself, however, has taken
a cold and the weather there has not been good. I have news from Davos
that the well people that we knew are all dead and the hopeless cases
are all right."
[Footnote 21: Mr. Symonds never dared to leave Davos,
but remained there until his death.]
Trouble with drains now came to add to their fear that beautiful
Campagne Defli would not do for their permanent home. An epidemic
broke out in St. Marcel, and many died. Mrs. Stevenson, stricken with
fear for her husband, hurried him off to Nice, while she, armed with a
revolver, remained behind to keep guard over their effects, the
situation of their place being lonely, and reports of robberies and
even murder in the neighbourhood having reached them.
In the next week or two a series of distressing events took place
which brought Mrs. Stevenson almost to the verge of nervous
prostration. The night before her husband's departure a peasant on the
estate died of the prevailing disease, and for some unknown reason the
body, much swollen and disfigured, was permitted to lie just outside
the gate during the entire morning. Next in the chapter of unfortunate
accidents was the failure to reach her of the promised telegram
announcing Louis's safe arrival at Nice. After four days' anxious
waiting she decided to follow him, and her subsequent adventures may
best be told in her own language as written to her mother-in-law:
"The fourth night I went to Marseilles and telegraphed to the _gare_
and the police at Nice. All the people said it was no use, and that it
was plain that he had been taken with a violent hemorrhage on the way
and was now dead and buried at some little station. They said all I
could do was to pack up and go back to Scotland. All were very kind in
a dreadful way, but assured me that I had much better accept what '_le
bon Dieu_' had sent and go back to Scotland at once. After much
telegraphing back and forth I found that Louis was at the Grand Hotel
at Nice, and when I reached there he was calmly reading in bed. At St.
Marcel and Marseilles every one was furious with me; they were all
fond of Louis and said I had let a dying man go off alone. You may
imagine my feelings all this time!"
As though all that went before had not been enough, her return journey
to St. Marcel was made so uncomfortable by a tactless fellow passenger
that she arrived in a state of complete exhaustion. Of this she
writes:
"I have had a miserable time altogether, and the people, meaning to be
so kind, were really so dreadful. There was a man on the train, an
Englishman, who said such terrible things to me about Louis that when
we reached Marseilles another Englishman[22] who had been in the
carriage came to me and spoke about it, saying he had been so wretched
all the time. He insisted on stopping his journey a day to help me in
my affairs. Here is a specimen of the horrid person's talk: 'What are
you going to do when your husband dies?' 'I don't expect him to die.'
'Oh, I know all about that. I've heard that kind of talk before. He's
done for, and in this country they'll shovel him underground in
twenty-four hours, almost before the breath is out of his body. His
mother'll never see him again.' I do not speak but look intently out
of the window. Again he speaks, leaning forward to be sure that I hear
him. 'Have him embalmed; that's the thing; have you got money enough?'
Can you fancy five hours of this? I got out in the rain several times
to try to get into another carriage, but they were all filled. But I
never heard of anybody being so nice as Mr. Hammond was. I think he
was more proud to be able to help Louis and those belonging to him
than to help the Queen."
[Footnote 22: Mr. Basil Hammond, of Trinity College,
Cambridge.]
Anxious to prevent her husband's return to St. Marcel while conditions
were so unfavourable, she wrote to him: "Don't you dare to come back
to this home of 'pizon' until you are really better. I do not see
how you are to come back at all under the circumstances, deserting
your family as you have done and being hunted down and caught by your
wife. Madame desires me to say that she knows what is keeping you in
Nice--it is another lady. I told her that instead of amusing yourself
with another lady you were weeping for me and home and your Wogg. She
was greatly touched at that and almost wept herself into her dishpan.
You are a dear creature and I love you, but I am not going to say that
I am lonesome lest you come flying back to this den of death." In the
meantime he wrote her letters in which he expressed his own loneliness
in humourous verses, illustrated with drawings, one of which runs like
this:
"When my wife is far from me
The undersigned feels all at sea."
R. L. S.
"I am as good as deaf
When separate from F.
I am far from gay
When separate from A.
I loathe the ways of men
When separate from N.
Life is a murky den
When separate from N.
My sorrow rages high
When separate from Y.
And all things seem uncanny
When separate from Fanny."
"Where is my wife? Where is my Wogg?
I am alone, and life's a bog."
All his wife's expostulations, however, were of no avail, and, much to
her annoyance, it was not long before he appeared at Campagne Defli,
where she was busy packing up their effects for another flitting. She
writes to her mother-in-law:
"I don't wonder you ask what Louis is doing in Marseilles. He became
filled with the idea that it was shirking to leave me here to do all
the work. He was a good deal hurt, poor boy, because I wasn't pleased.
Wasn't it delightful about the article in the _Century_?[23] The
person was evidently writing in such an ecstasy of joy at having found
out Louis. I am so pleased that it was in the _Century_, for every
friend and relation I have in the world will read it. I suppose you
are even prouder of Louis than I am, for he is only mine accidentally,
and he is yours by birth and blood. Two or three times last night I
woke up just from pure pleasure to think of all the people I know
reading about Louis.... He is incredibly better, and I suppose will
just have to stay in Marseilles until I get done with things, for
nothing will keep him away from me more than a week. It is so
surprising, for I had never thought of Louis as a real domestic man,
but now I find that all he wanted was a house of his own. Just the
little time that we have been here has sufficed for him to form a
quite passionate attachment for everything connected with the place,
and it was like pulling up roots to get him away. I am quite
bewildered with all the letters I have to write and all the things I
have to do. For the present I think we shall have to cling to the
little circle of country around Nice, so when you come it must be
somewhere there."
[Footnote 23: An editorial review of _New Arabian
Nights_ in the _Century Magazine_ of February, 1883.]
After some search they finally decided upon Hyères, and by the latter
part of March had once more hopefully set up their household goods in
a little cottage, the Châlet la Solitude, which clung to a low cliff
almost at the entrance of the town. This house had been a model Swiss
châlet at the Paris Exposition of 1878, and had been removed and again
erected at Hyères, where, amid its French neighbours, it was an
incongruous and alien object. Mrs. Stevenson writes of it: "It is the
smallest doll house I ever saw, but has everything in it to make it
comfortable, and the garden is magnificent. The wild flowers are
lovely, and the walks, all so close at hand, most enchanting."
In the garden grew old grey olive-trees, and in them nightingales
nested and sang. On the rocky crags above stood the ruins of an
ancient Saracen castle, and before them lay the sea--indeed a "most
sweet corner of the universe." Not far away were the rose farms of
Toulon, of which Mrs. Stevenson writes:
"I shall never forget the day my husband and I drove through lanes of
roses from which the attar of commerce is made. On either side of us
the rose hedges were in full bloom; the scent, mingled with the
fragrance of innumerable violets, was truly intoxicating. When we
alighted at a place dappled with sunlight that filtered through the
trees, and cooled by a spouting fountain where girls in colored gowns
laughed and chattered as they plied their trade of lace-making, we
felt that our lines had indeed fallen in pleasant places."
In this charming spot it seemed for a time that their pursuing fate
had forgotten them, and for the greater part of a year happiness sat
by their fireside. Louis always referred to this time as the happiest
period of his life, and in a letter to his old friend in California,
Jules Simoneau, he says: "Now I am in clover, only my health a mere
ruined temple; the ivy grows along its shattered front, otherwise I
have no wish that is not fulfilled; a beautiful large garden, a fine
view of plain, sea, and mountain; a wife that suits me down to the
ground, and a barrel of good Beaujolais."
Under these happy conditions much work was accomplished, and, to the
great pride and satisfaction of both husband and wife, they were at
last able to live upon his earnings. Their almost idyllic life here is
described by Mrs. Stevenson:
"My husband was then engaged on _Prince Otto_, begun so long ago in
the little rose-covered cottage in Oakland, California. Our life in
the châlet was of the utmost simplicity, and with the help of one
untrained maid I did the cooking myself. The kitchen was so narrow
that I was in continual danger of being scorched by the range on one
side, and at the same time impaled by the saucepan hooks on the
other, and when we had a guest at dinner our maid had to pass in the
dishes over our heads, as our chairs touched the walls of the
dining-room, leaving her no passageway. The markets of Hyères were
well supplied, and the wine both good and cheap, so we were able, for
the first time, to live comfortably within our limited income.
"My husband usually wrote from the early morning until noon, while my
household duties occupied the same time. In the afternoon the work of
the morning was read aloud, and we talked it over, criticising and
suggesting improvements. This finished, we walked in our garden,
listened to the birds, and looked at our trees and flowers; or,
accompanied by our Scotch terrier, wandered up the hill to the ruins
of the castle. After dinner we talked or read aloud, and on rare
occasions visited Mr. Powell or received a visit from him. The châlet
was well named, as far as we were concerned, for it was almost a
solitude _à deux_, but the days slipped by with amazing celerity."
Their mutual affection and their dependence upon each other grew as
the years went by, and in 1884 he wrote to his mother: "My wife is in
pretty good feather; I love her better than ever and admire her more;
and I cannot think what I have done to deserve so good a gift. This
sudden remark came out of my pen; it is not like me; but in case you
did not know, I may as well tell you, that my marriage has been the
most successful in the world.... She is everything to me; wife,
brother, sister, daughter, and dear companion; and I would not change
to get a goddess or a saint. So far, after four years of matrimony."
At another time he wrote: "As for my wife, that was the best
investment ever made by man; but 'in our branch of the family' we seem
to marry well. Here am I, who you were persuaded was born to disgrace
you, no very burning discredit when all is said and done; here am I
married, and the marriage recognized to be a blessing of the first
water--A1 at Lloyds."
As Christmas, 1883, approached, their content seemed to reach its
highest tide, and out of a full heart Mrs. Stevenson wrote to her
mother-in-law:
"What a Christmas of thanksgiving this should be for us all, with
Louis so well, his father so well, everything pointing to comfort and
happiness. Louis is making such a success with his work, and doing
better work every day. Dear mother and father of my beloved husband, I
send you Christmas greetings from my heart of hearts. I mean to have a
Merry Christmas and be as glad and thankful as possible for all the
undeserved mercies and blessings that have been showered upon me."
They snatched at these moments of respite from eating care with an
almost pathetic eagerness, and set to work once more to make a home in
their doll's house. Mrs. Stevenson had what she called a "painting
fever," and devised a scheme of Japanese decorations for the doors of
the châlet which her husband thought might be made to produce a lot of
money if they were nearer London. One of the panels had a woman
yawning over a fire in the early morning, and the hypnotic effect of
it kept the family and their guests yawning their heads off, so that
Mrs. Stevenson decided the sleepy lady would be better for a bedroom.
Among their acquaintances here was a certain doctor who was such an
inveterate optimist that he could have given lessons even to Louis
Stevenson himself. She says of him: "This doctor has bought a piece of
land here upon which he expects to build a house and settle down when
he retires from practice. How old do you suppose he will be when he
stops work and settles down to enjoy life? Only ninety-one, and
subject to hemorrhages and other things! It seems to be the received
opinion that when one passes the age of sixty-three years life takes a
new start and one may live to almost any age. As to Louis, I verily
believe he is going to be like the old doctor, only a little better
looking, I hope."
Notwithstanding the cramped quarters in the little châlet their
solitude was broken now and then by a visitor. Thither went at various
times "Bob" Stevenson, Sir Sidney Colvin, Mr. Charles Baxter, Mr. W.
E. Henley, and Miss Ferrier. The pleasurable excitement of this
society, to which he had been so long a stranger, raised Mr.
Stevenson's spirits to such an extent that he rashly proposed an
expedition to Nice, where he took cold, developed pneumonia, was
critically ill for weeks, and returned to Hyères still in a very low
condition. This was one of the most harrowing periods of Mrs.
Stevenson's life, and she tells of its distresses in a letter written
to her mother-in-law in January, 1884:
"If I write like a mad creature do not be surprised, for I have had a
period of awful wretchedness. Louis fell ill, and when the doctor
came he beckoned to me to follow him, and then told me Louis was dying
and could not be kept alive until you could get here. That was
yesterday. I watched every breath he drew all night in what sickening
apprehension you may guess. To-day another doctor, Dr. Drummond, was
called in, and says that Louis may well live to be seventy, only he
must not travel about. He is steadily better and is reading a
newspaper in bed at this moment. I, who have not slept a wink for two
nights, am pretending to be the gayest of the gay, but in reality I am
a total wreck, although I am almost off my head with relief and joy."
As soon as the patient had sufficiently recovered they returned to
Hyères, but there new troubles awaited them. His eyes became so
severely affected by a contagious ophthalmia then prevailing in the
neighbourhood that he had to give up using them for several weeks,
sciatic rheumatism confined him to bed, and his right arm was bound to
his side to prevent hemorrhage. In the midst of all these afflictions
he refused to be cast down and insisted that everything was for the
best, for he was now forced to take a much-needed rest which he would
not otherwise have taken. On March 25, 1884, she writes to his mother:
"I am not very good at letter writing since I have been doing blind
man's eyes, but here is a note to say that the blind man is doing very
well, and I consider the blindness a real providence. Since he has
been unable to read or do anything at all a wonderful change has come
over his health, spirits, and temper, all for the better.... I wish
you could see him with his eye tied up and singing away like mad;
truly like mad, as there is neither time nor method in it, only a
large voice. I am horribly busy, for I have to write for Louis from
dictation, answer all his letters, as well as my own, keep house,
entertain visitors, and do a good deal of the cooking. Our Wogg is an
invalid, having got himself badly mangled in several fights, the maid
is ill with symptoms of pleurisy, and altogether we are a forlorn
household, but with all this Louis and I are in high spirits. He says
it is wonderful how well one gets along without reading. He could
never have believed it."
Perhaps partly for the purpose of getting her out for a little fresh
air, he proposed that she should go for an hour's walk every day, and
during her absence invent a story to be told on her return. It was to
be a sort of Arabian Nights' Entertainment, with him as the Sultan and
her as Scheherazade. _The Dynamiter_ was suggested by certain
attempted outrages in London which had all turned out to be fiascos.
She began with the Mormon tale and followed with the others, one for
each afternoon. Afterwards, when a lean time came at Bournemouth and
money was badly needed, these stories, temporarily forgotten, were
recalled, written, and published as the second volume of the _New
Arabian Nights_ series. As there was only enough for a thin book he
wrote another, _The Explosive Bomb_, to fill up. It came out at first
under the title of _More New Arabian Nights_, but afterwards appeared
as _The Dynamiter_. Of the stories in this second series only one,
_The Explosive Bomb_, was entirely the work of Mr. Stevenson's own
hand, all the others being done in collaboration with his wife. _The
Dynamiter_ did double service, as his wife said, for first it amused
his tedious hours of illness at Hyères, and afterwards it replenished
his purse in a time of need.
Their peaceful life in the châlet was now broken by a new and most
unexpected interruption. Mrs. Stevenson writes in her preface to _The
Dynamiter_:
"So quiet and secluded was our life here that we heard almost nothing
of the outside world except through an occasional English
correspondent. I remember before we knew that cholera was raging in
Toulon, only some three miles away, how we watched a cloud gathering
over the town, where it hung heavy and lowering, day after day. We
felt that it was somehow ominous, and were vaguely depressed. We were
told afterwards that at that very time great fires were burning in the
streets of Toulon by order of the mayor, and that the people gathered
at night around these fires capering fantastically in a pagan dance,
resurrected from the dark ages no one knew by whom or how."
To add to the alarm caused by the outbreak of the cholera, in the
first week in May Mr. Stevenson had a violent hemorrhage. "It occurred
late at night, but in a moment his wife was at his side. Being choked
by the flow of blood and unable to speak, he made signs to her for a
paper and pencil, and wrote in a firm neat hand, 'Don't be frightened.
If this is death it is an easy one.' Mrs. Stevenson had always a small
bottle of ergotin and a minim glass in readiness; these she brought
in order to administer the prescribed quantity. Seeing her alarm he
took bottle and glass away from her, measured the dose correctly with
a perfectly steady hand, and gave the things back to her with a
reassuring smile."[24] It was said that if his wife had not had
everything ready and known exactly what to do he could not have lived.
The clergyman came to pray with the supposed dying man, but, having
been warned against the least excitement, she refused him admittance.
In defense of her action she says: "I know Louis, and I know that he
tries always to so live that he may be ready to die." When Mr.
Stevenson heard that a clergyman had come to pray for him as a man in
danger of dying, he said: "Tell him to come and see me when I am
better and I will offer up a prayer for a clergyman in danger of
living." In a few days he rallied once more, but it was now realized
that chronic invalidism was to be his portion for the rest of his
days, and his wife wrote to her mother-in-law:
"The doctor says 'keep him alive until he is forty, and then, though a
winged bird, he may live to ninety.' But between now and forty he must
live as though he were walking on eggs. For the next two years, no
matter how well he feels, he must live the life of an invalid. He must
be perfectly tranquil, trouble about nothing, have no shocks or
surprises, not even pleasant ones, must not eat too much, talk very
little, and walk no more than can be helped. He must never be crossed,
for anger, going upstairs, and walking are the worst things for
him.... Yet he is very cheerful and has been all along. He is never
frightened."
[Footnote 24: From _The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson_,
by Graham Balfour.]
Driven from Hyères by the cholera, they sought a temporary refuge at
an enchanting little watering-place near Clermont-Ferrand called
Royat, in whose healing springs Cæsar himself had once bathed. The
surroundings, of wooded ravines and cliffs and numberless waterfalls,
were charming, and in the centre of the town stood an ancient
cathedral, whose former use as a fortress was still proclaimed by the
loopholes in its walls and the hooded projections on its towers.
In this romantic place they spent the summer in the company of his
parents, who came to visit them, but the joy of this meeting was
tempered by the failing health and spirits of the father, who was now
only able to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness in the presence of
his son.
At the end of the summer of 1884 they returned to Hyères, but the
prospect of a permanent recovery there seemed so slight that it was
finally decided to go to England and seek medical advice. On the 1st
of July they reached England, and shortly afterwards went to London to
consult Sir Andrew Clark and other eminent physicians. Mrs. Stevenson
writes from there: "I suppose it comes from being so long a recluse,
but seeing the few people I have seen has quite shattered my nerves,
so that I tremble and can hardly speak. Louis, on the contrary, is
quite calm, and is at this moment, after a hearty meal, resting
quietly in his bed."
Snatching at a half-hearted permission given by some of the doctors to
remain in England, their decision being assisted by the desire to be
near his father, whose health was rapidly failing, they went to
Bournemouth for a trial of its climate and conditions. Nothing
untoward having occurred by the end of January, the elder Stevenson
purchased a house there as a present to his daughter-in-law. Both the
wanderers were filled with inexpressible joy at the prospect of living
under their own rooftree, and at once plunged with ardour into the
business of furnishing and gardening. The first thing was to change
the name of the place to Skerryvore, in honour of the best known of
the lighthouses built by the Stevenson family, the name being partly
suggested by the fact that a distant view of the sea was to be had
from the upper windows.
Skerryvore was a pleasant, ivy-covered brick cottage, surrounded by a
half-acre of garden, which has been so delightfully described by
William Archer in the _Critic_ of November 5, 1887, that one can do no
better than quote his words:
"Though only a few paces from the public road, it is thoroughly
secluded. Its front faces southward (away from the road) and overlooks
a lawn,
'Linnet haunted garden ground,
Where still the esculents abound.'
"The demesne extends over the edge, and almost to the bottom of the
Chine; and here, amid laurel and rhododendron, broom and gorse, the
garden merges into a network of paths and stairways, with tempting
seats and unexpected arbors at every turn. This seductive little
labyrinth is of Mrs. Stevenson's own designing. She makes the whole
garden her special charge and delight, but this particular corner of
it is as a kingdom conquered, where to reign. Mrs. Stevenson, the
tutelary genius of Skerryvore, is a woman of small physical stature
but surely of heroic mould. Her features are clear cut and delicate,
but marked by unmistakable strength of character; her hair is an
unglossy black, and her complexion darker than one would expect in a
woman of Dutch extraction.... Her personality, no less than her
husband's, impresses itself potently on all who have the good fortune
to be welcomed at Skerryvore."
Writing to her mother-in-law from Bournemouth, she says:
"I have just been going the rounds of my garden, and have brought in
as a sentimental reminder of you the first marguerite,[25] which I
will enclose in this letter. The weather is like paradise, the sun is
shining, the birds are singing, and Louis is walking up and down in
front of the house with a red umbrella over his head, enjoying the
day.... I could only ask one thing more to have the most perfect life
that any woman could have, and that is, of course, good health for
Louis.... I should be perfectly appalled if I were asked to exchange
his faults for other people's virtues."
[Footnote 25: The elder lady's name was Margaret.]
Three years were spent at this pleasant place, and though Louis's
health was never good, and he lived there, as he afterwards wrote,
"like a pallid weevil in a biscuit," a great deal was accomplished in
literary work by both husband and wife. There they put together the
stories in _The Dynamiter_, which, as will be remembered, Mrs.
Stevenson had made up to while away the hours of illness at Hyères.
When the book came out little credit was given her by the book
reviewers for her part in it, a neglect which caused her some
mortification. Writing to her mother-in-law, she says: "I thought in
the beginning that I shouldn't mind being Louis's scapegoat, but it is
rather hard to be treated like a comma, and a superfluous one at that.
And then in one paper, the only one in which I am mentioned, the
critic refers to me as 'undoubtedly Mr. Stevenson's sister.' Why,
pray? Surely there can be nothing in the book that points to a sister
in particular."
The morning after her husband had the dream that suggested _Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde_, he came with a radiant countenance to show his work to
his wife, saying it was the best thing he had ever done. She read it
and thought it the worst, and thereupon fell into a state of deep
gloom, for she couldn't let it go, and yet it seemed cruel to tell him
so, and between the two horns of the dilemma she made herself quite
ill. At last, by his request and according to their custom, she put
her objections to it, as it then stood, in writing, complaining that
he had treated it simply as a story, whereas it was in reality an
allegory. After reading her paper and seeing the justice of her
criticism, with characteristic impulsiveness he immediately burned his
first draft and rewrote it from a different point of view. She was
appalled when he burned it, for she had only wanted him to change it,
but he was afraid of being influenced by the first writing and
preferred to start anew, with a clean slate.
Their discussions over the work were sometimes hot and protracted, for
neither was disposed to yield without a struggle. Speaking of this in
a letter to his mother, she says: "If I die before Louis, my last
earnest request is that he shall publish nothing without his father's
approval. I know that means little short of destruction to both of
them, but there will be no one else. The field is always covered with
my dead and wounded, and often I am forced to a compromise, but still
I make a very good fight." In this battle of wits they found intense
enjoyment, and it was, in fact, an intellectual comradeship that few
writers have been fortunate enough to enjoy in their own households.
While at Bournemouth an occasional respite from illness enabled them
to enjoy the society of friends in a limited way--among them their
neighbours, Sir Percy and Lady Shelley, Sir Henry Taylor and his
daughters, and many people of note who came down from London to see
them. The incidents of these friendships have been fully dealt with in
Balfour's _Life of Robert Louis Stevenson_, and need not be treated
extensively here. One of their neighbours, Miss Adelaide Boodle, who
was given the jocose title of "gamekeeper" when she assumed charge of
Skerryvore after their departure from England, writes thus of her
attachment to Mrs. Stevenson: "Among all her friends here there was
never one who loved her more whole-heartedly than her 'gamekeeper,' to
whom in after years she gave the sweet pet name of the 'little brown
deer.' From the first day that we met at Skerryvore she took entire
possession of my heart, and there she will forever bear sway. There is
an old gardener here, too, who was her devoted slave at Skerryvore. Of
course she never trusted him the length of her little finger, but she
used him as extra hands and feet. Her parting charge to me--given in
his presence--has never been forgotten by either of us: 'Remember,
child, if you ever see Philips approach my creepers with a pruning
knife you are to snatch it from his hand and plunge it into his
heart!"
Among the visitors was John Sargent, the American painter, who came to
paint Mr. Stevenson's portrait--a picture which was regarded as too
peculiar to be satisfactory. When Sargent painted it he put Mrs.
Stevenson, dressed in an East Indian costume, in the background,
intending it, not for a portrait, but merely as a bit of colour to
balance the picture. It was a part of the costume that her feet should
be bare, and this fact gave rise to a fantastic story that has often
gone the rounds in print, and will probably continue to do so till the
end of time, that when she first came to London she was such a savage
that she went to dinners and evening entertainments barefoot. This was
but one of the many strange tales that appeared from time to time
concerning her, all of which she refused to contradict, no matter how
false or malicious they might be, for she felt that the name she bore
was not to be lowered by appearing in stupid or ridiculous
controversy; for that reason she would never see newspaper reporters,
and though many so-called "interviews" with her have been printed,
none of them are genuine. She was misrepresented by the press in many
ways, and even wantonly attacked, but refused to break her rule under
any circumstances. During the last days of Jules Simoneau, of
Monterey, a statement appeared in the papers to the effect that he was
being permitted to suffer and die in want, and although it was
perfectly well known to her friends and many other persons that she
had supported him in comfort for years, she would not make any
contradiction in the public press.
One of the interesting people she met while in England was Prince
Kropotkin, the noted Russian revolutionist. Mrs. Stevenson, believing
that Kropotkin was concerned in the blowing up of a French village
while a country fair was in progress, resulting in the killing of a
number of innocent people, prevented her husband from signing a
petition that was instituted for his release from the French prison
where he was confined. When he was finally freed and went to England,
at the urgent request of Henry James she consented to meet him, and
found him to be a most charming person. He assured her that, judging
from the expression of her eyes, she was born to be a nihilist, and
when she indignantly denied this, still insisted that she should learn
to play the game of solitaire, for if she should ever have to go to
prison it might save her life and reason, as it had his. She
consented, not with the anticipation of spending any portion of her
life behind prison-bars, but in order to use the game to amuse her
husband during his long periods of forced and speechless seclusion.
She would sit by his bedside and play her game, and he took great
pleasure in watching it and pointing at the cards that he thought she
ought to play. In later years, when he had gone to the other world,
and the days grew long and lonely, this game of solitaire, so
strangely acquired from the bearded Russian, became a solace.
But of all the guests that came to Skerryvore, the best loved and most
welcome was Mrs. Stevenson's fellow countryman, Henry James, who often
ran down to see them. In the house there was a certain large blue
chair in which he liked to sit. It was called the "Henry James" chair,
and no one else was allowed to use it. It was to him that Louis
Stevenson wrote the poem called "Who Comes To-Night?" Speaking of
their first meeting, Mrs. Stevenson wrote to her mother-in-law: "We
have had a very pleasant visitor. One evening a card was handed in
with 'Henry James' upon it. He spent that evening, asked to come again
the next night, arriving almost before we had got done with dinner,
and staying as late as he thought he might, and asking to come the
next evening, which is to-night. I call that very flattering. I had
always been told that he was the type of an Englishman, but, except
that he looks like the Prince of Wales, I call him the type of an
American. He is gentle, amiable, and soothing."
A wedding anniversary came around, and it was resolved to celebrate it
by a dinner. Henry James was the only guest, and he took a naïve
delight in the American dishes which his hostess had prepared to
remind him of his native land. She writes: "Our dinner was most
successful, our guest continually asking for double helpings and
breaking out into heartfelt praises of the food. It was a sort of
lady's and literary man's dinner; everything was just as good as could
be, and under each napkin was a paper with verses for each person
written by Louis."
Long afterwards, when Mr. James was in America for his first visit in
many years, he went to see Mrs. Stevenson in her San Francisco house.
He had come up from the southern part of the State, and was so
enchanted with the sights along the way--the flowery hill-slopes and
green ferny canyons--that for the first time he was almost persuaded
to abandon his adopted home and come to live among the orange-groves
of California. "When I come to dinner," said he, "please have a large
dish of California oranges on the table if you have nothing else."
Despite a certain stiffness of manner and speech, he was a man of
kindly heart and simple, unworldly nature. After the first ice was
broken, the most unintellectual person might prattle away to him at
ease, for his sympathies were of the broadest. Both Mr. and Mrs.
Stevenson had a deep affection for him, and "no matter who else was
there, the evenings seemed empty without him."
In the meantime Mr. Stevenson's health went but badly, and his wife
gave up practically all her time and strength to his care.
In May, 1887, the elder Stevenson died, breaking the last tie that
held them to England, and three months later Louis Stevenson, with his
mother, wife, and stepson, set sail for America.