BACK TO CALIFORNIA.
For six months or more before Mrs. Stevenson's departure for England
in 1898, she had been suffering severely from an illness which finally
necessitated a surgical operation. This operation, which was a very
critical one and brought her within the valley of the shadow for a
time, was performed in London by Sir Frederick Treves, the noted
surgeon and physician to the King. Treves asked no fee, saying that he
considered it a privilege to give this service to the widow of
Stevenson.
While the family were in Dorking, where they had taken a house for the
summer, Mrs. Strong received a letter of sympathy from Mrs.
Stevenson's old friend, Henry James, which is so characteristic that I
am impelled to quote it:
"Dear Mrs. Strong:
"I have been meaning each day to write to you again and tell you how
much, in these days, I am with you in thought. I can't sufficiently
rejoice that you are out of town in this fearful heat, which the air
of London, as thick as the wit of some of its inhabitants, must now
render peculiarly damnable. I rejoice, too, that you have, like
myself, an old house in a pretty old town and an old garden with
pleasant old flowers. Further, I jubilate that you are within decent
distance of dear old George Meredith, whom I tenderly love and
venerate. But after that, I fear my jubilation ceases. I deeply regret
the turn your mother's health has taken has not been, as it so utterly
ought to be, the right one. But if it has determined the prospect of
the operation, which is to afford her relief, I hope with all my heart
that it will end by presenting itself to you as 'a blessing in
disguise.' No doubt she would have preferred a good deal less
disguise, but, after all, we have to take things as they come, and I
throw myself into the deep comfort of gratitude that her situation has
overtaken her in this country, where every perfect ministration will
surround her, rather than in your far-off insular abyss of mere--so to
speak--picturesqueness. I should have been, in that case, at the
present writing, in a fidget too fierce for endurance, whereas I now
can prattle to you quite balmily; for which you are all, no doubt,
deeply grateful. Give her, please, my tender love, and say to her that
if London were actually at all accessible to me, I should dash down to
her thence without delay, and thrust myself as far as would be good
for any of you into your innermost concerns. This would be more
possible to me later on if you should still be remaining awhile at
Dorking--and, at any rate, please be sure that I shall manage to see
you the first moment I am able to break with the complications that,
for the time, forbid me even a day's absence from this place. I repeat
that it eases my spirit immensely that you have exchanged the planet
Saturn--or whichever it is that's the furthest--for this terrestrial
globe. In short, between this and October, many things may happen, and
among them my finding the right moment to drop on you. I hope all the
rest of you thrive and rusticate, and I feel awfully set up with your
being, after your tropic isle, at all tolerant of the hollyhocks and
other garden produce of my adopted home. I am extremely busy trying to
get on with a belated serial--an effort in which each hour has its
hideous value. That is really all my present history--but to you all
it will mean much, for you too have lived in Arcadia! I embrace you
fondly, if you will kindly permit it--every one; beginning with the
Babe, so as to give me proper presumption, and working my way steadily
up. Good-bye till soon again.
"Yours, my dear Teuila, very constantly,
"Henry James."
Except for this unfortunate illness the family spent a pleasant summer
in England, in a little cottage surrounded by an old-fashioned garden
near Burford.
[Illustration: From a photograph by Hollinger, London. Mrs. Robert
Louis Stevenson.]
One of the purposes of this visit to England was Mrs. Stevenson's
desire to carry out one of her husband's last requests. In a letter
not to be opened until after his death he asked that, if the
arrangements already made for the writing and publication of his
biography by Sidney Colvin should not have been carried out within
four years, it should be placed in the hands of some other person. As
the four years had elapsed and nothing had been done in the matter, it
was decided that Graham Balfour, Stevenson's cousin and devoted
friend, should undertake the task; and when Mrs. Stevenson had
partially recovered from her illness she removed to the Balfour
residence and gave her assistance for some time in laying out the
plans for the book.
Her convalescence was very slow, and, finding the damp climate of
England unfavourable, she finally decided to move to the island of
Madeira for rest and recuperation. Accompanied by her son and his
family, her daughter having left for New York City to join her son,
Austin Strong, she travelled by slow stages through France, Spain, and
Portugal, reaching Madeira in the early part of December, 1898. From
Lisbon they sailed in a filthy little Portuguese steamer, freighted
with hay and kerosene, and the passengers, in utter disregard of the
inflammable nature of the cargo, scattered cigarette ends and lighted
matches all over the ship. However, a kind Providence carried them to
port without accident.
After a most uncomfortable voyage of two days and nights they drew
into the beautiful bay of Funchal, with its curving shore and
background of lofty mountains. The _quintas_, or country-houses, each
surrounded by a terraced garden and vineyard, which dotted the slopes,
gave a cheerful air to the landscape. Mrs. Stevenson speaks of it as
the "most picturesque place" she ever saw, and she had seen many of
the beauty spots of the world.
In a letter to her daughter written from here she says: "My plans are
vague. The years ahead of me seem like large empty rooms, with high
ceilings and echoes. Not gay, say you, but I was never one for gaiety
much--and I may discover a certain grandeur in the emptiness."
When at last her strength seemed equal to the long journey, she once
more turned her face towards the setting sun, and beautiful
California. On the way a flying stop was made in Indiana to see
relatives and friends of her girlhood. Speaking of them she says, "I
saw my old friends, the Fletchers. They came to see me in droves, and
it was strange to see them old men and women, talking of their
grandchildren. It seems so difficult to realize that one's self is
old; indeed, I don't believe I ever shall." While in Indianapolis she
met for the first time her distinguished compatriot, James Whitcomb
Riley, who afterwards wrote to her recalling the occasion of their
meeting in his own gentle, kindly way. I quote the letter:
"Indianapolis, Christmas, 1900.
"Dear Mrs. Stevenson:
"Since your brief visit here last winter I've been remembering you and
your kindness every day, and in fancy have written down--hundreds of
times--my thanks to you and yours--once, when first well enough to get
down-town, wrapping a photograph for you of the very well man I _used_
to be. Finding the portrait this Christmas morning, I someway think it
good-omenish, and so send you the long-belated thing, together with a
copy of a recent book in which are most affectionally set some old and
some new lines of tribute to the dear man who is just away. How I
loved him through his lovely art! And how I loved all he loved and yet
loves--for with both heart and soul, and tears and smiles, he seems
very near at hand. Therefore my very gentlest greetings on this
blessed day go out to him as to you.
"Fraternally,
"James Whitcomb Riley."[68]
[Footnote 68: Quoted by courtesy of Mr. Edmund Eitel,
nephew of Mr. Riley.]
Mrs. Stevenson wished to live within sight of the Pacific Ocean, so
she purchased a lot at the corner of Hyde and Lombard Streets, on the
very top of one of San Francisco's famous hills, and at once began the
building of her house, living meanwhile for a time on Belvedere Island
and later at 2751 Broadway. The creation of a new thing--whether it
might be a dress, a surprise dish for the table, a garden or a house,
always appealed strongly to her, and as she plunged eagerly into the
business of planning and discussing with architects and contractors,
her interest in life rose again. As she remarked, "It is awfully
exciting to build a house." Mr. Willis Polk was the architect, but he
followed her design, which she made by building a little house out of
match-boxes on the corner of a table. The house was rather unusual in
its plan, flat-roofed, and with architecture somewhat "on the Mexican
order," as the contractor said. It fitted in well with the landscape
and gave one a feeling of home comfort and cheer within. She herself
said it was "like a fort on a cliff." Hidden from the street by a high
retaining wall and a colonnade embowered in vines was a beautiful
garden where she gradually collected rare plants from various parts of
the world. A wide stretch of emerald lawn filled the centre, and
around its borders were massed flowering shrubs and small
trees--low-growing varieties purposely chosen in order not to hide the
sea view from the windows. Here a climbing syringa brought from the
romantic Borda gardens in Mexico, where the sad Empress Carlota used
to walk, flung out its tendrils gaily to the salt sea breeze, and
seemed never to miss the kindlier sun of its former home. At one side
there was a small cemented pool, the birds' drinking-place, where many
of the little creatures came to dip their bills and trill their
morning songs. In this quiet scented garden, kept safe from intruding
eyes on all sides by vine-covered walls and shrubbery, one might sit
and dream, reminded of the outside world only by the clanging of a
street-car bell or the distant whistle of an ocean steamer.
Within the walls of this house were a thousand objects gathered in her
wanderings in all sorts of strange places, but the greatest attraction
was the magnificent outlook over sea and land afforded by its
commanding position. From the flat roof one looked down on one side
upon the picturesque city, with its many hills and steeply climbing
streets, all a-glitter at night with a million twinkling lights, and
on the other upon the great sparkling expanse of the bay, alive with
craft of every sort, from the great ocean steamer just in from the
Orient to the tiny fisher boats, with their lateen sails, returning
with their day's catch from outside the "Heads." From the drawing-room
windows one could see the winking eye of Alcatraz Island, grim rocky
guardian of the Golden Gate, and all the ships of the Pacific fleets
making their slow way in to their docking places. How often must
she have looked out upon those returning wanderers of the deep and
thought with a tender sadness of that day in the treasured past when
the Silver Ship sailed away with her and her beloved towards the
enchanted isles!
[Illustration: The house at Hyde and Lombard Streets, San Francisco,
with some alterations in the way of bay windows, etc., which have been
made since Mrs. Stevenson sold it.]
Once she stood watching from these windows for the transport that was
coming in with soldiers from the Philippines, among whom was her
nephew, Edward Orr. As the ship hove in sight she sent her grandson
flying to the roof to wave a welcome with a large flag, and almost the
first thing the homesick young soldier saw as he turned eager eyes
shorewards was the fluttering banner high on the house-top on the
hill. Having nothing else convenient with which to return the salute,
he and his mates snatched a sheet from a bunk and waved it from a
porthole. Meanwhile Mrs. Stevenson had despatched her son to hire a
launch and take the mother and sisters of her nephew out to meet him,
and as soon as the sea-worn and tired young soldiers had landed at the
Presidio she sent out baskets of fruit and bottles of milk for their
refreshment.
Island memories were always dear to her, and when one day she heard
that a ship had come into port manned with sailors from Samoa, she at
once sent to the dock and invited them all to call on her. Soon the
dark-skinned, picturesque troop, shy but proud of the attention shown
them by Tusitala's widow, arrived. The _ava_ bowl was brought out and
placed before them as they sat cross-legged on the floor in a
semi-circle, and after the brewing of the _ava_ it was drunk with all
the proper ceremonies of speech-making and exchanges of compliments.
Mr. Carmichael Carr, who, with his mother, the well-known singer, was
one of the visitors that day, writes: "I have a wonderfully clear
picture of the reception Mrs. Stevenson gave and the South Sea men she
had gathered around her--their strange appearance and incantations and
the peculiar drink they brewed."
At the Hyde Street house she received many distinguished
people--actors, writers, singers, and even royalties. There Henry
James, S. S. McClure, David Bispham, William Faversham and his wife,
ex-Queen Liliuokalani and a hundred others went to pay her their
respects. It was at a reception she was giving to Liliuokalani--which,
by the way, she gave in the hope of arousing favourable interest in
the Queen's mission to Washington to seek justice--that she first met
David Bispham, and first heard him sing, too, in a rather unusual way.
Some one--I think it was Gelett Burgess--said to the Queen, "Will your
Majesty please issue a royal command? We have never heard one."
Whereupon her Majesty pointed her finger at Bispham and said, "The
bard is commanded to sing!"
When the Stevenson Society of San Francisco held their yearly meetings
of commemoration on Louis's birthday she was the honoured guest, and
it was characteristic of her to remember to invite his old friend,
Jules Simoneau of Monterey, for these occasions. When she first asked
the old man to come he shrugged his shoulders and said: "What! Will
you take me to see your fine friends in this old blouse? I have no
other clothes." "Your clothes are nothing," she replied. "All that
matters to me is that you were my husband's dear friend." So he went,
and was entertained in her house with as much consideration as though
he had been a prince of the blood. On the evening of the dinner given
by the Society at the old restaurant which had once been frequented by
Stevenson, she took Simoneau in her carriage, and when a fashionable
young lady in her party objected to this arrangement she was rebuked
by being sent home in a street-car.
Among other public functions to which she was invited to do her honour
as the widow of Stevenson was a banquet given by the St. Andrews
Society, which included nearly all the Scotchmen in San Francisco. In
conversation with three of them she remarked that she had the sugar
bowl from which Bobby Burns had sweetened his toddy when he went to
see Robert Stevenson,[69] and, after inviting them to call, promised
to mix a toddy for them and sweeten it from the same historic sugar
bowl. About a week later the three appeared, exceedingly Scotch in
their long black coats and silk hats, and each carrying a formal
bouquet. They had a delightful time, drinking their toddy, which was
duly sweetened from the hallowed bowl, and reciting Burns's poems to
her in such broad Scotch that she could not understand a word of it.
But she loved the sound of it all the same.
[Footnote 69: Robert Louis Stevenson's grandfather.]
It was soon after her return to San Francisco that Mrs. Stevenson
interested herself in the story of a half-caste Samoan girl, a sort
of modern Cinderella, of whom she had heard before leaving the
islands. This girl, who was an orphan, had been left a fortune in
lands and money in Samoa by her American father, and when she was five
years of age had been sent to San Francisco by her guardian to be
educated. There, through a combination of circumstances, she
disappeared, and her property in Samoa lay unclaimed, while the rents
went to the benefit of others. When Mrs. Stevenson heard of this she
determined to make a search for the girl, and as soon as she reached
San Francisco set out to do so. After the rounds of all the private
schools and seminaries had been made without success, her friend, Miss
Chismore, thought of trying the charity orphan asylums, and in one of
these, a Catholic convent school for orphans, she found a girl bearing
a somewhat similar name to the lost one. Mrs. Stevenson, taking with
her a Samoan basket and some shells, immediately went out to see her.
At the school a small, dark, shy girl was brought by the sisters into
the visitors' room, and at sight of the Samoan basket she gave a
joyful cry of recognition. The long-lost heiress was found, living as
a pauper in a charity school! The difficulty then was to prove her
claim to the property and secure it for her. In her determination to
do this Mrs. Stevenson went to Washington, where, after seeing
senators, priests of the Catholic Church, and other persons in
authority, she finally succeeded in having the girl's lands, with some
of the back rents, restored to her. All this was like a fairy story to
the kind sisters at the convent, and their joy was unbounded at
seeing their little pauper pupil thus romantically transformed into
the rich princess. Meanwhile Mrs. Stevenson invited the young lady to
her house, gave a party in her honour, helped her buy clothing
suitable to her new station, and, when the time came for her
triumphant departure to claim her island possessions, went to see her
off on the steamer. As long as this little Cinderella lived she never
forgot the fairy godmother who had worked this wonderful change in her
life.
It was during this period that the regrettable incident of Mr.
Henley's attack on the memory of Stevenson occurred--an incident that
attracted a great deal more attention in England than in America,
where it was forgotten almost as soon as it happened. Mrs. Stevenson
herself always ascribed this strange act on the part of her husband's
old friend to his state of health, which had never been good and was
rapidly growing worse; and, because she believed he had become
embittered by his misfortunes, she bore no rancour. In referring to it
she repeated one of her favourite sayings, "To know all is to forgive
all," and when, after Mr. Henley's death, his widow wrote to her
asking for letters to be published in his "life," she sent them with a
kind and affectionate note.
While the house in San Francisco was building, Mrs. Stevenson went
away for a time, accompanied only by her maid, for a camping trip in
the Santa Cruz Mountains, down among the redwoods. The delights of the
place where they camped, in a shady little valley about ten miles from
Gilroy, soon won her heart completely, and she decided to purchase a
small ranch there for a permanent summer home. For the first season
she lived there in true campers' fashion, which she describes in a
letter to her daughter: "At the ranch I have one tent with a curtain
in the middle. We sleep on one side of the curtain and sit on the
other. I have only the most primitive facilities for cooking, and the
butcher is twelve miles away over a mountain road. He is anything but
dependable, and when I send for a piece of roast beef I may get a soup
bone of veal, or a small bit of liver, or a side of breakfast bacon,
which I keep hung in a tree. I cannot keep flour on a tree, so am
dependent on the boarding-house [a small summer resort about a quarter
of a mile distant] for my bread, and if they are short I have no
bread. If I find I lack something essential I have to spend a whole
day driving to town through the deep dust to get it. But of course I
am going to do all kinds of things by and by." The truth was that this
sort of life was exactly to her taste, and the wilder and rougher it
was the better it suited her. She was always, to the end of her days,
the pioneer woman, and the greensward of the woods went better to her
feet than carpeted halls.
Afterwards tents were put up for the accommodation of her family, and
every spring, after the rains were over, they all moved down to take
up a delightful out-of-door life such as can scarcely be enjoyed
anywhere in the world except in California. Cooking was done in the
open air, and meals were taken at a long table spread in a deep glen,
where the trees were so thick that it was pleasantly cool even on the
hottest days.
As time went on the mistress of this sylvan paradise grew more and
more attached to it, and she at length decided to build more permanent
quarters. First of all, she made a model of a house out of match
boxes, with pebbles for the foundation wall, all glued together,
painted and complete. Then she hired a country carpenter and built her
house--a pleasant little dwelling, with a wide veranda extending in
country fashion around two sides of it.
In building the foundation wall boulders from the stream were used,
and many were found bearing bold imprints of fossil ferns, birds, and
snakes. Mrs. Stevenson was delighted to have these reminders of a past
age for her wall, but, alas, during her absence the stones were all
cemented in place with the nice smooth sides outward and the fossils
turned inward.
Although it was so different from the tropic island that had now
become but a tender memory, yet there was much about this place that
recalled Vailima days--the sweet seclusion, the rich greenery all
about, the music of the little tinkling stream, and, above all, the
morning song of the multitudes of birds. It was for this, and perhaps
to make a link between her California home and that other far across
the wide Pacific that she chose to call the little ranch in the Santa
Cruz Mountains Vanumanutagi, vale of the singing birds.
At Vanumanutagi Mrs. Stevenson led a simple life, spending most of her
time out-of-doors and occupying herself with plans for the planting
and improvement of the land. The house was simply furnished, and the
country people were charmed with the gay chintz and bright
wall-paper, the brick fireplace, and the general appropriateness of it
all. As it was not large, tents were put up for the family and guests
to sleep in.
Even this peaceful spot had its excitements, for in the autumn, when
the undergrowth everywhere was as dry as tinder, its quiet was
sometimes disturbed by the outbreak of California's summer
terror--forest-fires. One of the worst of these happened when Mrs.
Stevenson was at the ranch with only her sister Elizabeth[70] and a
maid. It came suddenly, and the first they knew of it was the sight of
what they took to be sea fog, rolling and tumbling over the tops of
the hills. They soon knew it for what it was when it came pouring down
into the valley and they began to choke with its acrid smell.
Presently horsemen came galloping by on their way to warn ranchers of
the fire, and every little while a man would come out and report the
progress made in checking it. It was an oppressive, hidden danger, for
nothing could be seen from the valley of the actual flames through the
thick suffocating curtain of smoke that hung over all. The only avenue
of escape was by way of the road to Gilroy, and the fire threatened
momentarily to cut this off. Not wishing to abandon the place to its
fate, Mrs. Stevenson thought out a plan for saving their lives in the
last emergency by wrapping up in wet blankets and crouching in a sort
of hole or low place in an open field near the house. Fortunately the
fire was stopped before this became necessary.
[Footnote 70: The late Mrs. E. E. Mitchell, of Nebraska
City, Nebraska.]
[Illustration: The house at Vanumanutagi ranch.]
It was while she was living at the ranch that Mrs. Stevenson began to
write the introductions to her husband's works in the biographical
edition brought out by Charles Scribner's Sons. As she had but a
modest opinion of her abilities, she undertook this work with the
greatest reluctance, and in a letter to Mr. Scribner she remarks, "It
appalls me to think of my temerity in writing these introductions."
Yet I believe that everyone who reads them will feel that a new and
personal interest has been added to each one of his books by her
graphic story of the circumstances of its writing.
Among the best loved of the infrequent guests who braved the long,
hot, dusty drive from Gilroy to the ranch was the young California
writer, Frank Norris. During his visits there Mrs. Stevenson became
much attached to him, and he in turn was so charmed with the place and
the life that he determined to buy a ranch in the neighbourhood. As I
have already said, when an opportunity offered he bought the Douglas
Sanders place, Quien Sabe Rancho, intending to spend all his summers
there. Writing to Mrs. Stevenson about his plans in his gay boyish
fashion, he says:
"My dear Mrs. Stevenson:
"This is to tell you that our famous round-the-world trip has been
curtailed to a modest little excursion Samoa-wards and back, or mebbe
we get as far as Sydney. We wont go to France, but will come to Quien
Sabe in February--FEBRUARY! We find in figuring up our stubs that we
have a whole lot more money than we thought, but the blame stuff has
got to be transferred from our New York bank to here, which (because
we went about it wrong in the first place), can't be done for another
two weeks. We will make the first payment on Quien Sabe before October
1st--$250. Will you ask Lloyd to let us know--or I mean to bear us in
mind--if he hears of a horse for sale so we could buy the beast when
we come up next February. Meanwhile will keep you informed as to
'lightning change' programme we are giving these days.
"Ever thine (I've clean forgot me nyme)."
The Norris cabin stands high on the mountain slope, and is reached by
a steep winding road leading up from Vanumanutagi Ranch.
To this ideal spot, this secluded little lodge in the wilderness,
Frank Norris hoped to bring his wife and little daughter and spend
many happy and fruitful summers. Here he intended to work on the last
volume of his series of the wheat trilogy--the story of the hunger of
the people, which was to be called by the appropriate name of _The
Wolf_. His joy in his new purchase was unbounded, and many
improvements to the cabin and ranch were projected. In all these plans
Mrs. Stevenson took a more than neighbourly interest, for she spent
time and money in helping to make the place comfortable and
attractive. Among other things she built a curbing around the well,
using for the purpose boulders from the inexhaustible supply in the
bed of the stream, and, to have all complete, even sent to Boston for
a real "old oaken bucket." At just the right intervals along the steep
road to the cabin, measured off by her own indefatigable feet, she
placed rustic seats, where the tired climber might rest.
But alas! All these pleasing hopes came to naught, for within a short
time after buying the ranch sudden death cut him off in the flower of
his youth and the first unfolding of his genius. This was a sad blow
to Mrs. Stevenson, for she had become much attached to the brilliant
and lovable young writer. Sometime afterwards she thought of putting
up a memorial to him on the little ranch where he had hoped to spend
many happy years. Having decided that it should take the form of a
stone seat, bearing a suitable inscription, she went to work in
conjunction with Gelett Burgess to make the design. The site chosen
for the seat is upon a small level spot a few yards below the cabin,
at the side of the winding road leading up from the Stevenson ranch.
In carrying out this project she took a melancholy pleasure, as she
writes in a letter to Mr. Charles Scribner, dated 1902: "I am building
a memorial seat to poor Frank Norris. With the assistance of a couple
of men I have gathered a lot of boulders from the bed of a stream, and
from these we have fashioned a bench to hold six or eight people, and
set it where the view is glorious. I have helped lay the stones, and
have dabbled in mortar until I can hardly use my hands to write. This
sort of work is so much more interesting than scratching with a pen.
In the joy of even so poor a creation I forget the sad purpose of it,
and am as happy as one hopes to be who has lived as long as I."
Before these two friends--he in the springtime of his days, she in
the mellow autumn of maturity--passed away, they were persuaded to
record their voices in a phonograph, but it was a useless effort, for
no one who loved them has ever been able to endure to listen to their
spirit voices, as it were, speaking from the other world.