I
Romance! At times it passes athwart our vision, yet no sooner seen than
gone; at times it sounds in our ears, only to tremble into silence ere we
realize it; at times it touches our lips, and is felt in the blood, but
our outstretched arms gather naught but the vacant air. The scent of a
flower, the splendour of a sunrise, the glimmer of a star, and it wakens
into being. Sometimes when standing in familiar places, speaking on
matters of every day, suddenly, unexpectedly, it manifests its presence.
A turn of the head, a look in the eye, an inflection of the voice, and
this strange, indefinable thing stirs within us. Or, it may be, we are
alone, traversing some dusty highway of thought, when in a flash some
long-forgotten memory starts at our very feet, and we realize that
Romance is alive.
I would fain deem Romance a twin--a brother and sister. The one fair and
radiant with the sunlight, strong and clean-fibred, warm of blood and
joyous of spirit; a creature of laughter and delight. I would fancy him
regarding the world with clear, shining eyes, faintly parted lips, a
buoyant expectancy in every line of his tense figure. Ready for anything
and everything; the world opening up before him like a white, alluring
road; tasting curiously every adventure, as a man plucks fruit by the
wayside, knowing no horizon to his outlook, no end to his journey, no
limit to his enterprise.
As such I see one of the twins. And the other? Dark and wonderful; the
fragrance of poesy about her hair, the magic of mystery in her
unfathomable eyes. Sweet is her voice and her countenance is comely. A
creature of moonlight and starshine. She follows in the wake of her
brother; but his ways are not her ways. Away, out of sound of his mellow
laughter, she is the spirit that haunts lonely places. There is no price
by which you may win her, no entreaty to which she will respond. Compel
her you cannot, woo her you may not. Yet, uninvited, unbidden, she will
steal into the garret, gaunt in its lonesome ugliness, and bend over the
wasted form of some poor literary hack, until his dreams reflect the
beauty of her presence.
And yet, when one's fancy has run riot in order to recall Romance, how
much remains that cannot be put [Picture: Robert Louis Stevenson] into
words. One thing, however, is certain. Romance must be large and
generous enough to comprehend the full-blooded geniality of a Scott, the
impalpable mystery of a Coleridge or Shelley, to extend a hand to the
sun-tanned William Morris, and the lover of twilight, Nathaniel
Hawthorne.
Borrow was a Romantic, so is Stevenson. Scott was a Romantic, likewise
Edgar Allan Poe. If Romance be not a twin, then it must change its form
and visage wondrously to appeal to temperaments so divergent. But if
Romance be a twin (the conceit will serve our purpose) then one may
realize how Scott and Borrow followed in the brother's wake; Stevenson
and Poe being drawn rather towards the sister.
In the case of Stevenson it may seem strange that one who wrote stirring
adventures, who delighted boys of all ages with _Treasure Island_ and
_Black Arrow_ (oh, excellent John Silver!), and followed in the steps of
Sir Walter in _The Master of Ballantrae_ and _Catriona_, should not be
associated with the adventurous brother. But Scott and Stevenson have
really nothing in common, beyond a love for the picturesque--and there is
nothing distinctive in that. It is an essential qualification in the
equipment of every Romantic. Adventures, as such, did not appeal to
Stevenson, I think; it was the spice of mystery in them that attracted
him. Watch him and you will find he is not content until he has thrown
clouds of phantasy over his pictures. His longer stories have no
unity--they are disconnected episodes strung lightly together, and this
is why his short stories impress us far more with their power and
brilliance.
_Markheim_ and _Jekyll and Hyde_ do not oppress the imagination in the
same way as do Poe's tales of horror; but they show the same passion for
the dark corners of life, the same fondness for the gargoyles of Art.
This is Romance on its mystic side.
Throughout his writings--I say nothing of his letters, which stand in a
different category--one can hear
"The horns of Elfland faintly blowing."
Sometimes the veil of phantasy is shaken by a peal of impish laughter, as
if he would say, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" but the attitude
that persists--breaks there must be, and gusty moods, or it would not be
Stevenson--is the attitude of the Romantic who loves rather the night
side of things.