BRAVE TUSITALA, THE TELLER OF STORIES
If any number of boys were asked to name their favourite book,
“Treasure Island,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, would be sure to be
mentioned. Could any one who has read the book ever forget Black Dog,
Billy Bones, John Silver, Ben Gunn, or any of the characters which
figure in that remarkable story? The author of “Treasure Island” was
born in Edinburgh on November 13, 1850. His father and his grandfather
had both been lighthouse builders. The stern, rugged coast of Scotland
with its many dangerous reefs, make it necessary to have well-built
lighthouses to warn the mariners of danger, and so, on many rocks that
run out to the sea, the friendly beacons are placed by daring builders,
who often erected them at the risk of their lives.
No doubt Robert’s father would have been glad had the boy been strong
enough to follow the same calling, but Robert was a delicate little
fellow who never could have worked hard like his father. He was an
only child and his poor health caused his parents a good deal of
anxiety. He was so delicate that he was not able for many years to
join other children in their play, although there never was a lad who
had a merrier heart. At school he did not do very well, because he was
absent so much on account of sickness. He spent a good deal of his time
in bed, and developed a great love for stories. First his mother, then
the nurse, would read stories to him until their throats were sore,
and young Robert would listen to every word and ask for “Just one more
story.” Out in the street he could hear the voices of his chums as they
gleefully shouted in their play, but Robert had to sit in bed, propped
up by pillows, a shawl pinned around him, while he listened to stories
or played with his toy soldiers.
He was often lonely, for he dearly loved to have other children around,
but the best he could do was to press his face against the window-pane
and watch them play in the street. Thus it was that he lived in a
little world of his own. He thought about fairies and goblins, or he
imagined he was a sailor in some far-off seas where pirates abounded
and then, in order to pass away the time, he began to write little
stories himself, and read them to his mother, who no doubt laughed
heartily at his romantic tales.
One day he was passing a large, empty house and for the sake of
adventure he thought he would enter it and imagine himself a daring
burglar. He found an open window and crawled through. Then he roamed
around the empty house feeling as bold as a lion. Suddenly he heard a
noise and all at once his courage fled. Most likely it was a mouse,
but all kinds of terrible pictures arose in Robert’s mind. He imagined
himself arrested, handcuffed and brought before the magistrate. No one
came, however, and he plucked up enough courage to get to the window by
which he had entered and race home.
From being a delicate child Robert grew up to be a man with very poor
health. He suffered a great deal, in fact there was scarcely a day when
he was free from pain. He once wrote a letter to a friend in which
he made one of his few references to his sufferings. He said: “For
fourteen years I have not had a day’s real health; I have wakened sick
and gone to bed weary; and I have done my day unflinchingly. I have
written in bed and written out of it; written in hæmorrhages, written
in sickness, written torn by coughing, written when my head swam
from weakness and for so long it seems to me I have won my wager. The
battle goes on, ill or well is a trifle, so as it goes. I was made for
a contest and the Powers have so willed that my battlefield should be
this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle.”
This certainly was not the kind of life that Robert Louis Stevenson’s
great love of fun and action made it easy to accept. He longed for
health and did everything he could to get it. He loved the woods and
the fields, but generally when he would like to be there, he had to
remain in bed. Yet, throughout it all, he showed a cheerfulness and a
courage which have seldom been equalled. He had an unquenchable love
of fun, and although he was often so ill that he could only carry on
a conversation in whispers, or by writing with pencil, no one ever
visited him who did not realise how wonderfully brave he was. When
one learns of his physical condition it seems hardly possible that
Stevenson could write these words:
“If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness,
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face,
If beams from happy human eyes,
Have moved me not, if morning skies,
Books, and my food and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:
Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake.”
All during these years of suffering Stevenson wrote books which were,
and still are, read by thousands of appreciative people. And these are
not the kind of books that people read and forget at once. They are the
books that can be read and enjoyed over and over again, and never seem
to lose their charm. Besides “Treasure Island,” he wrote “Kidnapped,”
“Travels with a Donkey,” “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “A Child’s Garden
of Verse,” “The Master of Ballantrae,” and a number of others of very
high standard. At that time very little was known about Stevenson
himself; how surprised his readers would have been had they known
that the writer of such fascinating and cheerful books was a chronic
invalid. One man who wrote a review of a book by Stevenson, said that
the chief defect in the book was that the writer was too optimistic and
far too cheerful. “This writer,” he said, “has evidently never truly
known what suffering is, or he would not speak so complacently about
its endurance.” When Stevenson read this criticism he laughed heartily
and said it was one of the finest compliments that he had ever received.
Of course he longed for health and occasionally he wrote a few lines
which show how great that longing was. Once he wrote: “I have so many
things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that
other thing, health. But I believe, for myself at least, whatever is,
is best.” Often he made great fun of his sickness as though he was
determined to laugh at it and not allow it to get the better of him. He
wrote to a friend: “I am about knocked out of time now; a miserable,
snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering
shadow and remains of a man.” Then he lapsed into the Scotch dialect
he had known as a boy: “But we’ll no gie ower gist yet a bittie. We’ve
seen waur, and Dod mem! it’s my belief that we’ll see better. I dinna
ken ’at I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but gist
here’s a guid fallowship, guid health, and the wale o’ guid fortune to
yer bonnie sel’.”
Still seeking health, Stevenson went to live on the island of Samoa.
There he lived for several years and it is there that he is buried.
It was a strange life for him and his wife at first, but the climate
was good for him and no doubt prolonged his life. At first the Samoans
did not know what to make of this stranger who came to live among them.
They were puzzled and suspicious, but gradually as they came to know
him better, they began to love him, until they looked upon him as their
friend, whose wisdom they could always trust.
The Samoans were lazy, ignorant, and inclined to steal, but they
had also many good qualities and so Stevenson sought to win their
confidence and then teach them better ways of doing things. He worked
industriously not only at his literary work, but at manual labour as
far as his strength permitted. With some help he built three houses,
a big barn and a road two miles long. Besides this he cleared a good
deal of land and planted quantities of food. In time he had his own
banana-patch, lemon trees, pineapples and cocoanuts; and he greatly
enjoyed the work. He insisted upon being called a farmer and if things
went wrong--as they often did--he laughed merrily and refused to be
discouraged.
Stevenson was never so happy as when telling stories and the Samoans
were just as keen listeners as other folks. He quickly mastered the
Samoan language and nightly the natives gathered around him as he told
tales of adventure and described vividly places he had seen. It was
the Samoans who named him “Tusitala,” which means, in their language
“Teller of Tales.” His wife they called “Aolele,” or “Beautiful as a
flying cloud.”
He lived very much as the natives. Most of the time he went barefoot,
with scanty clothing because of the heat, so that he became almost as
brown as a Samoan. He bathed a great deal, sometimes wading in the
water for hours and gathering shells. At other times he wandered over
the island through the dense forests of fruit trees, while the tall
palm trees waved overhead. In his home he followed a rigid programme.
He rose early in the morning, generally early enough to see the sun
rise. He did as much work during the day as his feeble health allowed.
In the evening he had prayers with his family and the Samoan members of
his household at eight o’clock, following which he retired and slept on
a chest covered with native mats and blankets.
On one occasion war broke out between two chiefs. Stevenson was unable
to prevent the feud, but he did his utmost to help the sufferers. The
Samoans showed their confidence in him at this time by bringing a bag
full of coins, which they had saved to buy roofing for their church,
and asking him to keep them until the war was over. While the war was
on Stevenson visited the prisoners, did his utmost to secure for them
medical aid, and helped them over the dull monotony of convalescence by
telling them fascinating stories. The gratitude of the Samoans was very
great. They were not naturally an industrious people, which was due no
doubt in part to the warm climate; however, they decided to build a
private road to Stevenson’s home, and to keep it in constant repair.
They called it, “The road of Loving Hearts,” and the inscription which
the chiefs drew up read as follows: “Considering the great love of
Tusitala in his loving care of us in our distress in the prison, we
have therefore prepared a splendid gift. It shall never be muddy, it
shall endure for ever, this road that we have dug.”
During these years at Samoa, while he was fighting so bravely for
health, Stevenson worked hard at his writing. He was careful to an
extraordinary degree. He weighed and considered, not only every idea he
wrote out, but every word he used. He would go over his writing again
and again, making slight corrections which to some authors would not
have seemed very important, but which to him mattered a great deal. The
result of all this care is seen in his books. There is not a faulty
sentence or a word out of place. There are few books in the English
language more carefully written than those of Robert Louis Stevenson.
The amazing courage and cheerfulness of Stevenson will never be
forgotten. He seemed to laugh at difficulties. There was a time when
he was living in San Francisco when he was so reduced in circumstances
that he lived in a cheap boarding-house, paying one dollar and fifty
cents a week for his room, and so hard-up that his main meal each
day consisted of a bowl of soup, yet notwithstanding all this, he
kept on writing brave and cheerful essays and stories. We may be sure
that those who read and so greatly enjoyed them had little idea what
troubles the man had who wrote them.
One day, early in December, 1894, Stevenson was taken ill very suddenly
in his Samoan home. Doctors were summoned, but in spite of all they
could do he passed away. A number of his devoted Samoans were in the
room when he died. As soon as the sad news of his death was known on
the island the natives brought gifts and soon the house was more than
filled with beautiful flowers. He had asked to be buried on the summit
of Vaea Mountain, and as there was no path, the natives got busy with
their knives and axes and cut a path up the steep mountain-side. There
he was buried, and on his tomb was inscribed the beautiful “Requiem”
which he had written:
“Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
‘Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.’”