I wish Mr. Stevenson had given this book another title. It covers but
two out of the three stories in the volume; and, even so, it has the
ill-luck to be completely spoilt by its predecessor, the _New Arabian
Nights_.
The _New Arabian Nights_ was in many respects a parody of the Eastern
book. It had, if we make a few necessary allowances for the difference
between East and West, the same, or very near the same, atmosphere of
gallant, extravagant, intoxicated romance. The characters had the same
adventurous irresponsibility, and exhibit the same irrelevancies and
futilities. The Young Man with the Cream Cakes might well have sprung
from the same brain as the facetious Barmecide, and young Scrymgeour
sits helpless before his destiny as sat that other young man while the
inexorable Barber sang the song and danced the dance of Zantout.
Indeed Destiny in these books resembles nothing so much as a Barber
with forefinger and thumb nipping his victims by the nose. It is as
omnipotent, as irrational, as humorous and almost as cruel in the
imitation as in the original. Of course I am not comparing these in
any thing but their general presentment of life, or holding up _The
Rajah's Diamond_ against _Aladdin_. I am merely pointing out that life
is presented to us in Galland and in Mr. Stevenson's first book of
tales under very similar conditions--the chief difference being that
Mr. Stevenson has to abate something of the supernatural, or to handle
it less frankly.
But several years divide the _New Arabian Nights_ from the _Island
Nights' Entertainments_; and in the interval our author has written
_The Master of Ballantrae_ and his famous _Open Letter_ on Father
Damien. That is to say, he has grown in his understanding of the human
creature and in his speculations upon his creature's duties and
destinies. He has travelled far, on shipboard and in emigrant trains;
has passed through much sickness; has acquired property and
responsibility; has mixed in public affairs; has written _A Footnote
to History_, and sundry letters to the _Times_; and even, as his
latest letter shows, stands in some danger of imprisonment. Therefore,
while the title of his new volume would seem to refer us once more to
the old Arabian models, we are not surprised to find this apparent
design belied by the contents. The third story, indeed, _The Isle of
Voices_, has affinity with some of the Arabian tales--with Sindbad's
adventures, for instance. But in the longer _Beach of Falesá_ and _The
Bottle Imp_ we are dealing with no debauch of fancy, but with the
problems of real life.
For what is the knot untied in the _Beach of Falesá_? If I mistake
not, our interest centres neither in Case's dirty trick of the
marriage, nor in his more stiff-jointed trick of the devil-contraptions.
The first but helps to construct the problem, the second seems a
superfluity. The problem is (and the author puts it before us fair
and square), How is Wiltshire a fairly loose moralist with some
generosity of heart, going to treat the girl he has wronged? And I
am bound to say that as soon as Wiltshire answers that question
before the missionary--an excellent scene and most dramatically
managed--my interest in the story, which is but halftold at this
point, begins to droop. As I said, the "devil-work" chapter strikes me
as stiff, and the conclusion but rough-and-tumble. And I feel certain
that the story itself is to blame, and neither the scenery nor the
persons, being one of those who had as lief Mr. Stevenson spake of the
South Seas as of the Hebrides, so that he speak and I listen. Let it
be granted that the Polynesian names are a trifle hard to distinguish
at first--they are easier than Russian by many degrees--yet the
difficulty vanishes as you read the _Song of Rahéro_, or the _Footnote
to History_. And if it comes to habits, customs, scenery, etc., I
protest a man must be exacting who can find no romance in these while
reading Melville's _Typee_. No, the story itself is to blame.
But what is the human problem in _The Bottle Imp_? (Imagine
Scheherazadé with a human problem!) Nothing less, if you please than
the problem of Alcestis--nothing less and even something more; for in
this case when the wife has made her great sacrifice of self, it is no
fortuitous god but her own husband who wins her release, and at a
price no less fearful than she herself has paid. Keawe being in
possession of a bottle which must infallibly bring him to hell-flames
unless he can dispose of it at a certain price, Kokua his wife by a
stratagem purchases the bottle from him, and stands committed to the
doom he has escaped. She does her best to hide this from Keawe, but
he, by accident discovering the truth, by another stratagem wins back
the curse upon his own head, and is only rescued by a _deus ex
machinâ_ in the shape of a drunken boatswain.
Two or three reviewers have already given utterance upon this volume;
and they seem strangely unable to determine which is the best of its
three tales. I vote for _The Bottle Imp_ without a second's doubt;
and, if asked my reasons, must answer (1), that it deals with a high
and universal problem, whereas in _The Isle of Voices_ there is no
problem at all, and in the _Beach of Falesá_ the problem is less
momentous and perhaps (though of this I won't be sure) more closely
restricted by the accidents of circumstance and individual character;
(2) as I have hinted, the _Beach of Falesá_ has faults of
construction, one of which is serious, if not vital, while _The Isle
of Voices_, though beautifully composed, is tied down by the
triviality of its subject. But _The Bottle Imp_ is perfectly
constructed: the last page ends the tale, and the tale is told with a
light grace, sportive within restraint, that takes nothing from the
seriousness of the subject. Some may think this extravagant praise for
a little story which, after all (they will say), is flimsy as a soap
bubble. But let them sit down and tick off on their fingers the names
of living authors who could have written it, and it may begin to dawn
on them that a story has other dimensions than length and thickness.
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