Some while ago Mr. Barrie put together in a little volume eleven
sketches of eleven men whose fame has travelled far beyond the
University of Edinburgh. For this reason, I believe, he called them
"An Edinburgh Eleven"--as fond admirers speak of Mr. Arthur Shrewsbury
(upon whose renown it is notorious that the sun never sets) as "the
Notts Professional," and of a yet more illustrious cricketer by his
paltry title of "Doctor"--
"Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be."
Of the Eleven referred to, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson was sent in at
eighth wicket down to face this cunning "delivery":--"He experiments
too long; he is still a boy wondering what he is going to be. With
Cowley's candor he tells us that he wants to write something by which
he may be for ever known. His attempts in this direction have been in
the nature of trying different ways, and he always starts off
whistling. Having gone so far without losing himself, he turns back to
try another road. Does his heart fail him, despite his jaunty bearing,
_or is it because there is no hurry?_ ... But it is quite time the
great work was begun."
I have taken the liberty to italicise a word or two, because in them
Mr. Barrie supplied an answer to his question. "The lyf so short, the
craft so long to lerne!" is not an exhortation to hurry: and in Mr.
Stevenson's case, at any rate, there was not the least need to hurry.
There was, indeed, a time when Mr. Stevenson had not persuaded himself
of this. In _Across the Plains_ he tells us how, at windy Anstruther
and an extremely early age, he used to draw his chair to the table and
pour forth literature "at such a speed, and with such intimations of
early death and immortality, as I now look back upon with wonder.
Then it was that I wrote _Voces Fidelium_, a series of dramatic
monologues in verse; then that I indited the bulk of a Covenanting
novel--like so many others, never finished. Late I sat into the night,
toiling (as I thought) under the very dart of death, toiling to leave
a memory behind me. I feel moved to thrust aside the curtain of the
years, to hail that poor feverish idiot, to bid him go to bed and clap
_Voces Fidelium_ on the fire before he goes, so clear does he appear
to me, sitting there between his candles in the rose-scented room and
the late night; so ridiculous a picture (to my elderly wisdom) does
the fool present!"
There was no hurry then, as he now sees: and there never was cause to
hurry, I repeat. "But how is this? Is, then, the great book written?"
I am sure I don't know. Probably not: for human experience goes to
show that _The_ Great Book (like _The_ Great American Novel) never
gets written. But that _a_ great story has been written is certain
enough: and one of the curious points about this story is its title.
It is not _Catriona_; nor is it _Kidnapped_. _Kidnapped_ is a taking
title, and _Catriona_ beautiful in sound and suggestion of romance:
and _Kidnapped_ (as everyone knows) is a capital tale, though
imperfect; and _Catriona_ (as the critics began to point out, the day
after its issue) a capital tale with an awkward fissure midway in it.
"It is the fate of sequels"--thus Mr. Stevenson begins his
Dedication--"to disappoint those who have waited for them"; and it is
possible that the boys of Merry England (who, it may be remembered,
thought more of _Treasure Island_ than of _Kidnapped_) will take but
lukewarmly to _Catriona_, having had five years in which to forget its
predecessor. No: the title of the great story is _The Memoirs of David
Balfour_. Catriona has a prettier name than David, and may give it to
the last book of her lover's adventures: but the Odyssey was not
christened after Penelope.
Put _Kidnapped_ and _Catriona_ together within the same covers, with
one title-page, one dedication (here will be the severest loss) and
one table of contents, in which the chapters are numbered straight
away from I. to LX.: and--this above all things--read the tale right
through from David's setting forth from the garden gate at Essendean
to his homeward voyage, by Catriona's side, on the Low Country ship.
And having done this, be so good as to perceive how paltry are the
objections you raised against the two volumes when you took them
separately. Let me raise again one or two of them.
(1.) _Catriona_ is just two stories loosely hitched together--the one
of David's vain attempt to save James Stewart, the other of the loves
of David and Catriona: and in case the critic should be too stupid to
detect this, Mr. Stevenson has been at the pains to divide his book
into Part I. and Part II. Now this, which is a real fault in a book
called _Catriona_, is no fault at all in _The Memoirs of David
Balfour_, which by its very title claims to be constructed loosely. In
an Odyssey the road taken by the wanderer is all the nexus required;
and the continuity of his presence (if the author know his business)
is warrant enough for the continuity of our interest in his
adventures. That the history of Gil Blas of Santillane consists
chiefly of episodes is not a serious criticism upon Lesage's novel.
(2.) In _Catriona_ more than a few of the characters are suffered to
drop out of sight just as we have begun to take an interest in them.
There is Mr. Rankeillor, for instance, whose company in the concluding
chapter of _Kidnapped_ was too good to be spared very easily; and
there is Lady Allardyce--a wonderfully clever portrait; and Captain
Hoseason--we tread for a moment on the verge of re-acquaintance, but
are disappointed; and Balfour of Pilrig; and at the end of Part I.
away into darkness goes the Lord Advocate Preston-grange, with his
charming womenkind.
Well, if this be an objection to the tale, it is one urged pretty
often against life itself--that we scarce see enough of the men and
women we like. And here again that which may be a fault in _Catriona_
is no fault at all in _The Memoirs of David Balfour_. Though novelists
may profess in everything they write to hold a mirror up to life, the
reflection must needs be more artificial in a small book than in a
large. In the one, for very clearness, they must isolate a few human
beings and cut off the currents (so to speak) bearing upon them from
the outside world: in the other, with a larger canvas they are able
to deal with life more frankly. Were the Odyssey cut down to one
episode--say that of Nausicäa--we must round it off and have everyone
on the stage and provided with his just portion of good and evil
before we ring the curtain down. As it is, Nausicäa goes her way. And
as it is, Barbara Grant must go her way at the end of Chapter XX.; and
the pang we feel at parting with her is anything rather than a
reproach against the author.
(3.) It is very certain, as the book stands, that the reader must
experience some shock of disappointment when, after 200 pages of the
most heroical endeavoring, David fails in the end to save James
Stewart of the Glens. Were the book concerned wholly with James
Stewart's fate, the cheat would be intolerable: and as a great deal
more than half of _Catriona_ points and trembles towards his fate like
a magnetic needle, the cheat is pretty bad if we take _Catriona_
alone. But once more, if we are dealing with _The Memoirs of David
Balfour_--if we bear steadily in mind that David Balfour is our
concern--not James Stewart--the disappointment is far more easily
forgiven. Then, and then only, we get the right perspective of
David's attempt, and recognize how inevitable was the issue when this
stripling engaged to turn back the great forces of history.
It is more than a lustre, as the Dedication reminds us, since David
Balfour, at the end of the last chapter of _Kidnapped_, was left to
kick his heels in the British Linen Company's office. Five years have
a knack of making people five years older; and the wordy, politic
intrigue of _Catriona_ is at least five years older than the
rough-and-tumble intrigue of _Kidnapped_; of the fashion of the
_Vicomte de Bragelonne_ rather than of the _Three Musketeers_. But
this is as it should be; for older and astuter heads are now mixed up
in the case, and Preston-grange is a graduate in a very much higher
school of diplomacy than was Ebenezer Balfour. And if no word was said
in _Kidnapped_ of the love of women, we know now that this matter was
held over until the time came for it to take its due place in David
Balfour's experience. Everyone knew that Mr. Stevenson would draw a
woman beautifully as soon as he was minded. Catriona and her situation
have their foreshadowing in _The Pavilion on the Links_. But for all
that she is a surprise. She begins to be a surprise--a beautiful
surprise--when in Chapter X. she kisses David's hand "with a higher
passion than the common kind of clay has any sense of;" and she is a
beautiful surprise to the end of the book. The loves of these two make
a moving story--old, yet not old: and I pity the heart that is not
tender for Catriona when she and David take their last walk together
in Leyden, and "the knocking of her little shoes upon the way sounded
extraordinarily pretty and sad."
* * * * *