Transcribed from the Charles Scribner's Sons 1905 edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
A RECORD, AN ESTIMATE, AND A MEMORIAL
BY ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E
AUTHOR OF "THOREAU: HIS LIFE AND AIMS"; "MEMOIR OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY";
"DE QUINCEY MEMORIALS," ETC., ETC.
WITH HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED LETTERS FROM R. L. STEVENSON IN FACSIMILIE . .
.
SECOND EDITION
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE
1905
_Printed in Great Britain_.
{Robert Louis Stevenson, from a sketch in oils by Sir William B.
Richmond, K.G.B., R.A.: p0.jpg}
Dedicated to
C. A. LICHTENBERG, ESQ.
AND
Mrs LICHTENBERG,
OF VILLA MARGHERITA, TREVISO,
WITH MOST GRATEFUL REGARDS,
ALEXANDER H. JAPP.
19_th_ _December_ 1904.
PREFACE
A few words may here be allowed me to explain one or two points. First,
about the facsimile of last page of Preface to _Familiar Studies of Men
and Books_. Stevenson was in Davos when the greater portion of that work
went through the press. He felt so much the disadvantage of being there
in the circumstances (both himself and his wife ill) that he begged me to
read the proofs of the Preface for him. This illness has record in the
letter from him (pp. 28-29). The printers, of course, had directions to
send the copy and proofs of the Preface to me. Hence I am able now to
give this facsimile.
With regard to the letter at p. 19, of which facsimile is also given,
what Stevenson there meant is not the "three last" of that batch, but the
three last sent to me before--though that was an error on his part--he
only then sent two chapters, making the "eleven chapters now"--sent to me
by post.
Another point on which I might have dwelt and illustrated by many
instances is this, that though Stevenson was fond of hob-nobbing with all
sorts and conditions of men, this desire of wide contact and intercourse
has little show in his novels--the ordinary fibre of commonplace human
beings not receiving much celebration from him there; another case in
which his private bent and sympathies received little illustration in his
novels. But the fact lies implicit in much I have written.
I have to thank many authors for permission to quote extracts I have
used.
ALEXANDER H. JAPP.
CONTENTS
I. INTRODUCTION AND FIRST IMPRESSIONS
II. _TREASURE ISLAND_ AND SOME REMINISCENCES
III. THE CHILD FATHER OF THE MAN
IV. HEREDITY ILLUSTRATED
V. TRAVELS
VI. SOME EARLIER LETTERS
VII. THE VAILIMA LETTERS
VIII. WORK OF LATER YEARS
IX. SOME CHARACTERISTICS
X. A SAMOAN MEMORIAL OF R. L. STEVENSON
XI. MISS STUBBS' RECORD OF A PILGRIMAGE
XII. HIS GENIUS AND METHODS
XIII. PREACHER AND MYSTIC FABULIST
XIV. STEVENSON AS DRAMATIST
XV. THEORY OF GOOD AND EVIL
XVI. STEVENSON'S GLOOM
XVII. PROOFS OF GROWTH
XVIII. EARLIER DETERMINATIONS AND RESULTS
XIX. MR EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN'S ESTIMATE
XX. EGOTISTIC ELEMENT AND ITS EFFECTS
XXI. UNITY IN STEVENSON'S STORIES
XXII. PERSONAL CHEERFULNESS AND INVENTED GLOOM
XXIII. EDINBURGH REVIEWERS' DICTA INAPPLICABLE TO LATER WORK
XXIV. MR HENLEY'S SPITEFUL PERVERSIONS
XXV. MR CHRISTIE MURRAY'S IMPRESSIONS
XXVI. HERO-VILLAINS
XXVII. MR G. MOORE, MR MARRIOTT WATSON, AND OTHERS
XXVIII. UNEXPECTED COMBINATIONS
XXIX. LOVE OF VAGABONDS
XXX. LORD ROSEBERY'S CASE
XXXI. MR GOSSE AND MS. OF _TREASURE ISLAND_
XXXII. STEVENSON PORTRAITS
XXXIII. LAPSES AND ERRORS IN CRITICISM
XXXIV. LETTERS AND POEMS IN TESTIMONY
APPENDIX
CHAPTER I--INTRODUCTION AND FIRST IMPRESSIONS
My little effort to make Thoreau better known in England had one result
that I am pleased to think of. It brought me into personal association
with R. L. Stevenson, who had written and published in _The Cornhill
Magazine_ an essay on Thoreau, in whom he had for some time taken an
interest. He found in Thoreau not only a rare character for originality,
courage, and indefatigable independence, but also a master of style, to
whom, on this account, as much as any, he was inclined to play the part
of the "sedulous ape," as he had acknowledged doing to many others--a
later exercise, perhaps in some ways as fruitful as any that had gone
before. A recent poet, having had some seeds of plants sent to him from
Northern Scotland to the South, celebrated his setting of them beside
those native to the Surrey slope on which he dwelt, with the lines--
"And when the Northern seeds are growing,
Another beauty then bestowing,
We shall be fine, and North to South
Be giving kisses, mouth to mouth."
So the Thoreau influence on Stevenson was as if a tart American
wild-apple had been grafted on an English pippin, and produced a wholly
new kind with the flavours of both; and here wild America and England
kissed each other mouth to mouth.
The direct result was the essay in _The Cornhill_, but the indirect
results were many and less easily assessed, as Stevenson himself, as we
shall see, was ever ready to admit. The essay on Thoreau was written in
America, which further, perhaps, bears out my point.
One of the authorities, quoted by Mr Hammerton, in _Stevensoniana_ says
of the circumstances in which he found our author, when he was busily
engaged on that bit of work:
"I have visited him in a lonely lodging in California, it was previous
to his happy marriage, and found him submerged in billows of
bed-clothes; about him floated the scattered volumes of a complete set
of Thoreau; he was preparing an essay on that worthy, and he looked at
the moment like a half-drowned man, yet he was not cast down. His
work, an endless task, was better than a straw to him. It was to
become his life-preserver and to prolong his years. I feel convinced
that without it he must have surrendered long since. I found
Stevenson a man of the frailest physique, though most unaccountably
tenacious of life; a man whose pen was indefatigable, whose brain was
never at rest, who, as far as I am able to judge, looked upon
everybody and everything from a supremely intellectual point of view."
{1}
We remember the common belief in Yorkshire and other parts that a man
could not die so long as he could stand up--a belief on which poor
Branwell Bronte was fain to act and to illustrate, but R. L. Stevenson
illustrated it, as this writer shows, in a better, calmer, and healthier
way, despite his lack of health.
On some little points of fact, however, Stevenson was wrong; and I wrote
to the Editor of _The Spectator_ a letter, titled, I think, "Thoreau's
Pity and Humour," which he inserted. This brought me a private letter
from Stevenson, who expressed the wish to see me, and have some talk with
me on that and other matters. To this letter I at once replied,
directing to 17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, saying that, as I was soon to be
in that City, it might be possible for me to see him there. In reply to
this letter Mr Stevenson wrote:
"THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR,
_Sunday_, _August_ (? _th_), 1881.
"MY DEAR SIR,--I should long ago have written to thank you for your
kind and frank letter; but, in my state of health, papers are apt to
get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this
(Sunday) morning.
"I must first say a word as to not quoting your book by name. It was
the consciousness that we disagreed which led me, I daresay, wrongly,
to suppress _all_ references throughout the paper. But you may be
certain a proper reference will now be introduced.
"I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh: one visit to
Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in that invaluable particular,
health; but if it should be at all possible for you to pass by
Braemar, I believe you would find an attentive listener, and I can
offer you a bed, a drive, and necessary food.
"If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, I can promise
two things. First, I shall religiously revise what I have written,
and bring out more clearly the point of view from which I regarded
Thoreau. Second, I shall in the preface record your objection.
"The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such
short paper is essentially only a _section through_ a man) was this: I
desired to look at the man through his books. Thus, for instance,
when I mentioned his return to the pencil-making, I did it only in
passing (perhaps I was wrong), because it seemed to me not an
illustration of his principles, but a brave departure from them.
Thousands of such there were I do not doubt; still they might be
hardly to my purpose; though, as you say so, I suppose some of them
would be.
"Our difference as to 'pity,' I suspect, was a logomachy of my making.
No pitiful acts, on his part, would surprise me: I know he would be
more pitiful in practice than most of the whiners; but the spirit of
that practice would still seem to me to be unjustly described by the
word pity.
"When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected of a
sneaking unkindness for my subject, but you may be sure, sir, I would
give up most other things to be as good a man as Thoreau. Even my
knowledge of him leads me thus far.
"Should you find yourself able to push on so far--it may even lie on
your way--believe me your visit will be very welcome. The weather is
cruel, but the place is, as I daresay you know, the very _wale_ of
Scotland--bar Tummelside.--Yours very sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
{Manuscript letter by R.L.S.: p6.jpg}
Some delay took place in my leaving London for Scotland, and hence what
seemed a hitch. I wrote mentioning the reason of my delay, and
expressing the fear that I might have to forego the prospect of seeing
him in Braemar, as his circumstances might have altered in the meantime.
In answer came this note, like so many, if not most of his, indeed,
without date:--
THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR.
(_No date_.)
"MY DEAR SIR,--I am here as yet a fixture, and beg you to come our
way. Would Tuesday or Wednesday suit you by any chance? We shall
then, I believe, be empty: a thing favourable to talks. You get here
in time for dinner. I stay till near the end of September, unless, as
may very well be, the weather drive me forth.--Yours very sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
I accordingly went to Braemar, where he and his wife and her son were
staying with his father and mother.
These were red-letter days in my calendar alike on account of pleasant
intercourse with his honoured father and himself. Here is my pen-and-ink
portrait of R. L. Stevenson, thrown down at the time:
Mr Stevenson's is, indeed, a very picturesque and striking figure. Not
so tall probably as he seems at first sight from his extreme thinness,
but the pose and air could not be otherwise described than as
distinguished. Head of fine type, carried well on the shoulders and in
walking with the impression of being a little thrown back; long brown
hair, falling from under a broadish-brimmed Spanish form of soft felt
hat, Rembrandtesque; loose kind of Inverness cape when walking, and
invariable velvet jacket inside the house. You would say at first sight,
wherever you saw him, that he was a man of intellect, artistic and
individual, wholly out of the common. His face is sensitive, full of
expression, though it could not be called strictly beautiful. It is
longish, especially seen in profile, and features a little irregular; the
brow at once high and broad. A hint of vagary, and just a hint in the
expression, is qualified by the eyes, which are set rather far apart from
each other as seems, and with a most wistful, and at the same time
possibly a merry impish expression arising over that, yet frank and
clear, piercing, but at the same time steady, and fall on you with a
gentle radiance and animation as he speaks. Romance, if with an
indescribable _soupcon_ of whimsicality, is marked upon him; sometimes he
has the look as of the Ancient Mariner, and could fix you with his
glittering e'e, and he would, as he points his sentences with a movement
of his thin white forefinger, when this is not monopolised with the
almost incessant cigarette. There is a faint suggestion of a
hair-brained sentimental trace on his countenance, but controlled, after
all, by good Scotch sense and shrewdness. In conversation he is very
animated, and likes to ask questions. A favourite and characteristic
attitude with him was to put his foot on a chair or stool and rest his
elbow on his knee, with his chin on his hand; or to sit, or rather to
half sit, half lean, on the corner of a table or desk, one of his legs
swinging freely, and when anything that tickled him was said he would
laugh in the heartiest manner, even at the risk of bringing on his cough,
which at that time was troublesome. Often when he got animated he rose
and walked about as he spoke, as if movement aided thought and
expression. Though he loved Edinburgh, which was full of associations
for him, he had no good word for its east winds, which to him were as
death. Yet he passed one winter as a "Silverado squatter," the story of
which he has inimitably told in the volume titled _The Silverado
Squatters_; and he afterwards spent several winters at Davos Platz,
where, as he said to me, he not only breathed good air, but learned to
know with closest intimacy John Addington Symonds, who "though his books
were good, was far finer and more interesting than any of his books." He
needed a good deal of nursery attentions, but his invalidism was never
obtrusively brought before one in any sympathy-seeking way by himself; on
the contrary, a very manly, self-sustaining spirit was evident; and the
amount of work which he managed to turn out even when at his worst was
truly surprising.
His wife, an American lady, is highly cultured, and is herself an author.
In her speech there is just the slightest suggestion of the American
accent, which only made it the more pleasing to my ear. She is heart and
soul devoted to her husband, proud of his achievements, and her delight
is the consciousness of substantially aiding him in his enterprises.
They then had with them a boy of eleven or twelve, Samuel Lloyd Osbourne,
to be much referred to later (a son of Mrs Stevenson by a former
marriage), whose delight was to draw the oddest, but perhaps half
intentional or unintentional caricatures, funny, in some cases, beyond
expression. His room was designated the picture-gallery, and on entering
I could scarce refrain from bursting into laughter, even at the general
effect, and, noticing this, and that I was putting some restraint on
myself out of respect for the host's feelings, Stevenson said to me with
a sly wink and a gentle dig in the ribs, "It's laugh and be thankful
here." On Lloyd's account simple engraving materials, types, and a small
printing-press had been procured; and it was Stevenson's delight to make
funny poems, stories, and morals for the engravings executed, and all
would be duly printed together. Stevenson's thorough enjoyment of the
picture-gallery, and his goodness to Lloyd, becoming himself a very boy
for the nonce, were delightful to witness and in degree to share.
Wherever they were--at Braemar, in Edinburgh, at Davos Platz, or even at
Silverado--the engraving and printing went on. The mention of the
picture-gallery suggests that it was out of his interest in the colour-
drawing and the picture-gallery that his first published story, _Treasure
Island_, grew, as we shall see.
I have some copies of the rude printing-press productions, inexpressibly
quaint, grotesque, a kind of literary horse-play, yet with a certain
squint-eyed, sprawling genius in it, and innocent childish Rabelaisian
mirth of a sort. At all events I cannot look at the slight memorials of
that time, which I still possess, without laughing afresh till my eyes
are dewy. Stevenson, as I understood, began _Treasure Island_ more to
entertain Lloyd Osbourne than anything else; the chapters being regularly
read to the family circle as they were written, and with scarcely a
purpose beyond. The lad became Stevenson's trusted companion and
collaborator--clearly with a touch of genius.
I have before me as I write some of these funny momentoes of that time,
carefully kept, often looked at. One of them is, "_The Black Canyon_;
_or_, _Wild Adventures in the Far West_: a Tale of Instruction and
Amusement for the Young, by Samuel L. Osbourne, printed by the author;
Davos Platz," with the most remarkable cuts. It would not do some of the
sensationalists anything but good to read it even at this day, since many
points in their art are absurdly caricatured. Another is "_Moral
Emblems_; _a Collection of Cuts and Verses_, by R. L. Stevenson, author
of the _Blue Scalper_, etc., etc. Printers, S. L. Osbourne and Company,
Davos Platz." Here are the lines to a rare piece of grotesque, titled _A
Peak in Darien_--
"Broad-gazing on untrodden lands,
See where adventurous Cortez stands,
While in the heavens above his head,
The eagle seeks its daily bread.
How aptly fact to fact replies,
Heroes and eagles, hills and skies.
Ye, who contemn the fatted slave,
Look on this emblem and be brave."
Another, _The Elephant_, has these lines--
"See in the print how, moved by whim,
Trumpeting Jumbo, great and grim,
Adjusts his trunk, like a cravat,
To noose that individual's hat;
The Sacred Ibis in the distance,
Joys to observe his bold resistance."
R. L. Stevenson wrote from Davos Platz, in sending me _The Black Canyon_:
"Sam sends as a present a work of his own. I hope you feel flattered,
for _this is simply the first time he has ever given one away_. I
have to buy my own works, I can tell you."
Later he said, in sending a second:
"I own I have delayed this letter till I could forward the enclosed.
Remembering the night at Braemar, when we visited the picture-gallery,
I hope it may amuse you: you see we do some publishing hereaway."
Delightfully suggestive and highly enjoyable, too, were the meetings in
the little drawing-room after dinner, when the contrasted traits of
father and son came into full play--when R. L. Stevenson would sometimes
draw out a new view by bold, half-paradoxical assertion, or compel
advance on the point from a new quarter by a searching question couched
in the simplest language, or reveal his own latest conviction finally, by
a few sentences as nicely rounded off as though they had been written,
while he rose and gently moved about, as his habit was, in the course of
those more extended remarks. Then a chapter or two of _The Sea-Cook_
would be read, with due pronouncement on the main points by one or other
of the family audience.
The reading of the book is one thing. It was quite another thing to hear
Stevenson as he stood reading it aloud, with his hand stretched out
holding the manuscript, and his body gently swaying as a kind of
rhythmical commentary on the story. His fine voice, clear and keen it
some of its tones, had a wonderful power of inflection and variation, and
when he came to stand in the place of Silver you could almost have
imagined you saw the great one-legged John Silver, joyous-eyed, on the
rolling sea. Yes, to read it in print was good, but better yet to hear
Stevenson read it.