When I left Braemar, I carried with me a considerable portion of the MS.
of _Treasure Island_, with an outline of the rest of the story. It
originally bore the odd title of _The Sea-Cook_, and, as I have told
before, I showed it to Mr Henderson, the proprietor of the _Young Folks'
Paper_, who came to an arrangement with Mr Stevenson, and the story duly
appeared in its pages, as well as the two which succeeded it.
Stevenson himself in his article in _The Idler_ for August 1894
(reprinted in _My First Book_ volume and in a late volume of the
_Edinburgh Edition_) has recalled some of the circumstances connected
with this visit of mine to Braemar, as it bore on the destination of
_Treasure Island_:
"And now, who should come dropping in, _ex machina_, but Dr Japp, like
the disguised prince, who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and
happiness in the last act; for he carried in his pocket, not a horn or
a talisman, but a publisher, in fact, ready to unearth new writers for
my old friend Mr Henderson's _Young Folks_. Even the ruthlessness of
a united family recoiled before the extreme measure of inflicting on
our guest the mutilated members of _The Sea-Cook_; at the same time,
we would by no means stop our readings, and accordingly the tale was
begun again at the beginning, and solemnly redelivered for the benefit
of Dr Japp. From that moment on, I have thought highly of his
critical faculty; for when he left us, he carried away the manuscript
in his portmanteau.
"_Treasure Island_--it was Mr Henderson who deleted the first title,
_The Sea-Cook_--appeared duly in _Young Folks_, where it figured in
the ignoble midst without woodcuts, and attracted not the least
attention. I did not care. I liked the tale myself, for much the
same reason as my father liked the beginning: it was my kind of
picturesque. I was not a little proud of John Silver also; and to
this day rather admire that smooth and formidable adventurer. What
was infinitely more exhilarating, I had passed a landmark. I had
finished a tale and written The End upon my manuscript, as I had not
done since _The Pentland Rising_, when I was a boy of sixteen, not yet
at college. In truth, it was so by a lucky set of accidents: had not
Dr Japp come on his visit, had not the tale flowed from me with
singular ease, it must have been laid aside, like its predecessors,
and found a circuitous and unlamented way to the fire. Purists may
suggest it would have been better so. I am not of that mind. The
tale seems to have given much pleasure, and it brought (or was the
means of bringing) fire, food, and wine to a deserving family in which
I took an interest. I need scarcely say I mean my own."
He himself gives a goodly list of the predecessors which had found a
circuitous and unlamented way to the fire
"As soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-
makers. Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of _Rathillet_,
_The Pentland Rising_, _The King's Pardon_ (otherwise _Park
Whitehead_), _Edward Daven_, _A Country Dance_, and _A Vendetta in the
West_. _Rathillet_ was attempted before fifteen, _The Vendetta_ at
twenty-nine, and the succession of defeats lasted unbroken till I was
thirty-one."
Another thing I carried from Braemar with me which I greatly prize--this
was a copy of _Christianity confirmed by Jewish and Heathen Testimony_,
by Mr Stevenson's father, with his autograph signature and many of his
own marginal notes. He had thought deeply on many subjects--theological,
scientific, and social--and had recorded, I am afraid, but the smaller
half of his thoughts and speculations. Several days in the mornings,
before R. L. Stevenson was able to face the somewhat "snell" air of the
hills, I had long walks with the old gentleman, when we also had long
talks on many subjects--the liberalising of the Scottish Church,
educational reform, etc.; and, on one occasion, a statement of his
reason, because of the subscription, for never having become an elder.
That he had in some small measure enjoyed my society, as I certainly had
much enjoyed his, was borne out by a letter which I received from the son
in reply to one I had written, saying that surely his father had never
meant to present me at the last moment on my leaving by coach with that
volume, with his name on it, and with pencilled notes here and there, but
had merely given it me to read and return. In the circumstances I may
perhaps be excused quoting from a letter dated Castleton of Braemar,
September 1881, in illustration of what I have said--
"MY DEAR DR JAPP,--My father has gone, but I think I may take it upon
me to ask you to keep the book. Of all things you could do to endear
yourself to me you have done the best, for, from your letter, you have
taken a fancy to my father.
"I do not know how to thank you for your kind trouble in the matter of
_The Sea-Cook_, but I am not unmindful. My health is still poorly,
and I have added intercostal rheumatism--a new attraction, which sewed
me up nearly double for two days, and still gives me 'a list to
starboard'--let us be ever nautical. . . . I do not think with the
start I have, there will be any difficulty in letting Mr Henderson go
ahead whenever he likes. I will write my story up to its legitimate
conclusion, and then we shall be in a position to judge whether a
sequel would be desirable, and I myself would then know better about
its practicability from the story-telling point of view.--Yours very
sincerely, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
A little later came the following:--
"THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR.
(_No date_.)
"MY DEAR DR JAPP,--Herewith go nine chapters. I have been a little
seedy; and the two last that I have written seem to me on a false
venue; hence the smallness of the batch. I have now, I hope, in the
three last sent, turned the corner, with no great amount of dulness.
"The map, with all its names, notes, soundings, and things, should
make, I believe, an admirable advertisement for the story. Eh?
"I hope you got a telegram and letter I forwarded after you to
Dinnat.--Believe me, yours very sincerely, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
In the afternoon, if fine and dry, we went walking, and Stevenson would
sometimes tell us stories of his short experience at the Scottish Bar,
and of his first and only brief. I remember him contrasting that with
his experiences as an engineer with Bob Bain, who, as manager, was then
superintending the building of a breakwater. Of that time, too, he told
the choicest stories, and especially of how, against all orders, he
bribed Bob with five shillings to let him go down in the diver's dress.
He gave us a splendid description--finer, I think, than even that in his
_Memories_--of his sensations on the sea-bottom, which seems to have
interested him as deeply, and suggested as many strange fancies, as
anything which he ever came across on the surface. But the possibility
of enterprises of this sort ended--Stevenson lost his interest in
engineering.
{Manuscript letter by R.L.S.: p20.jpg}
Stevenson's father had, indeed, been much exercised in his day by
theological questions and difficulties, and though he remained a staunch
adherent of the Established Church of Scotland he knew well and
practically what is meant by the term "accommodation," as it is used by
theologians in reference to creeds and formulas; for he had over and over
again, because of the strict character of the subscription required from
elders of the Scottish Church declined, as I have said, to accept the
office. In a very express sense you could see that he bore the marks of
his past in many ways--a quick, sensitive, in some ways even a fantastic-
minded man, yet with a strange solidity and common-sense amid it all,
just as though ferns with the veritable fairies' seed were to grow out of
a common stone wall. He looked like a man who had not been without
sleepless nights--without troubles, sorrows, and perplexities, and even
yet, had not wholly risen above some of them, or the results of them. His
voice was "low and sweet"--with just a possibility in it of rising to a
shrillish key. A sincere and faithful man, who had walked very demurely
through life, though with a touch of sudden, bright, quiet humour and
fancy, every now and then crossing the grey of his characteristic
pensiveness or melancholy, and drawing effect from it. He was most frank
and genial with me, and I greatly honour his memory. {2}
Thomas Stevenson, with a strange, sad smile, told me how much of a
disappointment, in the first stage, at all events, Louis (he always
called his son Louis at home), had caused him, by failing to follow up
his profession at the Scottish Bar. How much he had looked forward,
after the engineering was abandoned, to his devoting himself to the work
of the Parliament House (as the Hall of the Chief Court is called in
Scotland, from the building having been while yet there was a Scottish
Parliament the place where it sat), though truly one cannot help feeling
how much Stevenson's very air and figure would have been out of keeping
among the bewigged, pushing, sharp-set, hard-featured, and even red-faced
and red-nosed (some of them, at any rate) company, who daily walked the
Parliament House, and talked and gossiped there, often of other things
than law and equity. "Well, yes, perhaps it was all for the best," he
said, with a sigh, on my having interjected the remark that R. L.
Stevenson was wielding far more influence than he ever could have done as
a Scottish counsel, even though he had risen rapidly in his profession,
and become Lord-Advocate or even a judge.
There was, indeed, a very pathetic kind of harking back on the might-have-
beens when I talked with him on this subject. He had reconciled himself
in a way to the inevitable, and, like a sensible man, was now inclined to
make the most and the best of it. The marriage, which, on the report of
it, had been but a new disappointment to him, had, as if by magic, been
transformed into a blessing in his mind and his wife's by personal
contact with Fanny Van der Griff Stevenson, which no one who ever met her
could wonder at; but, nevertheless, his dream of seeing his only son
walking in the pathways of the Stevensons, and adorning a profession in
Edinburgh, and so winning new and welcome laurels for the family and the
name, was still present with him constantly, and by contrast, he was
depressed with contemplation of the real state of the case, when, as I
have said, I pointed out to him, as more than once I did, what an
influence his son was wielding now, not only over those near to him, but
throughout the world, compared with what could have come to him as a
lighthouse engineer, however successful, or it may be as a briefless
advocate or barrister, walking, hardly in glory and in joy, the Hall of
the Edinburgh Parliament House. And when I pictured the yet greater
influence that was sure to come to him, he only shook his head with that
smile which tells of hopes long-cherished and lost at last, and of
resignation gained, as though at stern duty's call and an honest desire
for the good of those near and dear to him. It moved me more than I can
say, and always in the midst of it he adroitly, and somewhat abruptly,
changed the subject. Such penalties do parents often pay for the honour
of giving geniuses to the world. Here, again, it may be true, "the
individual withers but the world is more and more."
The impression of a kind of tragic fatality was but added to when
Stevenson would speak of his father in such terms of love and admiration
as quite moved one, of his desire to please him, of his highest respect
and gratitude to him, and pride in having such a father. It was most
characteristic that when, in his travels in America, he met a gentleman
who expressed plainly his keen disappointment on learning that he had but
been introduced to the son and not to the father--to the as yet but
budding author--and not to the builder of the great lighthouse beacons
that constantly saved mariners from shipwreck round many stormy coasts,
he should record the incident, as his readers will remember, with such a
strange mixture of a pride and filial gratitude, and half humorous
humiliation. Such is the penalty a son of genius often pays in heart-
throbs for the inability to do aught else but follow his destiny--follow
his star, even though as Dante says:--
"Se tu segui tua stella
Non puoi fallire a glorioso porto." {3}
What added a keen thrill as of quivering flesh exposed, was that Thomas
Stevenson on one side was exactly the man to appreciate such attainments
and work in another, and I often wondered how far the sense of Edinburgh
propriety and worldly estimates did weigh with him here.
Mr Stevenson mentioned to me a peculiar fact which has since been noted
by his son, that, notwithstanding the kind of work he had so successfully
engaged in, he was no mathematician, and had to submit his calculations
to another to be worked out in definite mathematical formulae. Thomas
Stevenson gave one the impression of a remarkably sweet, great
personality, grave, anxious, almost morbidly forecasting, yet full of
childlike hope and ready affection, but, perhaps, so earnestly taken up
with some points as to exaggerate their importance and be too
self-conscious and easily offended in respect to them. But there was no
affectation in him. He was simple-minded, sincere to the core; most
kindly, homely, hospitable, much intent on brotherly offices. He had the
Scottish _perfervidum_ too--he could tolerate nothing mean or creeping;
and his eye would lighten and glance in a striking manner when such was
spoken of. I have since heard that his charities were very extensive,
and dispensed in the most hidden and secret ways. He acted here on the
Scripture direction, "Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand
doeth." He was much exercised when I saw him about some defects, as he
held, in the methods of Scotch education (for he was a true lover of
youth, and cared more for character being formed than for heads being
merely crammed). Sagacious, with fine forecast, with a high ideal, and
yet up to a certain point a most tolerant temper, he was a fine specimen
of the Scottish gentleman. His son tells that, as he was engaged in work
calculated to benefit the world and to save life, he would not for long
take out a patent for his inventions, and thus lost immense sums. I can
well believe that: it seems quite in keeping with my impressions of the
man. There was nothing stolid or selfishly absorbed in him. He bore the
marks of deep, true, honest feeling, true benevolence, and open-handed
generosity, and despite the son's great pen-craft, and inventive power,
would have forgiven my saying that sometimes I have had a doubt whether
the father was not, after all, the greater man of the two, though
certainly not, like the hero of _In Memoriam_, moulded "in colossal
calm."
In theological matters, in which Thomas Stevenson had been much and
deeply exercised, he held very strong views, leading decisively to ultra-
Calvinism; but, as I myself could well sympathise with such views, if I
did not hold them, knowing well the strange ways in which they had gone
to form grand, if sometimes sternly forbidding characters, there were no
cross-purposes as there might have been with some on that subject. And
always I felt I had an original character and a most interesting one to
study.
This is another very characteristic letter to me from Davos Platz:
"CHALET BUOL, DAVOS, GRISONS,
SWITZERLAND. (_No date_.)
"MY DEAR DR JAPP,--You must think me a forgetful rogue, as indeed I
am; for I have but now told my publisher to send you a copy of the
_Familiar Studies_. However, I own I have delayed this letter till I
could send you the enclosed. Remembering the night at Braemar, when
we visited the picture-gallery, I hoped they might amuse you.
"You see we do some publishing hereaway.
"With kind regards, believe me, always yours faithfully,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
"I shall hope to see you in town in May."
The enclosed was the second series of _Moral Emblems_, by R. L.
Stevenson, printed by Samuel Osbourne. My answer to this letter brought
the following:
"CHALET-BUOL, DAVOS,
_April_ 1_st_, 1882.
"MY DEAR DR JAPP,--A good day to date this letter, which is, in fact,
a confession of incapacity. During my wife's wretched illness--or I
should say the worst of it, for she is not yet rightly well--I
somewhat lost my head, and entirely lost a great quire of corrected
proofs. This is one of the results: I hope there are none more
serious. I was never so sick of any volume as I was of that; I was
continually receiving fresh proofs with fresh infinitesimal
difficulties. I was ill; I did really fear, for my wife was worse
than ill. Well, 'tis out now; and though I have already observed
several carelessnesses myself, and now here is another of your
finding--of which indeed, I ought to be ashamed--it will only justify
the sweeping humility of the preface.
"Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and I
communicated your remarks, which pleased him. He is a far better and
more interesting thing than his books.
"The elephant was my wife's, so she is proportionately elate you
should have picked it out for praise from a collection, let us add, so
replete with the highest qualities of art.
"My wicked carcass, as John Knox calls it, holds together wonderfully.
In addition to many other things, and a volume of travel, I find I
have written since December ninety Cornhill pp. of Magazine
work--essays and stories--40,000 words; and I am none the worse--I am
better. I begin to hope I may, if not outlive this wolverine upon my
shoulders, at least carry him bravely like Symonds or Alexander Pope.
I begin to take a pride in that hope.
"I shall be much interested to see your criticisms: you might perhaps
send them on to me. I believe you know that I am not dangerous--one
folly I have not--I am not touchy under criticism.
"Sam and my wife both beg to be remembered, and Sam also sends as a
present a work of his own.--Yours very sincerely,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
As indicating the estimate of many of the good Edinburgh people of
Stevenson and the Stevensons that still held sway up to so late a date as
1893, I will here extract two characteristic passages from the letters of
the friend and correspondent of these days just referred to, and to whom
I had sent a copy of the _Atalanta_ Magazine, with an article of mine on
Stevenson.
"If you can excuse the garrulity of age, I can tell you one or two
things about Louis Stevenson, his father and even his grandfather,
which you may work up some other day, as you have so deftly embedded
in the _Atalanta_ article that small remark on his acting. Your paper
is pleasant and modest: most of R. L. Stevenson's admirers are
inclined to lay it on far too thick. That he is a genius we all
admit; but his genius, if fine, is limited. For example, he cannot
paint (or at least he never has painted) a woman. No more could
Fettes Douglas, skilful artist though he was in his own special line,
and I shall tell you a remark of Russel's thereon some day. {4} There
are women in his books, but there is none of the beauty and subtlety
of womanhood in them.
"R. L. Stevenson I knew well as a lad and often met him and talked
with him. He acted in private theatricals got up by the late
Professor Fleeming Jenkin. But he had then, as always, a pretty guid
conceit o' himsel'--which his clique have done nothing to check. His
father and his grandfather (I have danced with his mother before her
marriage) I knew better; but 'the family theologian,' as some of R. L.
Stevenson's friends dabbed his father, was a very touchy theologian,
and denounced any one who in the least differed from his extreme
Calvinistic views. I came under his lash most unwittingly in this way
myself. But for this twist, he was a good fellow--kind and
hospitable--and a really able man in his profession. His father-in-
law, R. L. Stevenson's maternal grandfather, was the Rev. Dr Balfour,
minister of Colinton--one of the finest-looking old men I ever
saw--tall, upright, and ruddy at eighty. But he was marvellously
feeble as a preacher, and often said things that were deliciously,
unconsciously, unintentionally laughable, if not witty. We were near
Colinton for some years; and Mr Russell (of the _Scotsman_), who once
attended the Parish Church with us, was greatly tickled by Balfour
discoursing on the story of Joseph and Potiphar's wife, remarking that
Mrs P-'s conduct was 'highly improper'!"
The estimate of R. L. Stevenson was not and could not be final in this
case, for _Weir of Hermiston_ and _Catriona_ were yet unwritten, not to
speak of others, but the passages reflect a certain side of Edinburgh
opinion, illustrating the old Scripture doctrine that a prophet has
honour everywhere but in his own country. And the passages themselves
bear evidence that I violate no confidence then, for they were given to
me to be worked into any after-effort I might make on Stevenson. My
friend was a good and an acute critic who had done some acceptable
literary work in his day.