It is a curious fact that Stevenson, whom we all regarded at home as being
the personification of Samoa--indeed, it would be no exaggeration to say
that the average Englishman's idea of Samoa was "some island or other in
the Pacific where Stevenson lives,"--has left very little behind him in
the way of tradition or story in the island he loved so well. He lived in
the midst of a society which, outside his immediate family surroundings,
must have been eminently uncongenial to a man of his refined nature, yet
he damaged his fame here, at least, by meddling in the petty squabbles
which agitate the beach at Apia, and his "Footnote to History" has made
him a host of enemies, notably among the German colony, who, by the mouth
of one of their many prophets, condemned him to me as a writer of "stupid
stinks!" And therefore he may have made a mistake in imagining himself a
factor in the insoluble equation of Samoan affairs. It is to the natives
that he was more attached than to the vague ideals which form their
so-called political future. To them he was a great chief, "Tusitala
Talmita" by name, and many a native I have spoken to mentioned him with
real affection as a good friend and a man with a golden heart. Perhaps
this is the praise he himself would have chosen rather than that of the
white colony.
It is not my purpose, however, to dilate on his life in Samoa, nor indeed
would it be possible to gather, from the mass of conflicting evidence, any
rational account of his doings in his island home. It is of a pilgrimage
which I made to visit his library that I would give some short account.
The room was walled from floor to ceiling with books, and I began to
inspect them. To the left of the door were some "yellow backs," but few,
nor did I see in his library much trash of any description. Next came
books of travel in almost every country in the world, the bulk of them,
however, dealing with the Pacific. From Capt. Cook down, it would be hard
to name a Pacific travel book that has not found itself on the shelves at
Vailima. Next, I am bound to say, came my first disappointment. I had
always thought that Stevenson must have been a good classical scholar, and
had an idea formed, I know not how or whence, that a great style--and
surely his may be justly called so--necessitated a close and intimate
acquaintance with those classical authors who--
"Upon the stretched forefinger of all Time
Sparkle forever."
Yet I found classics, indeed, but, alas! in Mr. Bohn's edition, while on
the shelf beneath lay the originals uncut. It came to me as a positive
blow to find the pages of the "Odyssey" uncared for and unread, save in
some translation. Of Horace he had many and good editions, and they seemed
read and used; but of the Greek tragedians I found only "Sophocles" in
Prof. Campbell's translation, and no edition of his plays save a small
"OEdipus the King." This was a great shock to me, for even supposing
that Stevenson was only "a maker of phrases" (as many people will tell
you, above all here, "for a prophet is not without honor," etc.), still
phrases must have some basis in education, and a man who is evidently
careless of his masters of ancient language is not likely to prove a
brilliant coiner of words.
Turning with regret from this shelf, I came next upon a fine collection of
French works, beginning with a complete edition of Balzac, which had
evidently been read with care. Much French fiction was here--Daudet's
"Tartarin," "Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine," "Les Rois en Exil," Guy de
Maupassant, Prosper Merimee and a complete Victor Hugo, besides a swarm of
the more ephemeral novels. Here, too, was a fine and complete edition of
"Wellington's Dispatches" and several military treatises. Next to these
came a good collection (be it always remembered that I speak of Samoa in
Samoa, and 14,000 miles from the home of English and French publishing and
printing) of historical works; Gibbon, of course, Milman, Von Ranke and
many of the old French chroniclers--Philippe de Comines especially--read
and marked, no doubt, when Stevenson was writing "The Black Arrow." One
passage so marked struck me as curious. Surely Stevenson was a man whom,
from his writings, one would imagine to be practically without enemies;
yet, in the light of events at Apia, and from what I have heard here, the
quotation seems apposite; "Je scay bien que ma lange m'a porte grande
hommage, aussi m'a-t-elle fait quelques fois de plaisir beaucoup,
toutesfois c'est raison que je repare l'amende." Now these are almost the
exact words which conclude the preface to the only deplorable book
Stevenson ever wrote--his "Footnote to History," which has made him many
enemies, and, I think, no friends--in fact, nothing but the vigorous
description of the hurricane saves it from worthlessness. As history it is
not trustworthy, and as a footnote it was ridiculous. However, to return
to the books. There was a very complete collection of modern poets, hardly
any of note being omitted. I even saw a copy of "J. K. S.'s" "Lapsus
Calami," which surprised me, for Stevenson was neither a Cambridge nor a
public school man.
Such, then, in brief, is a rough summary of the library of this remarkable
man; many of the editions de luxe were packed away, but I believe what I
saw was his working stock. We now opened a little glass door leading from
the room into Stevenson's sanctum, where he dictated almost all his work.
It was quite a small room, lighted by two windows; and in one corner lay a
bed with a mat "Samoan fashion" spread thereon, while beside it was a
table with a bunch of withered flowers (the last he ever looked on), and
which Mr. Chatfield has very properly never permitted to be removed. Here,
in one corner, stood a small bookcase with editions of his own works; the
walls were hung with engravings of ancestors--the only sign of his Scotch
origin I noted in the house--while above the chimney-piece (the only
chimney-pieces and fire-places in Samoa are at Vailima), were a lovely
series of drawings of Gordon Browne, to illustrate one of his later
books, "The Island Nights' Adventures." These pictures, though only in
black and white, breathe the spirit of the islands in a marvellous manner,
especially remarkable being the illustration, "The Beach of Falesa." In a
small bookcase over the head of the bed were some of his own books, a
Shakespeare, and, what was more curious, "A Record of Remarkable Crimes
and Criminals." I heard that Stevenson was fond of "supping full of
horrors," and that would, of course, account for the inevitable murder or
bloodshed which haunts his books; he was an avid reader of murders and
crimes of all sorts. His mind was of a curious cast. Mr. Chatfield told me
that on some days he was the most charming of companions--brilliant, witty
and fascinating; on others, dull and morose beyond description, hardly
uttering a word, and giving no sign of the wealth of tenderness and genial
kindness that lurked within. As a host, it is agreed on all hands he was
incomparable. His entertainment catered for the tastes of all, and in the
sunshine of his delightful company all sorts and conditions of men were
happy.
We left this room with a feeling of depression, and passing through the
other to the door, my eye fell on what I had not before noticed, the
original of the delightful map which is the frontispiece to Treasure
Island--a most beautiful piece of drawing, reminding me, in its quaint
accompaniments of spouting dolphins and horn-blowing Tritons, as much as
in its pretended accuracy, of those strange maps in the earlier editions
of Gulliver, where Brobdingnag, Laputa, etc., are all laid out with
geographical detail of latitude and longitude. The curious, sprawling
writing of Flint and Billy Bones were in contrast to the fine workmanship
of the rest of the map, which, save for some slight coarseness in the
shading of the steeper side of "Spyglass Hill," might have been engraved.
The last thing I saw in the library was perhaps the most curious of all.
It was a navigating chart constructed by the natives of the Wallis
Islands for their own use and guidance. I have since learned that such
charts are used by the traders also who navigate these latitudes. The form
of the charts is a parallelogram constructed on a framework of cane or
other light wood. Across this parallelogram run vertically convex pieces
of wood bent to show the general run or set of the wind and waves; cross
currents are marked with cross pieces of wood showing their direction, and
their force and variation are indicated on the slips of wood themselves
(which are not half an inch wide) by means of signs and curious marks.
Islands are denoted on this wonderful piece of native work by cowrie
shells fastened to the framework. I suppose Stevenson must have picked
this up on his travels among the islands, and I believe that although
these charts are universally used in the Wallis group and are found
perfectly correct, very few specimens of the kind have emerged as yet from
those islands. I puzzled a long time to guess what it was, Mrs. Chatfield
enjoying my mystification, which she herself had experienced when she
first saw this remarkable map. One more fact I must mention about the
library. In a corner I found a number of quarto volumes, well bound,
containing apparently a continuous day-book of some of Stevenson's many
voyages. It is to be hoped that these journals may some day be given to
the world. Many and curious were the scenes he witnessed; various and
entertaining the personages he must have met on his travels. He seems to
have visited most of the many groups of islets with which the Pacific is
so plentifully sprinkled.
I did not care to visit the rest of the house, though my hostess most
kindly offered to show me anything she could, but I stood outside and
looked at the lofty hill over the house where he sleeps his last sleep in
the land and among the people he loved so well. Samoans show much poetic
feeling in selecting beautiful sites for the graves of their chiefs. In my
journeys round the island, in the most remote districts, I was frequently
delighted by coming suddenly upon the usual inclosure of rough stones
which mark the resting-place of a chief, always in a beautiful spot and
invariably commanding a wide and splendid view. This may also have been
Stevenson's object in selecting the summit of the hill for his grave. The
labor required to carry him to his last resting-place was immense, as many
as sixty Samoans being employed, while only nineteen Europeans braved the
difficulties of the ascent to be present at the sad offices. But his last
home is beautiful; by day the trees innumerable round his lonely grave are
musical with the fanfare of the glorious tradewinds, while at times the
sound of
"The league-long roller thundering on the reef"
is borne across the waving forest. The view by day is superb; mountain,
valley, reef and palm, with the gleam of the sunlight on the breaking surf
around the distant reef, while overhead the solitary tropic bird wings its
silent flight through the dazzling azure of the skies. No more beautiful
spot for a grave can be imagined; the majestic voice of those southern
seas he loved so well makes melody in the very air around his grave. No
spot more typical of the Pacific could have been found; and I turned away
with a feeling of relief that one whose nature was so allied to that he
wrote of should in his death not have been divided from the scenes he made
familiar to so many thousands of admirers.