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Richard Jefferies - "The Story of My Heart"

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Robert Louis Stevenson, A Record, An Estimate, A Memorial

A >> A. H. Japp >> Robert Louis Stevenson, A Record, An Estimate, A Memorial




Youth is autocratic, and can show a grand indifferency: it goes
for what it likes, and ignores all else - it fondly magnifies its
favourites, and, after all, to a great extent, it is but analysing,
dealing with and presenting itself to us, if we only watch well.
This is the secret of all prevailing romance: it is the secret of
all stories of adventure and chivalry of the simpler and more
primitive order; and in one aspect it is true that R. L. Stevenson
loved and clung to the primitive and elemental, if it may not be
said, as one distinguished writer has said, that he even loved
savagery in itself. But hardly could it be seriously held, as Mr
I. Zangwill held:


"That women did not cut any figure in his books springs from this
same interest in the elemental. Women are not born, but made.
They are a social product of infinite complexity and delicacy. For
a like reason Stevenson was no interpreter of the modern.... A
child to the end, always playing at 'make-believe,' dying young, as
those whom the gods love, and, as he would have died had he
achieved his centenary, he was the natural exponent in literature
of the child."


But there were subtly qualifying elements beyond what Mr Zangwill
here recognises and reinforces. That is just about as correct and
true as this other deliverance:


"His Scotch romances have been as over-praised by the zealous
Scotsmen who cry 'genius' at the sight of a kilt, and who lose
their heads at a waft from the heather, as his other books have
been under-praised. The best of all, THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE,
ends in a bog; and where the author aspires to exceptional subtlety
of character-drawing he befogs us or himself altogether. We are so
long weighing the brothers Ballantrae in the balance, watching it
incline now this way, now that, scrupulously removing a particle of
our sympathy from the one brother to the other, to restore it again
in the next chapter, that we end with a conception of them as
confusing as Mr Gilbert's conception of Hamlet, who was idiotically
sane with lucid intervals of lunacy."


If Stevenson was, as Mr Zangwill holds, "the child to the end," and
the child only, then if we may not say what Carlyle said of De
Quincey: "ECCOVI, that child has been in hell," we may say,
"ECCOVI, that child has been in unchildlike haunts, and can't
forget the memory of them." In a sense every romancer is a child -
such was Ludwig Tieck, such was Scott, such was James Hogg, the
Ettrick Shepherd. But each is something more - he has been touched
with the wand of a fairy, and knows, at least, some of Elfin Land
as well as of childhood's home.

The sense of Stevenson's youthfulness seems to have struck every
one who had intimacy with him. Mr Baildon writes (p. 21 of his
book):


"I would now give much to possess but one of Stevenson's gifts -
namely, that extraordinary vividness of recollection by which he
could so astonishingly recall, not only the doings, but the very
thoughts and emotions of his youth. For, often as we must have
communed together, with all the shameless candour of boys, hardly
any remark has stuck to me except the opinion already alluded to,
which struck me - his elder by some fifteen months - as very
amusing, that at sixteen 'we should be men.' HE OF ALL MORTALS,
WHO WAS, IN A SENSE, ALWAYS STILL A BOY!"


Mr Gosse tells us:


"He had retained a great deal of the temperament of a child, and it
was his philosophy to encourage it. In his dreary passages of bed,
when his illness was more than commonly heavy on him, he used to
contrive little amusements for himself. He played on the flute, or
he modelled little groups and figures in clay."


2. One of the qualifying elements unnoted by Mr Zangwill is simply
this, that R. L. Stevenson never lost the strange tint imparted to
his youth by the religious influences to which he was subject, and
which left their impress and colour on him and all that he did.
Henley, in his striking sonnet, hit it when he wrote:


"A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,
Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,
AND SOMETHING OF THE SHORTER CATECHIST."


SOMETHING! he was a great deal of Shorter Catechist! Scotch
Calvinism, its metaphysic, and all the strange whims, perversities,
and questionings of "Fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,"
which it inevitably awakens, was much with him - the sense of
reprobation and the gloom born of it, as well as the abounding joy
in the sense of the elect - the Covenanters and their wild
resolutions, the moss-troopers and their dare-devilries - Pentland
Risings and fights of Rullion Green; he not only never forgot them,
but they mixed themselves as in his very breath of life, and made
him a great questioner. How would I have borne myself in this or
in that? Supposing I had been there, how would it have been - the
same, or different from what it was with those that were there?
His work is throughout at bottom a series of problems that almost
all trace to this root, directly or indirectly. "There, but for
the grace of God, goes John Bradford," said the famous Puritan on
seeing a felon led to execution; so with Stevenson. Hence his
fondness for tramps, for scamps (he even bestowed special attention
and pains on Villon, the poet-scamp); he was rather impatient with
poor Thoreau, because he was a purist solitary, and had too little
of vice, and, as Stevenson held, narrow in sympathy, and too self-
satisfied, and bent only on self-improvement. He held a brief for
the honest villain, and leaned to him brotherly. Even the
anecdotes he most prizes have a fine look this way - a hunger for
completion in achievement, even in the violation of fine humane
feeling or morality, and all the time a sense of submission to
God's will. "Doctor," said the dying gravedigger in OLD MORTALITY,
"I hae laid three hunner an' fower score in that kirkyaird, an' had
it been His wull," indicating Heaven, "I wad hae likeit weel to hae
made oot the fower hunner." That took Stevenson. Listen to what
Mr Edmond Gosse tells of his talk, when he found him in a private
hotel in Finsbury Circus, London, ready to be put on board a
steamer for America, on 21st August, 1887:


"It was church time, and there was some talk of my witnessing his
will, which I could not do because there could be found no other
reputable witness, the whole crew of the hotel being at church.
'This,' he said, 'is the way in which our valuable city hotels -
packed no doubt with gems and jewellery - are deserted on a Sunday
morning. Some bold piratical fellow, defying the spirit of
Sabbatarianism, might make a handsome revenue by sacking the
derelict hotels between the hours of ten and twelve. One hotel a
week would enable such a man to retire in course of a year. A mask
might perhaps be worn for the mere fancy of the thing, and to
terrify kitchen-maids, but no real disguise would be needful.'"


I would rather agree with Mr Chesterton than with Mr Zangwill here:


"Stevenson's enormous capacity for joy flowed directly out of his
profoundly religious temperament. He conceived himself as an
unimportant guest at one eternal and uproarious banquet, and
instead of grumbling at the soup, he accepted it with careless
gratitude. . . . His gaiety was neither the gaiety of the pagan,
nor the gaiety of the BON VIVANT. It was the greater gaiety of the
mystic. He could enjoy trifles because there was to him no such
thing as a trifle. He was a child who respected his dolls because
they were the images of the image of God, portraits at only two
removes."


Here, then, we have the child crossed by the dreamer and the
mystic, bred of Calvinism and speculation on human fate and chance,
and on the mystery of temperament and inheritance, and all that
flows from these - reprobation, with its dire shadows, assured
Election with its joys, etc., etc.

3. If such a combination is in favour of the story-teller up to a
certain point, it is not favourable to the highest flights, and it
is alien to dramatic presentation pure and simple. This implies
detachment from moods and characters, high as well as low, that
complete justice in presentation may be done to all alike, and the
one balance that obtains in life grasped and repeated with
emphasis. But towards his leading characters Stevenson is
unconsciously biassed, because they are more or less shadowy
projections of himself, or images through which he would reveal one
or other side or aspect of his own personality. Attwater is a
confessed failure, because it, more than any other, testifies this:
he is but a mouth-piece for one side or tendency in Stevenson. If
the same thing is not more decisively felt in some other cases, it
is because Stevenson there showed the better art o' hidin', and not
because he was any more truly detached or dramatic. "Of Hamlet
most of all," wrote Henley in his sonnet. The Hamlet in Stevenson
- the self-questioning, egotistic, moralising Hamlet - was, and to
the end remained, a something alien to bold, dramatic, creative
freedom. He is great as an artist, as a man bent on giving to all
that he did the best and most distinguished form possible, but not
great as a free creator of dramatic power. "Mother," he said as a
mere child, "I've drawed a man. Now, will I draw his soul?" He
was to the end all too fond to essay a picture of the soul,
separate and peculiar. All the Jekyll and Hyde and even Ballantrae
conceptions came out of that - and what is more, he always mixed
his own soul with the other soul, and could not help doing so.

4. When; therefore, I find Mr Pinero, in lecturing at Edinburgh,
deciding in favour of Stevenson as possessed of rare dramatic
power, and wondering why he did not more effectively employ it, I
can't agree with him; and this because of the presence of a certain
atmosphere in the novels, alien to free play of the individualities
presented. Like Hawthorne's, like the works of our great
symbolists, they are restricted by a sense of some obtaining
conception, some weird metaphysical WEIRD or preconception. This
is the ground "Ian MacLaren" has for saying that "his kinship is
not with Boccaccio and Rabelais, but with Dante and Spenser" - the
ground for many remarks by critics to the effect that they still
crave from him "less symbol and more individuality" - the ground
for the Rev. W. J. Dawson's remark that "he has a powerful and
persistent sense of the spiritual forces which move behind the
painted shows of life; that he writes not only as a realist but as
a prophet, his meanest stage being set with eternity as a
background."

Such expressions are fullest justification for what we have here
said: it adds, and can only add, to our admiration of Stevenson,
as a thinker, seer, or mystic, but the asserting sense of such
power can only end in lessening the height to which he could attain
as a dramatic artist; and there is much indeed against Mr Pinero's
own view that, in the dramas, he finds that "fine speeches" are
ruinous to them as acting plays. In the strict sense overfine
speeches are yet almost everywhere. David Balfour could never have
writ some speeches attributed to him - they are just R. L.
Stevenson with a very superficial difference that, when once
detected, renders them curious and quaint and interesting, but not
dramatic.



CHAPTER XIII - PREACHER AND MYSTIC FABULIST



IN reality, Stevenson is always directly or indirectly preaching a
sermon - enforcing a moral - as though he could not help it. "He
would rise from the dead to preach a sermon." He wrote some first-
rate fables, and might indeed have figured to effect as a moralist-
fabulist, as truly he was from beginning to end. There was a bit
of Bunyan in him as well as of Aesop and Rousseau and Thoreau - the
mixture that found coherency in his most peculiarly patient and
forbearing temper is what gives at once the quaintness, the
freedom, and yet the odd didactic something that is never wanting.
I remember a fable about the Devil that might well be brought in to
illustrate this here - careful readers who neglect nothing that
Stevenson wrote will remember it also and perhaps bear me out here.

But for the sake of the young folks who may yet have some leeway to
make up, I shall indulge myself a little by quoting it: and, since
I am on that tack, follow it by another which presents Stevenson in
his favourite guise of quizzing his own characters, if not for his
own advantage certainly for ours, if we would in the least
understand the fine moralist-casuistical qualities of his mind and
fancy:


THE DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER

Once upon a time the devil stayed at an inn, where no one knew him,
for they were people whose education had been neglected. He was
bent on mischief, and for a time kept everybody by the ears. But
at last the innkeeper set a watch upon the devil and took him in
the act.

The innkeeper got a rope's end.

"Now I am going to thrash you," said the inn-keeper.

"You have no right to be angry with me," said the devil. "I am
only the devil, and it is my nature to do wrong."

"Is that so?" asked the innkeeper.

"Fact, I assure you," said the devil.

"You really cannot help doing ill?" asked the innkeeper.

"Not in the smallest," said the devil, "it would be useless cruelty
to thrash a thing like me."

"It would indeed," said the innkeeper.

And he made a noose and hanged the devil.

"There!" said the innkeeper.


The deeper Stevenson goes, the more happily is he inspired. We
could scarcely cite anything more Stevensonian, alike in its humour
and its philosophy, than the dialogue between Captain Smollett and
Long John Silver, entitled THE PERSONS OF THE TALE. After chapter
xxxii. of TREASURE ISLAND, these two puppets "strolled out to have
a pipe before business should begin again, and met in an open space
not far from the story." After a few preliminaries:


"You're a damned rogue, my man," said the Captain.

"Come, come, Cap'n, be just," returned the other. "There's no call
to be angry with me in earnest. I'm on'y a character in a sea
story. I don't really exist."

"Well, I don't really exist either," says the Captain, "which seems
to meet that."

"I wouldn't set no limits to what a virtuous character might
consider argument," responded Silver. "But I'm the villain of the
tale, I am; and speaking as one seafaring man to another, what I
want to know is, what's the odds?"

"Were you never taught your catechism?" said the Captain. "Don't
you know there's such a thing as an Author?"

"Such a thing as a Author?" returned John, derisively. "And who
better'n me? And the p'int is, if the Author made you, he made
Long John, and he made Hands, and Pew, and George Merry - not that
George is up to much, for he's little more'n a name; and he made
Flint, what there is of him; and he made this here mutiny, you keep
such a work about; and he had Tom Redruth shot; and - well, if
that's a Author, give me Pew!"

"Don't you believe in a future state?" said Smollett. "Do you
think there's nothing but the present sorty-paper?"

" I don't rightly know for that," said Silver, "and I don't see
what it's got to do with it, anyway. What I know is this: if
there is sich a thing as a Author, I'm his favourite chara'ter. He
does me fathoms better'n he does you - fathoms, he does. And he
likes doing me. He keeps me on deck mostly all the time, crutch
and all; and he leaves you measling in the hold, where nobody can't
see you, nor wants to, and you may lay to that! If there is a
Author, by thunder, but he's on my side, and you may lay to it!"

"I see he's giving you a long rope," said the Captain. . . .


Stevenson's stories - one and all - are too closely the
illustrations by characters of which his essays furnish the texts.
You shall not read the one wholly apart from the other without
losing something - without losing much of the quaint, often
childish, and always insinuating personality of the writer. It is
this if fully perceived which would justify one writer, Mr
Zangwill, if I don't forget, in saying, as he did say, that
Stevenson would hold his place by his essays and not by his novels.
Hence there is a unity in all, but a unity found in a root which is
ultimately inimical to what is strictly free dramatic creation -
creation, broad, natural and unmoral in the highest sense just as
nature is, as it is to us, for example, when we speak of
Shakespeare, or even Scott, or of Cervantes or Fielding. If Mr
Henley in his irruptive if not spiteful PALL MALL MAGAZINE article
had made this clear from the high critical ground, then some of his
derogatory remarks would not have been quite so personal and
offensive as they are.

Stevenson's bohemianism was always restrained and coloured by this.
He is a casuistic moralist, if not a Shorter Catechist, as Mr
Henley put it in his clever sonnet. He is constantly asking
himself about moral laws and how they work themselves out in
character, especially as these suggest and involve the casuistries
of human nature. He is often a little like Nathaniel Hawthorne,
but he hardly follows them far enough and rests on his own
preconceptions and predilections, only he does not, like him, get
into or remain long in the cobwebby corners - his love of the open
air and exercise derived from generations of active lighthouse
engineers, out at all times on sea or land, or from Scottish
ministers who were fond of composing their sermons and reflecting
on the backwardness of human nature as they walked in their gardens
or along the hillsides even among mists and storms, did something
to save him here, reinforcing natural cheerfulness and the warm
desire to give pleasure. His excessive elaboration of style, which
grew upon him more and more, giving throughout often a sense of
extreme artificiality and of the self-consciousness usually bred of
it, is but another incidental proof of this. And let no reader
think that I wish here to decry R. L. Stevenson. I only desire
faithfully to try to understand him, and to indicate the class or
group to which his genius and temperament really belong. He is
from first to last the idealistic dreamy or mystical romancer, and
not the true idealist or dealer direct with life or character for
its own sake. The very beauty and sweetness of his spirit in one
way militated against his dramatic success - he really did not
believe in villains, and always made them better than they should
have been, and that, too, on the very side where wickedness - their
natural wickedness - is most available - on the stage. The dreamer
of dreams and the Shorter Catechist, strangely united together,
were here directly at odds with the creative power, and crossed and
misdirected it, and the casuist came in and manoeuvred the
limelight - all too like the old devil of the mediaeval drama, who
was made only to be laughed at and taken lightly, a buffoon and a
laughing-stock indeed. And while he could unveil villainy, as is
the case pre-eminently in Huish in the EBB-TIDE, he shrank from
inflicting the punishments for which untutored human nature looks,
and thus he lost one great aid to crude dramatic effect. As to his
poems, they are intimately personal in his happiest moments: he
deals with separate moods and sentiments, and scarcely ever touches
those of a type alien to his own. The defect of his child poems is
distinctly that he is everywhere strictly recalling and reproducing
his own quaint and wholly exceptional childhood; and children,
ordinary, normal, healthy children, will not take to these poems
(though grown-ups largely do so), as they would to, say, the
LILLIPUT LEVEE of my old friend, W. B. Rands. Rands showed a great
deal of true dramatic play there within his own very narrow limits,
as, at all events, adults must conceive them.

Even in his greatest works, in THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE and WEIR OF
HERMISTON, the special power in Stevenson really lies in subduing
his characters at the most critical point for action, to make them
prove or sustain his thesis; and in this way the rare effect that
he might have secured DRAMATICALLY is largely lost and make-believe
substituted, as in the Treasure Search in the end of THE MASTER OF
BALLANTRAE. The powerful dramatic effect he might have had in his
DENOUEMENT is thus completely sacrificed. The essence of the drama
for the stage is that the work is for this and this alone -
dialogue and everything being only worked rightly when it bears on,
aids, and finally secures this in happy completeness.

In a word, you always, in view of true dramatic effect, see
Stevenson himself too clearly behind his characters. The "fine
speeches" Mr Pinero referred to trace to the intrusion behind the
glass of a part-quicksilvered portion, which cunningly shows, when
the glass is moved about, Stevenson himself behind the character,
as we have said already. For long he shied dealing with women, as
though by a true instinct. Unfortunately for him his image was as
clear behind CATRIONA, with the discerning, as anywhere else; and
this, alas! too far undid her as an independent, individual
character, though traits like those in her author were attractive.
The constant effort to relieve the sense of this affords him the
most admirable openings for the display of his exquisite style, of
which he seldom or never fails to make the very most in this
regard; but the necessity laid upon him to aim at securing a sense
of relief by this is precisely the same as led him to write the
overfine speeches in the plays, as Mr Pinero found and pointed out
at Edinburgh: both defeat the true end, but in the written book
mere art of style and a naivete and a certain sweetness of temper
conceal the lack of nature and creative spontaneity; while on the
stage the descriptions, saving reflections and fine asides, are
ruthlessly cut away under sheer stage necessities, or, if left, but
hinder the action; and art of this kind does not there suffice to
conceal the lack of nature.

More clearly to bring out my meaning here and draw aid from
comparative illustration, let me take my old friend of many years,
Charles Gibbon. Gibbon was poor, very poor, in intellectual
subtlety compared with Stevenson; he had none of his sweet, quaint,
original fancy; he was no casuist; he was utterly void of power in
the subdued humorous twinkle or genial by-play in which Stevenson
excelled. But he has more of dramatic power, pure and simple, than
Stevenson had - his novels - the best of them - would far more
easily yield themselves to the ordinary purposes of the ordinary
playwright. Along with conscientiousness, perception, penetration,
with the dramatist must go a certain indescribable common-sense
commonplaceness - if I may name it so - protection against vagary
and that over-refined egotism and self-confession which is inimical
to the drama and in which the Stevensonian type all too largely
abounds for successful dramatic production. Mr Henley perhaps put
it too strongly when he said that what was supremely of interest to
R. L. Stevenson was Stevenson himself; but he indicates the
tendency, and that tendency is inimical to strong, broad, effective
and varied dramatic presentation. Water cannot rise above its own
level; nor can minds of this type go freely out of themselves in a
grandly healthy, unconscious, and unaffected way, and this is the
secret of the dramatic spirit, if it be not, as Shelley said, the
secret of morals, which Stevenson, when he passed away, was but on
the way to attain. As we shall see, he had risen so far above it,
subdued it, triumphed over it, that we really cannot guess what he
might have attained had but more years been given him. For the
last attainment of the loftiest and truest genius is precisely this
- to gain such insight of the real that all else becomes
subsidiary. True simplicity and the abiding relief and enduring
power of true art with all classes lies here and not elsewhere.
Cleverness, refinement, fancy, and invention, even sublety of
intellect, are practically nowhere in this sphere without this.



CHAPTER XIV - STEVENSON AS DRAMATIST



IN opposition to Mr Pinero, therefore, I assert that Stevenson's
defect in spontaneous dramatic presentation is seen clearly in his
novels as well as in his plays proper.

In writing to my good friend, Mr Thomas M'Kie, Advocate, Edinburgh,
telling him of my work on R. L. Stevenson and the results, I thus
gathered up in little the broad reflections on this point, and I
may perhaps be excused quoting the following passages, as they
reinforce by a new reference or illustration or two what has just
been said:


"Considering his great keenness and force on some sides, I find R.
L. Stevenson markedly deficient in grip on other sides - common
sides, after all, of human nature. This was so far largely due to
a dreamy, mystical, so far perverted and, so to say, often even
inverted casuistical, fatalistic morality, which would not allow
him scope in what Carlyle would have called a healthy hatred of
fools and scoundrels; with both of which classes - vagabonds in
strictness - he had rather too much of a sneaking sympathy. Mr
Pinero was wrong - totally and incomprehensibly wrong - when he
told the good folks of Edinburgh at the Philosophical Institution,
and afterwards at the London Birkbeck Institution, that it was lack
of concentration and care that made R. L. Stevenson a failure as a
dramatist. No: it was here and not elsewhere that the failure
lay. R. L. Stevenson was himself an unconscious paradox - and
sometimes he realised it - his great weakness from this point of
view being that he wished to show strong and original by making the
villain the hero of the piece as well. Now, THAT, if it may, by
clever manipulation and dexterity, be made to do in a novel, most
certainly it will not do on the stage - more especially if it is
done consciously and, as it were, of MALICE PREPENSE; because, for
one thing, there is in the theatre a very varied yet united
audience which has to give a simultaneous and immediate verdict -
an audience not inclined to some kinds of overwrought subtleties
and casuistries, however clever the technique. If THE MASTER OF
BALLANTRAE (which has some highly dramatic scenes and situations,
if it is not in itself substantially a drama) were to be put on the
stage, the playwright, if wisely determined for success, would
really have - not in details, but in essential conception - to kick
R. L. Stevenson in his most personal aim out of it, and take and
present a more definite moral view of the two villain-heroes
(brothers, too); improve and elevate the one a bit if he lowered
the other, and not wobble in sympathy and try to make the audience
wobble in sympathy also, as R. L. Stevenson certainly does. As for
BEAU AUSTIN, it most emphatically, in view of this, should be re-
writ - re-writ especially towards the ending - and the scandalous
Beau tarred and feathered, metaphorically speaking, instead of
walking off at the end in a sneaking, mincing sort of way, with no
more than a little momentary twinge of discomfort at the wreck and
ruin he has wrought, for having acted as a selfish, snivelling
poltroon and coward, though in fine clothes and with fine ways and
fine manners, which only, from our point of view, make matters
worse. It is, with variations I admit, much the same all through:
R. L. Stevenson felt it and confessed it about the EBB-TIDE, and
Huish, the cockney hero and villain; but the sense of healthy
disgust, even at the vile Huish, is not emphasised in the book as
it would have demanded to be for the stage - the audience would not
have stood it, and the more mixed and varied, the less would it
have stood it - not at all; and his relief of style and fine or
finished speeches would not THERE in the least have told. This is
demanded of the drama - that at once it satisfies a certain crude
something subsisting under all outward glosses and veneers that
might be in some a lively sense of right and wrong - the uprisal of
a conscience, in fact, or in others a vague instinct of proper
reward or punishment, which will even cover and sanction certain
kinds of revenge or retaliation. The one feeling will emerge most
among the cultured, and the other among the ruder and more
ignorant; but both meet immediately on beholding action and the
limits of action on the demand for some clear leading to what may
be called Providential equity - each man undoubtedly rewarded or
punished, roughly, according to his deserts, if not outwardly then
certainly in the inner torments that so often lead to confessions.
There it is - a radical fact of human nature - as radical as any
reading of trait or determination of character presented - seen in
the Greek drama as well as in Shakespeare and the great Elizabethan
dramatists, and in the drama-transpontine and others of to-day. R.
L. Stevenson was all too casuistical (though not in the exclusively
bad sense) for this; and so he was not dramatic, though WEIR OF
HERMISTON promised something like an advance to it, and ST IVES
did, in my idea, yet more."

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