ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR STEVENSON
(1850-1894)
The author of Treasure Island (invariably known to his friends simply as "Louis," the "Robert" being reserved in the form of "Bob" for his less famous but very admirable cousin the art-critic) will perhaps offer to some Matthew Arnold of posterity the opportunity of a paradox like that of our Matthew on Shelley. For a short time some of these friends – not perhaps the wisest of them – were inclined to regard him as, and to urge him to continue to be, a writer of criticisms and miscellaneous articles – a sort of new Hazlitt. Others no sooner saw the New Arabian Nights than they recognised a tale-teller such as had not been seen for a long time – such as, in respect of anything imitable, had never been seen before. And he fortunately fell in with these views and hopes. But all his tales are pure Romance, and Romance has her eclipses with the vulgar. On the other hand his letters are almost as good as his fiction, and not in the least open to the charges of a certain non-naturalness of style – even of thought – which could, justly or not, be brought against his other writings. And it is perhaps worth noting here that letters have held their popularity with all fit judges almost better than any other division of literature. Whether this is the effect of their "touches of nature" (using the famous phrase without the blunder so common in regard to it but not without reference to its context) need not be discussed.
As, by the kindness of Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, I am enabled to give here an unpublished letter of Stevenson's to myself, it may require some explanation, not only of the commentatory and commendatory kind but of fact. Stevenson, coming to dine with me, had brought with him, and showed with much pride, a new umbrella (a seven-and-sixpenny one) which, to my surprise, he had bought. But when he went away that night he forgot it; and when I met him next day at the Savile and suggested that I should send it to him, there or somewhere, he said he was going abroad almost immediately and begged me to keep it for him. By this or that accident, but chiefly owing to his constant expatriations, no opportunity of restitution ever occurred: though I used to remind him of it as a standing joke, and treasured it religiously, stored and unused. This letter is partly in answer to a last reminder in which I said that I was going to present it to the nation, that it might be kept with King Koffee Kalcalli's, but as a memory of a "victor in romance" not of a vanquished enemy.
I of course told Mr. Kipling of the contents which concerned him: and he, equally of course, demanded delivery of the goods at once. But, half in joke, I demurred, saying that I was a bailee, and the gift was not formal enough, being undated and only a "suggestion"; he should have it without fail at my death, or Stevenson's.130
When alas! this latter came, I prepared to act up to my promise; but, alas! again, the umbrella had vanished! Some prated of mislaying in house-removal, of illicit use by servants, etc.; but for my part I had and have no doubt that the thing had been enskyed and constellated – like Ariadne's Crown, Berenice's Locks, Cassiopeia's Chair, and a whole galaxy of other now celestial objects – to afford a special place to my dead friend then, and to my live one when (may the time still be far distant) he is ready for it.
As for the more serious subject of the letter, I must refer curious readers to an essay of mine on Lockhart, originally published in 1884 and reprinted in Essays in English Literature some years later. To this reprint I subjoined, before I got this letter from R. L. S., a reasoned defence of Lockhart from the charge of cowardice and "caddishness": but it is evident that Stevenson had not yet seen it. When he did see it, he wrote me another letter chiefly about my book itself, and so of no interest to the public, but touching again on this Lockhart question. He avowed himself still dissatisfied: but said he was sorry for his original remark which was "ungracious and unhandsome" if not untrue, adding, "for to whom do I owe more pleasure than to Lockhart?"
54.
My dear Saintsbury,
Thanks for yours. Why did I call Lockhart a cad? That calls for an answer, and I give it. "Scorpion"131 literature seems at the best no very fit employment for a man of genius, which Lockhart was – and none at all for a gentleman. But if a man goes in for such a trade, he must be ready for the consequences; and I do not conceive a gentleman as a coward; the white feather is not his crest, it almost excludes – and I put the "almost" with reluctance. Well, now about the duel? Even Bel-Ami132 turned up on the terrain. But Lockhart? Et responsum est ab omnibus, Non est inventus.133 I have often wondered how Scott took that episode.134 I do not know how this view will strike you;135 it seems to me the "good old honest" fashion of our fathers, though I own it does not agree with the New Morality. "Cad" may be perhaps an expression too vivacious and not well chosen; it is, at least upon my view, substantially just.
Now if you mean to comb my wig, comb it from the right parting – I know you will comb it well.
An infinitely small jest occurs to me in connection with the historic umbrella: and perhaps its infinite smallness attracts me. Would you mind handing it to Rudyard Kipling with the enclosed note?136 It seems to me fitly to consecrate and commemorate this most absurd episode.
Yours very sincerely,Robert Louis Stevenson.
[Enclosure]