III.--ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
In the scheme of this series, as originally-announced, Thackeray's workshould have formed the subject of the third chapter. But, on reflection,I have decided that, considering my present purpose, it would be littlemore than a useless self-indulgence to do what I at first intended.There is no sort of dispute about Thackeray. There is no need for anyrevision of the general opinion concerning him. It would be to me,personally, a delightful thing to write such an appreciation as I had inmind, but this is not the place for it.
Let us pass, then, at once to the consideration of the incomplete andarrested labours of the charming and accomplished workman whose loss alllovers of English literature are still lamenting.
I have special and private reasons for thinking warmly of Robert LouisStevenson, the man; and these reasons seem to give me some added warrantfor an attempt to do justice to Robert Louis Stevenson, the writer. Withthe solitary exception of the unfortunate cancelled letters from Samoa,which were written whilst he was in ill-health, and suffered a completemomentary eclipse of style, he has scarcely published a line which maynot afford the most captious reader pleasure. With that sole exceptionhe was always an artist in his work, and always showed himself aliveto the fingertips. He was in constant conscious search of felicities inexpression, and his taste was exquisitely just. His discernment in theuse of words kept equal pace with his invention--he knew at once how tobe fastidious and daring. It is to be doubted if any writer has labouredwith more constancy to enrich and harden the texture of his style,and at the last a page of his was like cloth of gold for purity andsolidity.
This is the praise which the future critics of English literature willaward him. But in this age of critical hysteria it is not enough toyield a man the palm for his own qualities. With regard to Stevenson ourprofessional guides have gone fairly demented, and it is worth while tomake an effort to give him the place he has honestly earned, before theinevitable reaction sets in, and unmerited laudations have brought aboutan unmerited neglect. His life was arduous. His meagre physical meansand his fervent spirit were pathetically ill-mated. It was impossible tosurvey his career without a sympathy which trembled from admiration topity. Certain, in spite of all precaution, to die young, and in the faceof that stern fact genially and unconquerably brave, he extorted love.Let the whole virtue of this truth be acknowledged, and let it standin excuse for praises which have been carried beyond the limits ofabsurdity. It is hard to exercise a sober judgment where the emotionsare brought strongly into play. The inevitable tragedy of Stevenson'sfate, the unescapable assurance that he would not live to do all whichsuch a spirit in a sounder frame would have done for an art he loved sofondly, the magnetism of his friendship, his downright incapacity forenvy, his genuine humility with regard to his own work and reputation,his unboastful and untiring courage, made a profound impression uponmany of his contemporaries. It is, perhaps, small wonder if criticalopinion were in part moulded by such influences as these. Errors ofjudgment thus induced are easily condoned. They are at least a milliontimes more respectable than the mendacities of the publisher's tout, orthe mutual ecstasies of the rollers of logs and the grinders of axes.
The curious ease with which, nowadays, every puny whipster gets thesword of Sir Walter has already been remarked. If any Tom o' Bedlamchooses to tell the world that all the New Scottish novelists are SirWalter's masters, what does it matter to anybody? It is shamelesslysilly and impertinent, of course, and it brings newspaper criticism intocontempt, but there is an end of it. If the writers who are thus maderidiculous choose to pluck the straws out of their critics' hair andstick them in their own, they are poorer creatures than I take them for.The thing makes us laugh, or makes us mourn, just as it happens to hitour humour; but it really matters very little. It establishes one of twothings--the critic is hopelessly incapable or hopelessly dishonest. Thedilemma is absolute. The peccant gentleman may choose his horn, and nohonest and capable reader cares one copper which he takes.
But with regard to Stevenson the case is very different. Stevensonhas made a bid for lasting fame. He is formally entered in the list ofstarters for the great prize of literary immortality. No man alive cansay with certainty whether he will get it. Every forced eulogy handicapshis chances. Every exaggeration of his merits will tend to obscure them.The pendulum of taste is remorseless. Swing it too far on one side, itwill swing itself too far on the other.
In his case it has unfortunately become a critical fashion to set himside by side with the greatest master of narrative fiction the world hasever seen. In the interests of a true artist, whom this abuse of praisewill greatly injure if it be persisted in, it will be well toendeavour soberly and quietly to measure the man, and to arrive at someapproximate estimate of his stature.
It may be assumed that the least conscientious and instructed of ourprofessional guides has read something of the history of Sir WalterScott, and is, if dimly, aware of the effect he produced in the realm ofliterature in his lifetime. Sir Walter (who is surpassed or equalledby six writers of our own day, in the judgment of those astoundinggentlemen who periodically tell us what we ought to think) was thefounder of three great schools. He founded the school of romanticmediaeval poetry; he founded the school of antiquarian romance; and hefounded the school of Scottish-character romance. He did odds andends of literary work, such as the compilation and annotation of 'TheMinstrelsy of the Scottish Border,' and the notes to the poems and theWaverley Series. These were sparks from his great stithy, but a manof industry and talent might have shown them proudly as a lifetime'slabour. The great men in literature are the epoch makers, and Sir Walteris the only man in the literary history of the world who was an epochmaker in more than one direction. It is the fashion to-day to decry himas a poet. There are critics who, setting a high value on the verseof Wordsworth or of Browning, for example, cannot concede the name ofpoetry to any modern work which is not subtle and profound, metaphysicalor analytical. But as a mere narrative poet few men whose judgment is ofvalue will deny Scott the next place to Homer. As a poet he createdan epoch. It filled no great space in point of time, but we owe to SirWalter's impetus 'he Giaour,' 'he Corsair,' the 'Bride of Abydos.' Inhis second character of antiquarian romancist, he awoke the elder Dumas,and such a host of imitators, big and little, as no writer ever had athis heels before or since. When he turned to Scottish character he madeGalt, and Robert Louis Stevenson, and Dr. George Macdonald, and all themodern gentlemen who, gleaning modestly in the vast field he found, andbroke, and sowed, and reaped, are now his rivals.
Do the writers who claim to guide our opinions read Scott at all? Dothey know the scene of the hidden and revealed forces in the Trossachglen--the carriage of the Fiery Cross--the sentence on the erring nun--the last fight of her betrayer? Do they know the story of JeannieDeans? But it is useless to ask these questions or to multiply theseinstances. Scott is placed. Master of laughter, master of tears, giantof swiftness; crowned king, without one all-round rival.
One of those astonishing and yet natural things which sometimes startleus is the value some minds attach to mere modernity in art. An old thingis tossed up in a new way, and there are those who attach more valueto the way than the thing, and are instantly agape with admiration oforiginality. But originality and modishness are different things. Peoplewho have a right to guide public opinion discern the difference.
The absurd and damaging comparison between Scott and Stevenson has beengravely offered by the latter's friends. They are doing a beautifulartist a serious injustice, You could place Stevenson's ravishingassortment of cameos in any chamber of Scott's feudal castle. It isan intaglio beside a cathedral, a humming-bird beside an eagle. It isanything exquisite beside anything nobly huge.
Let any man, who may be strongly of opinion that I am mistaken, conceiveScott and Stevenson living in the same age and working in completeignorance of each other. Scott would still have set the world on fire.Stevenson with his deft, swift, adaptive spirit, and his not easilyover-pr
aised perfection in his craft, would have still done something;but he would have missed his loftiest inspiration, his style would havebeen far other than it is.
As a bit of pure literary enjoyment there are not many things betterthan to turn from Stevenson's more recent pages to Scott's letters inLockhart's 'Life,' and to see where the modern found the staple of hisbest and latest style.
The comparison, which has been urged so often, will not stand a moment'sexamination. Stevenson is not a great creative artist. He is not anepoch maker. He cannot be set shoulder to shoulder with any of thegiants. It is no defect in him which prompts this protest. Except inthe sense in which his example of purity, delicacy, and finish in verbalwork will inspire other artists, Stevenson will have no imitators, asoriginal men always have. He has 'done delicious things,' but he hasdone nothing new. He has with astonishing labour and felicity built acomposite style out of the style of every good writer of English.Even in a single page he sometimes reflected many manners. He isthe embodiment of the literary as distinguished from the originatingintellect. His method is almost perfect, but it is devoid ofpersonality. He says countless things which are the very echo of SirWalter's epistolary manner. He says things like Lamb, and sometimes theyare as good as the original could have made them. He says things likeDefoe, like Montaigne, like Rochefoucauld.
His bouquet is culled in every garden, and set in leaves which havegrown in all forests of literature. He is deft, apt, sprightly,and always sincerely a man. He is just and brave, and essentially agentleman. He has the right imitative romance, and he can so blend Defoeand Dickens with a something of himself which is almost, but not quite,creative, that he can present you with a blind old Pugh or a JohnSilver. He is a _litterateur_ born--and made. A verbal invention is meatand drink to him. There are places where you see him actively in pursuitof one, as when Markheim stops the clock with 'an interjected finger,'or when John Silver's half-shut, cunning, and cruel eye sparkles 'likea crumb of glass.' Stevenson has run across the Channel for that crumb,and it is worth the journey.
Stevenson certainly had that share of genius which belongs to the manwho can take infinite pains. Add to this a beautiful personal character,and an almost perfect receptivity. Add again the power of sympatheticrealisation in a purely literary sense, and you have the man. Let memake my last addition clear. It is a common habit of his to think ashis literary favourites would have thought He could think like Lamb. Hecould think like Defoe. He could even fuse two minds in this way,and make, as it were, a composite mind for himself to think with.His intellect was of a very rare and delicate sort, and whilst he wasessentially a reproducer, he was in no sense an imitator, or even for asingle second a plagiarist. He had an alembic of his own which made oldthings new. His best possession was that very real sense of proportionwhich was at the root of all his humour. 'Why doesn't God explain thesethings to a gentleman like me?' There, a profound habitual reverenceof mind suddenly encounters with a ludicrous perception of his ownmomentary self-importance. The two electric opposites meet, and emitthat flash of summer lightning.
Stevenson gave rare honour to his work, and the artist who shows hisself-respect in that best of ways will always be respected by theworld. He has fairly won our affection and esteem, and we give themungrudgingly. In seeming to belittle him I have taken an ungratefulpiece of work in hand. But in the long run a moderately just estimate ofa good man's work is of more service to his reputation than a strainedlaudation can be. It is not the critics, and it is not I, who willfinally measure his proportions. He seems to me to stand well in themiddle of the middle rank of accepted writers. He will not live as aninventor, for he has not invented. He will not live as one of those whohave opened new fields of thought. He will not live amongst those whohave explored the heights and the deeps of the spirit of man. Hemay live--'the stupid and ignorant pig of a public' will settle thequestion--as a writer in whose works stand revealed a lovable, sincere,and brave soul and an unsleeping vigilance of artistic effort.
The most beautiful thing he has done--to my mind--is his epitaph. Thereare but eight lines of it, but I know nothing finer in its way:
Under the wide and starry sky Lay me down and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will!
This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be: Home is the Sailor, home from sea, And the Hunter home from the hill.
Sleep there, bright heart! In your waking hours you would have laughedat the exaggerated praises which do you such poor service now!
My Contemporaries In Fiction Page 3