MR. STEVENSON'S SHORT TALES.*
SOME of Mr. Stevenson's shorter tales show, on the whole, even higher indications of genius than his most successful stories. At least, we can remember nothing in Treasure Island or The Dynamiter quite eo good as " The Treasure of Franchard,"
Olalla," and "Markheim," in this volume. The last we should call a study after Nathaniel Hawthorne, if we had to -describe it to any one who knew Hawthorne thoroughly, and so successful a study in the school of that great master, that if it
• Ths Merry Men, and other Tales and Fables. By Robert Louis Stevenson. London: Matto and Wind= had appeared among his Twice•Told Tales, we should have selected it as one -of the best and most original of the series. The tale which gives its name to the volume," The Merry Men," is also a very striking production, being a wild tale of wreckers in the West of Scotland, where a series of reefs which Bend up in every gale a weird sound of laughter into the air, are termed by the cynical imaginations of the inhabitants "the Merry Men." Partly by his vivid descriptive powers, partly by virtue of his keen insight into the gloomy religion and the sullen discontent of a Calvinist who "believes and trembles," but who really hungers all the time for the gratification of his avaricious passion, Mr. Stevenson has made of "The Merry Men" a tale of lurid power which might match in its way the beet of those impressive shorter tales which Sir Walter Scott has scattered through his works. Bat even "The Merry Men" is hardly as striking as "Markheim" and "Olalla," while none of them can compare in vividness of dramatic feeling with " The Treasure of Franchard." The only tales in this volume in which we cannot find much to admire, are " Will o' the Mill" and " Thrawn Janet,"—the former being a kind of parable wherein the disposition which prefers holding its enjoyments in reserve to exhausting them, is painted without any very great skill or effectiveness ; and the latter a tale of Scotch superstition which wants the clearness needful to make it thoroughly impressive. The delineation of popular Spanish bigotry in " Olalla " is extremely powerful; yet even that effect, impressively as it is painted, is less remarkable than the picture of deteriorated brain in the exhausted family of the Spanish grandee whose descendants had through so many generations abused their physical gifts, that at last a sort of sensuous insanity descended upon them, though it was un- accompanied by any lose of physical beauty. An eerier and more powerful tale than " Olalla " it would not be easy to discover.
After all, however, it is in "The Treasure of Franchard" that Mr. Stevenson shows ns how dramatic ie his humour, and how humorous his drama can be. Two more brilliantly painted figures than Dr. Desprez and his wife our English fiction could hardly produce,—two stranger mixtures of selfishness and kindliness, of materialism and a gasconading kind of idealism, of egotism and disinterestedness. The flourishes of the atheistic French philosopher,—his fantastic reveries, his indignation when he is expected to be inconsistent with himself, his still greater indignation when he is expected to be consistent with himself, his sudden loss of self-control, and his sudden recovery of it, his theatrical gloom and childlike gaiety, his ostentatious scepticism and his equally ostentatious display of whole- some feeling, his gratitude for small things and his elas- ticity under great misfortunes,—are all painted so vividly and within such small compass, that one could fancy one had known him all one's life. And if Madame Desprez ie not quits so finished a picture, Jean-Marie, the adopted son, with his per- fect simplicity, the deep convictions which take hold of him, and his slow, undemonstrative ways, is an almost more original picture still. Take the following scene, in which Dr. Desprez breaks to his wife his intention to adopt the homeless boy who had been taught to tumble for his livelihood by the mountebank who had just breathed his last The midday meal was excellent. There was a ripe melon, a fish from the river in a memorable Namable sauce, a fat fowl in a fricassee, and a dish of asparagus, followed by some fruit. The Doctor drank half a bottle plus one glass, the wife half a bottle minus the same quantity, which was a marital privilege, of an excellent Cdte-R6tie, seven years old. Then the coffee was brought, and a flask of Chartreuse for madame, for the Doctor despised and dia. trusted such decoctions ; and then Aline left the wedded pair to the pleasures of memory and digestion. 'It is a very fortunate circum- stance, my cherished one,' observed the Doctor= this coffee is adorable—a very fortunate circumstance upon the whole—Anastasie, I beseech you, go without that poison for to-day ; only one day, and you will feel the benefit, I pledge my reputation. —` What is this for- tunate circumstance, my friend ?' inquired Anastasia, not heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence.—' That we have no children, my beautiful,' replied the Dodos. I think of it more and more as the years go on, and with more and more gratitude towards the Power that dispenses such afflictions. Your health, my darling, my studious quiet, our little kitchen delicacies, how they would all have suffered, how they would all have been sacrificed ! And for what ? Children are the last word of human imperfection. Health flees before their face. They cry, my dear ; they put vexatious questions ; they demand to be fed, to be washed, to be educated, to have their noses blown ; and then, when the time comes, they break our hearts, as I break this piece of sugar. A pair of professed egoists like you and me, should avoid offspring, like an infidelity.' —` Indeed !' said she ; and she laughed. Now, that is like you—to take credit for the thing yon could not help.'—' My dear,' returned the Doctor, solemnly, we might have adopted.'—' Never !' cried madame. 'Never, Doctor, with my consent. If the child were my own flesh and blood, I would not say no. But to take another person's indiscretion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much sense.'—'Preoisely,' replied the Doctor. We both had. And I am all the better pleased with our wisdom, because—because—' He looked at her sharply.= Because what ?' she asked, with a faint premonition of danger.—' Because I have found the right person,' said the Doctor firmly, 'and shall adopt him this afternoon.2—Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. You have lost your reason,' she said ; and there was a clang in her voice that seemed to threaten trouble.' Not so, my dear,' he replied ; ' I retain its complete exercise. To the proof : instead of attempting to cloak my inconsistency, I have, by way of preparing you, thrown it into strong relief. You will there, I think, recognise the philosopher who has the ecstasy to call you wife. The fact is, I have been reckoning all this while without an accident. I never thought to find a eon of my own. Now, last night, I found one. Do not nuances- eerily alarm yourself, my dear; he is not a drop of blood to me that I know. It is his mind, darling, his mind that calls me father.'- ' His mind she repeated, with a titter between scorn and hysterics. • His mind, indeed ! Henri, ie this an idiotic pleasantry, or are you mad ? His mind ! And what of my mind ?'—' Truly,' replied the Doctor with a shrug, ' you have your finger on the hitch. He will be strikingly antipathetic to my ever beautiful Anastasio. She will never understand him ; he will never understand her. You married the animal side of my nature, deer; and it is on the spiritual aide that I find my affinity for Jean-Mario. So much so, that, to be per- fectly frank, I stand in some awe of him myself. You will easily perceive that I am announcing a calamity for you. Do not,' he broke out is tones of real solicitude—' do not give way to tears after a meal, Anastasio. You will certainly give yourself a false digestion.' —Anaetasie controlled herself, ' You know how willing I am to humour you,' she said, in all reasonable matters. But on this point My dear love,' interrupted the Doctor, eager to prevent a refusal, ' who wished to leave Paris ? Who made me give up cards, and the opera, and the boulevard, and my social relations, and all that was my life before I knew you Have I been faithful ? Have I been obedient ? Have I not borne my doom with cheerfulness ? In all honesty, Anastasie, have I not a right to a stipulation on my side I have, and you know it. I stipulate my sm.—Anastasia was aware of defeat; she struck her colours instantly.—' You will break my heart,' she sighed.—' Not in the least,' said he. 'You will feel a trifling inconvenience for a month, just as I did when I was first brought to this vile hamlet; then your admirable sense and temper will prevail, and I see you already as content as ever, and making your husband the happiest of men.'—' Yon know I can refuse you nothing,' she said, with a last flicker of resistance ; nothing that will snake you truly happier. But will this ? Are you sure, my husband ? Last night, you say, you found Lim ! He may be the worst of humbugs.'—' I think not,' replied the Doctor. But do not sup- pose me so unwary as to adopt him out of hand. I am, I flatter myself, a finiehed man of the world ; I have had all possibilities in view ; my plan is contrived to meet them all. I take the lad as stable.boy. If he pilfer, if he grumble, if he desire to change, I shall see I was mis- taken ; I shall recognise him for no son of mine, and send him tramping.'—' You will never do so when the time comes,' said his wife; 'I know your good heart.' She reached out her hand to him, with a sigh ; the Doctor smiled as he took it and carried it to his lips; he had gained his point with greater ease than he had dared to hope; for perhaps the twentieth time he had proved the efficacy of his trusty argument, his Excalibur, the hint of a return to Paris. sir months in the capital, for a man of the Doctor's antecedents and relations, implied no lees a calamity than total ruin. Anastasie had saved the remainder of his fortune by keeping him strictly in the country. The very name of Paris put her in a bine fear ; and she would have allowed her husband to keep a menagerie in the back garden, let alone adopting a stable-boy, rather than permit the quea. Lion of return to be discussed."
That is as good as anything that our fiction has produced for many years back. Nor is the early-morning conversation between the Doctor and the child Jean-Marie which preceded
this resolve, at all inferior.to it in brightness. The Doctor is up very early. He prides himself on his early rising. " I rise earlier than any one else in the village,' he once boasted ; it ie a fair consequence that I know more, and wish to do lees with my knowledge.'" In such a frame of mind, he comes across the mountebank's boy, who is also up early :- " On one of the posts before Tentaillon's carriage entry he espied a little dark figure perched in a meditative attitude, and immediately recognised Jean-Marie. 'Abe !' he said, stopping before him humor- ously, with a hand on either knee. So we rise early in the morning, do-we ? It appears to me that we have all the vices of a philosopher.' —The boy got to his feet and made a grave salutation.—' And how is our patient 1' asked Deeprez.—It appeared the patient was about the same.' And why do you rise early in the morning ?' he pursued. —Teas.Marie, after a long silence, professed that he hardly knew.- ' You hardly know 1' repeated Deeprez. ' We hardly know anything, my man, until we try to learn. Interrogate your consciousness. Come, push me this inquiry home. Do you like it ?'—' Yes,' said the boy slowly ; yes, I like And wby do yon like it ?' continued the Doctor. (We axe now pureeing the Socratio method.) Why do you like it ?'—'It is quiet,' answered Jean-Marie ; 'and I have nothing to do; and then I feel as if I were good:— Doctor Desprez took a seat on the poet at the opposite aide. He was beginning to take an interest in the talk, for the boy plainly thought before he spoke, and tried to answer truly. ' It appears you have a taste for feeling good,' said the Doctor. 'Now, there you puzzle me extremely ; for I thought you said you were a thief ; and the two are incompatible." —` Is it very bad to steal ?' asked Jean•Marie.' Such is the general opinion, little boy,' replied the Doctor.—' No; but I mean as I stole, explained the other. ' For I had no choice. I think it is surely right to have bread ; it must be right to have bread, there comes so plain a want of it. And then they beat me cruelly if I returned with nothing,' he added. 'I was not ignorant of right and wrong ; for before that I had been well taught by a priest, who was very kind to me.' (The Doctor made a horrible grimace at the word priest:), 'But it seemed to me, when one had nothing to eat and was beaten, it was a different affair. I would not have stolen for tartlete, I believe ; but any one would steal for baker's bread.'—' And so I suppose,' said the Doctor, with a rising sneer, you prayed God to forgive you, and explained the case to Him at length.' Why, Sir ?' asked Jean- Maria. I do not see.'—' Your priest would see, however,' retorted Desprez.—• Would he ?' asked the boy, troubled for the first time.. ' I should have thought God would have known.'—' Eh 1' snarled the Doctor.—'I should have thought God would have understood me,' replied the other. ' You do not, I see ; but then it was God that made me think so, was it not ?'—' Little boy, little boy,' said Dr.. Despres, told you already you had the vices of philosophy; if you display the virtues also, I must go. I am a student of the blessed laws of health, an observer of plain and temperate nature in her common walks ; and I cannot preserve my equanimity in presence of a monster. Do you understand ?'—' No, Sir,' said the boy.—' I wilt make my meaning clear to you,' replied the Doctor. ' Look there at the sky—behind the belfry first, where it is so light, and then up and up, turning your chin back, right to the top of the dome, where it ia already as blue as at noon. Is not that a beautiful colour ? DOSS it not please the heart ? We have seen it all our lives, until it has grown in with our familiar thoughts. Now,' changing his tones, 'suppose that sky to become suddenly of a live and fiery amber, like- the colour of clear coals, and growing scarlet towards the top—I do not say it would be any the less beautiful; but would you like it as well r—' I suppose not,' answered Jean.Marie.= Neither do I like yon,' returned the Doctor, roughly. hate all odd people, and you are the most curious little boy in all the world: —Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and then he raised his bead again and looked over at the Doctor with an air of candid inquiry. 'Bat are not you a very curious gentleman ?' he asked.—The Doctor threw away his stick, bounded on the boy, clasped him to his bosom, and kissed him on both cheeks. 'Admirable, admirable imp !' he cried. ' What a morning, what an hour for a theorist of forty-two ! No,' he con- tinued, apostrophising heaven, I did not know each boys existed ; I was ignorant they made them so ; I had doubted of my race ; and now ! It is like,' be added, picking up his stick, 'like a lovers' meeting. I have bruised my favourite staff in that moment of enthu- siasm. The injury, however, is not grave.' He caught the boy looking at him in obvious wonder, embarrassment, and shuns. `Hullo !' said he, why do yen look at me like that ? Egad, I believe the boy despises me. Do you despise me, boy 0, no,' replied. Jean-Marie, seriously ; 'only I do not understand-'—' You must excuse me, Sir,' returned the Doctor, with gravity; 'I am still en young. 0, hang him!' he added to himself. And he took his seat again and observed the boy sardonically."
We do not think it would be easy within the same space to present three more striking portraits than those of these three persons, nor to make any figures live more truly than Mr. Stevenson makes these live within the narrow limits of eighty not very full
pages. We shall say nothing of the course of the story, except that it is admirably adapted to give ne an even more vivid con-
ception of these three characters than any dialogue, however skilful and dramatic, could give. No man without the most definite genius could have written this tale, or, indeed, for that
matter, much the greater part of this little volume.
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