BOOKS.

STEVENSON'S PERSONALITY.*

THERE is no need to sketch for any one in the least acquainted with modern literature the broad outline of Stevenson's varied and romantic life. There is no need to describe his views, his character, his personality. Seldom, perhaps, has there been a man of letters so well known to the world; and yet Stevenson was made notorious by no scandal, and never coveted a personal publicity. The reason is in part that his writings

• The Life of Itebert Louis Stevenson. By Graham 13aUour. 2 rola. Loudon: Methuen and Co. [25e. net..1

were to an unusual degree autobiographic, but in a very much greater measure that he possessed an extraordinary and most communicable charm. What we know of him only makes us desirous to know more, and Mr. Balfour's book is sure of a wide public. And let us say at once, the public will not be disappointed. Those who love Stevenson will find in it the pleasure that he spoke of himself,—to delve into the past of a friend and "find him better at every spadeful." On the other hand, where so much is known, the most a biographer can hope is to fill in the outline at certain points, whether in depicting the career or the personality ; and for the first volume and a half Mr. Balfour's book adds not greatly to our knowledge. The story is told competently —to a large extent in Stevenson's own words — yet even those who know well the published writings will probably find much that they are glad to be reminded of. They will also find new facts, of which the most important perhaps relate to money. In his youth Stevenson was, in theory, kept too short of cash. His prodigal generosity, however, gave some reason for the method, and when he did come into possession of £1,000 it melted like snow in spring. A pretty trait of character hangs on the pleasant tale of Providence and the Guitar, "based upon a story told by a strolling French actor and his Bulgarian wife, who had stayed at Grez." "When the story appeared he sent to the pair the money it brought him, and rec eived a most charming letter of thanks, which unfortunately has disappeared." The story of Jekyll and Hyde, its incept oa and execution, is one of the romances of the profession. Conceived in an ecstasy of excitement, it was entirely recast by the author on a hint from his most tried and trusted critic, and Mrs. Stevenson came upstairs to find her Invalid in bed with a pile of ashes beside him. Recognising the justice of her criticism that the work should be an allegory, and he had made it a story, he had burnt the entire work in the original draft lest he should be tempted to use too much of it in rewriting. It was an act of heroism, for the story as he first wrote it—more on the lines of Markheim—had taken the strongest hold of him. Yet, what with writing and rewriting, it was rough hewn into its present shape within three days. Interesting also is the origin of The Master of Ballantrae. In a bitter winter at Saranac, the story of a buried and resuscitated fakir, told long before by an Anglo-Indian, recurred to Stevenson's memory, and transferred itself to those icy surroundings. The situation thus conceived as a dkauement to be led up to, then suddenly presented itself us the final tableau of a Highland story invented long before. The work was completed under circumstances more than usually adverse, and, as Mr. Balfour admits, the fusion between the parts thus separately con- ceived was never perfect. On the much-discussed question of the three collaborations we have now full enlightenment. Devotees of The Wrong Box will be interested to hear that it belongs more to Mr. Osbourne than either of the others ; also (which seems to follow) that Pinkerton is in large part due to the younger man. We would welcome a history of Pinkerton's later ventures, if Mr. Osbourne could contrive to write it.

However, all this is at best of secondary interest, and it must be confessed that up to the Sampan period we were inclined to deplore the fact that this book had been written by Mr. Balfour; for the excellent reason that it could have been so much better written by Mr. Colvin. For up to this point we are given no view of the man from outside, no real biography, but fragments of autobiography dovetailed—not unskilfully—together. From a writer of Mr. Colvin's standing we should have got something very different; an independent and coherent work of art; a portrait of his friend drawn by a skilled hand. And let us say that there is still room for that portrait and it ought to be drawn. Stevenson as Mr. Cob-in and so many others knew him deserves more than the several brief sketches that we have from Mr. Colvin him- self, Mr. Gosse, Mr. Henley, and others. But the latter half of Mr. Balfour's second volume will always be indispensable to any judgment of Stevenson, for Mr. Balfour was closely associated with, and has excellently described, the man in what was almost a. different incarnation; living the full life of a man among men, On quite another battlefield than that "dingy and inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle." And when Mr. Balfour comes to describe that vivid and fertile life in which he was a part, the narrative takes a sudden lift, the character of the book changes, and the biographer, ceasing to be a compiler, becomes the recorder of a personal impression.

The keynote of that impression is given in a single sentence. "Through life he did the thing he was doing as if it were the one thing in the world that was worth being done." The South Seas gave him a new lease of life, not a long one certainly, but a lease of life with all its faculties, and he was not the man to neglect the boon. Having to live in the South Seas, he flung himself into their life as if he were playing a game; and he played it for all it was worth. No human being who came into contact with him was ever treated as a machine or a functionary ; he was always anxious to establish real relations. And so, having to live among the Samoans, he took his part in their interests, and behaved as he held that a white man should behave. We know the reward of his counsel and sympathy in the Road of Love, but we had not realised before perhaps what it cost him in small ways to establish the sympathy and become trusted as a counsellor.

Perhaps one had not realised, either, what the existence of Stevenson's house meant to the white men living in Samoa :—

"The departure of one of these old traders was most character- istic, and would hardly, I think, occur in just the same way outside the South Seas. He had come from his island ; he had made his way to Vailima and renewed his friendship ; he had enjoyed himself, and received such kindness and consideration as perhaps he did not often get. When he rose to take his leave, 'Now don't move,' he said, • don't one of you move. Just let me take a last look of you all, sitting there on that verandah, and I shall have that always to think of, when I'm away: " What he gave was not merely hospitality, civilities, nor even the wild joys of the wonderful balls which are here for the

first time described. To Stevenson's funeral only close friends were invited, but there appeared also "a tall gaunt stranger ":

"He came up and apologised for his presence, and said he could not keep away, for Stevenson had saved him one day when he was at his lowest ebb. I was wandering despondently along the road, and I met Mr. Stevenson, and I don't know whether it was my story, or that he saw I was a Scotchman, but he gave me twenty dollars and some good advice and encouragement. I took heart again, and I am getting on all right now, but if I hadn't met Mr. Stevenson' and he hadn't helped me, I should have killed myself that day.' And the tears ran down his face."

As Mr. Balfour says, it was not the gift, but the words that accompanied the gift, which did the true service. Stevenson had the courage to speak when it was easier to be silent; indeed, it was a principle with him among strangers to combat the impulse to leave unsaid what rose to the lips. It is not a plan which all could follow wi.Ji advantage, though. perhaps,

all should try. But Stevenson had the magical gift of charm, and the finest passage in Mr. Balfour's summing-up of his character testifies to the use he made of it :—

" There was thi3 about him, that he was the only man I have ever known who possessed charm in a high degree, whose character did not suffer from the possession. The gift comes naturally to women, and they are at their best in its exercise. But a man requires to be of a very sound fibre before he can be entirely him- self and keep his h >art single, if he carries about with him a talisman to obtain trom all men and all women the object of his heart's desire. Both gifts Stevenson possessed, not only the magic, but also the strength of character to which it was safely intrusted."

It is scarcely possible for one man to pay a higher tribute to another, and we have read nothing that threw more light on the secret of his personality. Yet hardly less illuminating is

a comment of his own. He was reai. iIg Don Quixote, and shut the book saying "That's me." We must add a word of praise f ar Mr. Balfour's description of Vailima,—the first we have read that gave a clear picture of the house, and the house was as characteristic of its owner and designer as one would expect it to be. And lastly, we should say that the picture of Stevenson in his twenty-seventh year, redrawn from a sketch made at Grez by the lady who afterwards became Mrs. Stevenson, is a great acquisition.

None of the other portraits convey as this does the boyishness of his young manhood, and the odd mixture of melancholy humour with the Autolycus twinkle in the eyes.