第45章 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN'S ESTIMATE(2)
Englander of Holmes's Brahmin caste, who might have come from Harvard or Yale.But as he grew animated I thought, as others have thought, and as one would suspect from his name, that he must have Scandinavian blood in his veins - that he was of the heroic, restless, strong and tender Viking strain, and certainly from that day his works and wanderings have not belied the surmise.He told me that he was the author of that charming book of gipsying in the Cevennes which just then had gained for him some attentions from the literary set.But if I had known that he had written those two stories of sixteenth-century Paris - as I learned afterwards when they reappeared in the NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS - I would not have bidden him good-bye as to an 'unfledged comrade,' but would have wished indeed to 'grapple him to my soul with hooks of steel.'
"Another point is made clear as crystal by his life itself.He had the instinct, and he had the courage, to make it the servant, and not the master, of the faculty within him.I say he had the courage, but so potent was his birth-spell that doubtless he could not otherwise.Nothing commonplace sufficed him.A regulation stay-at-home life would have been fatal to his art.The ancient mandate, 'Follow thy Genius,' was well obeyed.Unshackled freedom of person and habit was a prerequisite; as an imaginary artist he felt - nature keeps her poets and story-tellers children to the last - he felt, if he ever reasoned it out, that he must gang his own gait, whether it seemed promising, or the reverse, to kith, kin, or alien.So his wanderings were not only in the most natural but in the wisest consonance with his creative dreams.Wherever he went, he found something essential for his use, breathed upon it, and returned it fourfold in beauty and worth.The longing of the Norseman for the tropic, of the pine for the palm, took him to the South Seas.There, too, strange secrets were at once revealed to him, and every island became an 'Isle of Voices.' Yes, an additional proof of Stevenson's artistic mission lay in his careless, careful, liberty of life; in that he was an artist no less than in his work.He trusted to the impulse which possessed him - that which so many of us have conscientiously disobeyed and too late have found ourselves in reputable bondage to circumstances.
"But those whom you are waiting to hear will speak more fully of all this - some of them with the interest of their personal remembrance - with the strength of their affection for the man beloved by young and old.In the strange and sudden intimacy with an author's record which death makes sure, we realise how notable the list of Stevenson's works produced since 1878; more than a score of books - not fiction alone, but also essays, criticism, biography, drama, even history, and, as I need not remind you, that spontaneous poetry which comes only from a true poet.None can have failed to observe that, having recreated the story of adventure, he seemed in his later fiction to interfuse a subtler purpose - the search for character, the analysis of mind and soul.
Just here his summons came.Between the sunrise of one day and the sunset of the next he exchanged the forest study for the mountain grave.There, as he had sung his own wish, he lies 'under the wide and starry sky.' If there was something of his own romance, so exquisitely capricious, in the life of Robert Louis Stevenson, so, also, the poetic conditions are satisfied in his death, and in the choice of his burial-place upon the top of Pala.As for the splendour of that maturity upon which we counted, now never to be fulfilled on sea or land, I say - as once before, when the great New-England romancer passed in the stillness of the night:
"'What though his work unfinished lies? Half bent The rainbow's arch fades out in upper air, The shining cataract half-way down the height Breaks into mist; the haunting strain, that fell On listeners unaware, Ends incomplete, but through the starry night The ear still waits for what it did not tell.'"
Dr Edward Eggleston finely sounded the personal note, and told of having met Stevenson at a hotel in New York.Stevenson was ill when the landlord came to Dr Eggleston and asked him if he should like to meet him.Continuing, he said:
"He was flat on his back when I entered, but I think I never saw anybody grow well in so short a time.It was a soul rather than a body that lay there, ablaze with spiritual fire, good will shining through everywhere.He did not pay me any compliment about my work, and I didn't pay him any about his.We did not burn any of the incense before each other which authors so often think it necessary to do, but we were friends instantly.I am not given to speedy intimacies, but I could not help my heart going out to him.
It was a wonderfully invested soul, no hedges or fences across his fields, no concealment.He was a romanticist; I was - well, I don't know exactly what.But he let me into the springs of his romanticism then and there.
"'You go in your boat every day?' he asked.'You sail? Oh! to write a novel a man must take his life in his hands.He must not live in the town.' And so he spoke, in his broad way, of course, according to the enthusiasm of the moment.
"I can't sound any note of pathos here to-night.Some lives are so brave and sweet and joyous and well-rounded, with such a completeness about them that death does not leave imperfection.He never had the air of sitting up with his own reputation.He let his books toss in the waves of criticism and make their ports if they deserve to.He had no claptrap, no great cause, none of the disease of pruriency which came into fashion with Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant.He simply told his story, with no condescension, taking the readers into his heart and his confidence."