Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (1071 page)

Here Stevenson found quarters curiously to his taste, which was simple, though discriminating. He lodged with the doctor, and for his meals went to a restaurant.

4 Of all my private collection of remembered inns and restaurants — and I believe it, other things being equal, to be unrivalled — one particular house of entertainment stands forth alone. I am grateful, indeed, to many a swinging signboard, to many a rusty wine-bush; but not with the same kind of gratitude. Some were beautifully situated, some had an admirable table, some were the gathering-places of excellent companions; but take them for all in all, not one can be compared with Simoneau’s at Monterey.

‘ To the front, it was part barber’s shop, part bar; to the back, there was a kitchen and a salle a manger. The 1 ‘The Old Pacific Capital,’ Across the Plains, p. 179.

intending diner found himself in a little, chill, bare, adobe room, furnished with chairs and tables, and adorned with some oil sketches roughly brushed upon the wall in the manner of Barbizon and Cernay. The table, at whatever hour you entered, was already laid with a not spotless napkin, and, by way of epergne, with a dish of green peppers and tomatoes, pleasing alike to eye and palate. If you stayed there to meditate before a meal, you would hear Simoneau all about the kitchen, and rattling among the dishes.’

The fragment breaks off, or we should have had a picture of M. Simoneau, the proprietor, with whom Stevenson 4 played chess and discussed the universe’ daily. At his table there ‘sat down, day after day, a Frenchman, two Portuguese, an Italian, a Mexican, and a Scotsman; they had for common visitors an American from Illinois, a nearly pure-blood Indian woman, and a naturalised Chinese; and from time to time a Switzer and a German came down from country ranches for the night,’

This society afforded Stevenson most of the diversion that he could now spare the time to enjoy. Of his adventures in the forest he has told us, and chiefly of that day when, setting fire to a tree in mere experiment and idleness of mind, he ran for his life in fear of being lynched. But during all these weeks he was working as he had hardly worked before. Half of a novel called A Vendetta in the West was written, and the whole of The Pavilion on the Links, which he had begun in London, was despatched to England. The scenery of the latter was, I believe, suggested by Dirleton in East Lothian, near North Berwick, and midway between Tantallon and Gullane, haunts of his boyhood, to which he returned in Catriona. At the same time he was writing up his emigrant experiences, about half of the original manuscript being completed at Monterey. There was a tiny local newspaper, The Monterey Californian, of which one of his friends was owner, editor, printer, and everything else, and to this Stevenson occasionally lent a hand. But he was still greatly agitated and worried, and though by this time word came from San Francisco that Mrs. Osbourne was well, and that matters were taking their course, the main object of his journey still seemed no nearer than before. The strain of exertion and anxiety was again too great, and 4 while leading a dull regular life in a mild climate,’ he developed pleurisy, and had for a few days to relax his exertions.

All this time he was the kindly and bright companion; his gaiety and courage never flagged. ‘ There is something in me worth saying,’ he wrote to Mr. Henley, 4 though I can’t find what it is just yet.’

About the middle of December he came to San Francisco, and there hired the most economical lodging he could find, at all compatible with the conditions of his work — a single room in a poor house in Bush Street. All his meals he took outside at some of the cheap restaurants; he lived at seventy cents a day, and worked yet harder than before. He made inquiries about work on the San Francisco Bulletin, but the payment offered by that newspaper for literary articles, which were all he was ready to undertake, was too small to be of any use to a writer so painstaking and so deliberate. The Bulletin afterwards accepted at its own rates a couple of papers which he had not written specially for it, but his connection with the San Francisco press was absolutely limited to this transaction.1

But the worst part of the change from Monterey was that he was thrown more upon himself. In place of the bright social life of the little Spanish town, a life such as is common on the Continent of Europe, but is hardly 1 ‘ There is no ground for the statement that he ever acted as a reporter for the Chronicle or any other San Francisco paper, the records of that journal bearing out the recollection of all his friends on this point’ (Times, 2nd July 1901). A legend that the San Francisco doctors refused him advice except for ready money seems equally unfounded.

to be found in England, he was plunged into the terrible solitude of a large city. On the 26th December he writes: ‘ For four days I have spoken to no one but my landlady or landlord, or to restaurant waiters. This is not a gay way to pass Christmas, is it?’ And again: ‘ After weeks in this city, I know only a few neighbouring streets; I seem to be cured of all my adventurous whims, and even of human curiosity, and am content to sit here by the fire and await the course of fortune/

It was in these days that he met that’ bracing, Republican postman in the city of San Francisco. I lived in that city among working folk, and what my neighbours accepted at the postman’s hands — nay, what I took from him myself — it is still distasteful to recall.’1

His friends were very few, and those of but a few weeks’ standing. They hardly extended, indeed, beyond Mr. Virgil Williams and his wife, the artist couple to whom The Silverado Squatters was afterwards dedicated, and Mr. Charles Warren Stoddard, whose picturesque lodging is commemorated in The Wrecker.

In Mr. Williams he found a man of great culture and refinement, a scholar as well as a painter, who was always ready to respond to his verses, and, together with his wife, able and eager to discuss the literatures of Europe. Their house was always open to Stevenson, and their only regret was that he could not come more frequently. To Mr. Stoddard also he was no less welcome a companion; from him he borrowed the delightful books of Herman Melville, Typee and Omooy and the South Sea Idylls,2 which charmed Stevenson alike with their subject and their style. So here in his darkest hour he received the second impulse, which in the end was to ‘ cast him out as by a freshet’ upon those 4 ultimate islands.’

1     Later Essays: Edinburgh Edition, p. 291.

2     Published in England by Mr. John Murray in 1874 as Summer Cruising in the South Seas, by Charles Warren Stoddard.

San Francisco itself was still far from a prosaic place; its early history and its large foreign population rendered it not less dangerous than picturesque. Kearney, the Irish demagogue, had only just ‘been snuffed out by Mr. Coleman, backed by his San Francisco Vigilantes and three Gatling guns.’ Stevenson himself was not without experiences,, perhaps less uncommon there at that time than in other large cities. ‘There are rough quarters where it is dangerous o’ nights; cellars of public entertainment which the wary pleasure-seeker chooses to avoid. Concealed weapons are unlawful, but the law is continually broken. One editor was shot dead while I was there; another walked the streets accompanied by a bravo, his guardian angel. I have been quietly eating a dish of oysters in a restaurant, where, not more than ten minutes after I had left, shots were exchanged and took effect; and one night, about ten o’clock, I saw a man standing watchfully at a street corner with a long Smith-and-Wesson glittering in his hand behind his back. Somebody had done something he should not, and was being looked for with a vengeance.’1

But his private needs now pressed upon him; money was growing scarce; the funds he had brought with him were exhausted, and those transmitted from England, being partly his own money and partly the payment for his recent work, very frequently failed to reach him. In the end of January he had to drop from a fifty cent to a twenty-five cent dinner, and already had directed his friend Mr. Charles Baxter to dispose of his books in Edinburgh and to send him the proceeds.

His diligence had not been without results. The Amateur Emigrant had been finished and sent home; likewise two Cornhill articles on Thoreau and Yoshida Torajiro. His interest in Japan was chiefly derived from his acquaintance with sundry Japanese who came to Edinburgh to study lighthouse engineering, with some 1 Pacific Capitals: Edinburgh Edition, p. 198.

of whom he afterwards for a while carried on correspondence.

The influence of America in literature during the nineteenth century has perhaps been most deeply exercised upon English authors through Hawthorne, Whitman, and Poe. Other names have been more widely celebrated, but these three have the most intimately affected their fellow-writers, and the influence of the two latter at any rate has been out of proportion to their achievement, With Stevenson Thoreau came after his countrymen in point of time, but the effect was even more considerable-: ‘I have scarce written ten sentences since I was introduced to Thoreau, but his influence might be somewhere detected by a close observer.’ Had Stevenson not now been on the threshold of marriage, he might yet more strongly have been affected by these ascetic and self-sufficing doctrines.

At this time Prince Otto began to suffer a resurrection out of one of his old plays, Semiramis, a Tragedy, but as yet it was known as The Greenwood State, a Romance. An article on Benjamin Franklin and the Art of Virtue was projected, and another upon William Penn, whose Fruits of Solitude now became a very favourite book with Stevenson. ‘A Dialogue between Two Puppets’1 was also written, and about the half of an autobiography in five books.2

His prospects were gloomy; for although the manuscripts he had sent home were accepted by editors, yet the judgment of his friends upon some of them was justly unfavourable, and at this crisis he could not afford rejection or even delay in payment.

His correspondence with his parents since his departure had been brief and unsatisfactory. His father, being imperfectly informed as to his motives and plans, naturally took that dark view of his son’s conduct to which his temperament predisposed him. But even so, hearing of 1 Miscellanea, p. 28.           2 See pp. 83, 86.

Louis’ earlier illness, he sent him a twenty-pound note, though, as fate would have it, this was one of the letters that miscarried.

Lonely, ill, and poor; estranged from his people, unsuccessful in his work, and discouraged in his attempt to maintain himself, Stevenson yet did not lose heart or go back for one moment from his resolution. He wrote to Mr. Baxter: 20 th Jan. — 41 lead a pretty happy life, though you might not think it. I have great fun trying to be economical, which I find as good a game of play as any other. I have no want of occupation, and though I rarely see any one to speak to, have little time to weary.’

4 However ill he might be,’ says Mrs. Williams, 4 or however anxious had been his vigils, he was always gay, eloquent, and boyish, with the peculiar youthfulness of spirit that was destined to last him to the end.’

He stuck to his work; even, a harder feat, he had the determination to give himself a week’s holiday. But though his spirit was indomitable, his physical powers were exhausted; his landlady’s small child was very ill, and he sat up nursing it. The child recovered, but Stevenson a short while afterwards broke down, and could go on no more.

He was, as he afterwards wrote to Mr. Gosse, on the verge of a galloping consumption, subject to cold sweats, prostrating attacks of cough, sinking fits in which he lost the power of speech, fever, and all the ugliest circumstances of the disease.1

Fortunately by this date his future wife had obtained her divorce, and was at liberty to give him as nurse those services, for which there was unfortunately only too frequent occasion during the next few years. It was a very anxious time, and he was nearer ‘ the grey ferry’ than he had been since childhood. Slowly he mended, and his recovery was helped by his letters and telegrams from home. Already by the middle of February he must 1 Letters, i. p. 169.

have heard that his father admitted that the case was not what he supposed, and that if there were as long a delay as possible, he was prepared to do his best in the matter. At that very date Mr. Stevenson was writing again that it was preposterous of Louis to scrimp himself, and that if he would inform him what money he wanted, it would be sent by telegram, if required. And early in April a telegram came, announcing to Louis that in future he might count upon two hundred and fifty pounds a year His gratitude was unbounded, he realised very clearly what his extremity had been and the fate from which he had been rescued.

To Mr. Baxter again he wrote: — ‘ It was a considerable shock to my pride to break down; but there — it’s done, and cannot be helped. Had my health held out another month, I should have made a year’s income; but breaking down when I did, I am surrounded by unfinished works. It is a good thing my father was on the spot, or I should have had to work and die.’

All obstacles were at last removed, and on May 19, 1880, Robert Louis Stevenson was married to Fanny Van de Grift at San Francisco, in the house of the Rev. Dr. Scott, no one else but Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Williams being present.

Of the marriage it need only be said that from the beginning to the end husband and wife were all in all to one another. His friends rejoiced to find in her, as Mr. Colvin says, ‘a character as strong, interesting, and romantic almost as his own; an inseparable sharer of all his thoughts, and staunch companion of all his adventures; the most open-hearted of friends to all who loved him; the most shrewd and stimulating critic of his work; and in sickness, despite her own precarious health, the most devoted and most efficient of nurses.’1

Two years before his death Stevenson wrote, in refer- 1 Letters, vol. i. p. 179.

ence to another love match: 4 To be sure it is always annoying when people choose their own wives; and I know only one form of consolation — they know best what they want. As I look back, I think my marriage was the best move I ever made in my life. Not only would I do it again; I cannot conceive the idea of doing otherwise.’