STEVENSON'S LETTERS.

Dominion, Volume 4, Issue 1174, 8 July 1911, Page 9

STEVENSON'S LETTERS.

lo - so Upon the new four-volumo collection of E. L. Stevenson's letters, the "Manchester ig Guardian" reviewer says:— The editor, Sir Sidney Colvin, claims :d for this new edition of Stevenson's letters that it is "definitive." For tho first time all the letters »je published together, the hitherto separately . published "Vailima a Letters" coming in their proper place in the chronology. More than that; a hun--10 drc-d and fifty new letters have been . added, dating from all periods of Stevenu son's life, but chiefly from the brilliant . and troubled days of his youth, and riving, as the editor says, "a picture, ptr- ■ haps unique in its kind, of a character and talent in the making." Many of his ■ letters, of course,, still remain never to sec tho light—letters dealing with matters too personal or intimate for publication; " and though it is rash to talk of finality in these days of literary enterprise and bookmaking, we cannot now hope, nor should we ask, for more. Sir Sidney Colvin has done his part of the business with a fine tact and judgmeut, holding a duo mean i, between frankness and reticence. If wo n were to quarrel with these volumes it f would be because, the admirable "Intro- •- duction" to tho earlier editions, which > with the notes affixed to the separate - chapters is the most illuminating bio-. : " graphical estimate of Stevenson that w;e n possess, is somewhat curtailed in this 0 new. edition. That, and a regret that the B publishers should have issued tho "definitive" edition of so important a work in little limplv bound books of pocket rise instead of the personable dark-blue buckram volumes we have known and loved so long, is all tho criticism one need make. Tho new letters affirm the wonderful ' impression of tho old, an impression so . vivid and at the same time so complex ' that it eludes analysis. Tho amazing brilliancy of the man; tho variety and vivacity of a mind which can bo gay . and serious, witty and profound, melancholy and farcical, all on the instant; the dualism of n nature that can he dissipated mid pleasure-loving at ono moment and a very pulpit moralist the next —how incomparable and intriguing and baffling it all is. What Stevenson was to some of his intimates the floating body of anecdote which sails round tin world about him from Edinburgh t( Samoa and tho flashing anger of Henloj at the stained-glass unrealities of hi' cousin's unfortunate "Life" bear suffi cient witness. But against Stevenson the curious amateur of life, who sought hi; experience in strange places and company, there has been set up the othei Stovenson who, to use a phrase from one of the new letters, was for ever "joining tho good and blessed in a forced march upon the new Jerusalem"—Stevenson tho moralist, the preacher, and (alas! on occasion) the prig- Solve the dualism, reconcile ) these contrary tendencies, and you explain the man. There are analogies to "help the solution; perhaps his enthusiasm for Villon—"student, poet, and housebreaker"—a lover of boon and base company with a..pretty, turn for edification along with it, was an answering echo to something in his own soul; perhaps his understanding of Burns, who had tlio samo double character as himself, but mixed in different proportions, sprang directly from a sympathy born in the knowledge of likenoss. It is a w.y easy thing to write down temperament in terms of nationality, but perhaps in Stevenson's case it is justest and safest --1 n find in this ~oif of morality and hedonism the essential 'fact in the character of his race. lii Stevenson tho oil., came to the surface, and lay thick and smooth and shining; iti Burns, it whs mixed and scattered through the wine: The mixture in Stevenson is illustrated in some passages of the newly-printed letters. Ho will write to his friend one of his long, flashing, vivid letters, about San Francisco, end it with a quito unedifying boast- of his talent as ,a conqueror, and then break oft into graves and epitaphs and the fervour of moral exhortation. Tho later part of the passage is worth quoting, because in it is the first hint of his most famous poom:— "Sketch of my tomb as follows:— If. L. S. Born 1850, of a family of engineers. Died ...... "JCitor aquis." Home is the sailor, homo from sea. And tho hunter home from tho hill. Von. who pass this grave, put aside hatred; love kindness; be all services remembered in your heart and all offences pardoned; and as you go down again among tho living let this bo your question: Can I make someone happier this day before I lie down to sleep? Thus tho dead man speaks to jou from the dust; you will hear no more from him." These volumes by tho publication of fresh loiters—mainly those to Mrs. Sitwell, the lady v;ho, in a critical period for his destiny, did'so much to holp and inspire him—give for. the first time a full account of those bitter struggles with his parents .which troubled his early manhood, and which by tho turn for seriousness and depth which they gave his character had so abiding an influence on his career. 'Theology in Scotland is many men's food and some men's poison. In the early 'seventies the inroads on orthodoxy made bv Darwinism and tho critical study of the Old Testament brought perturbation into many believing minds, roused tho young to revolt and the old to a fiercer tenacity of conviction, and ino.de peaceful households very epitomes of the battlefields of religious strife. The Stevenson household— because- Louis's eager and active mind strove to do battle for liberty and new ways of thinking—was rent in twain, and though there were temporary truces, the struggle hardly ended till "the father's death. Mrs. Situell was Stevenson's confidant in tho struggle. f 'l can scarcely see to write just now," he writes' one evening in the autumn of IS73:— "We have had an awful scene. All my father had to say has been put forth—not that it was anvthing new; only it is the devil to hear. I don't know what to do—the world goes hopelessly round about me; thr-ro is no more-, possibility of doing, living, being anvthing but a beast, and there's the cud of it." .Illness and absence brought a temporary reconciliation, but only temporary. From I'nris where at the age of 23, and before he went romantically to America, he was holidaying in Bohemia, he wrote his father a last appeal. Tho letter is concerned to prove Christianity a sysleni not of doctrine but of rondtict, and need not keep us, but the end is noteworthy. Ho seems himself to feel that it marks an epoch:— "I have taken a step towards more'intimalo relations with you. But don't expect too much of me. Try to take mo as I am. This is a rare moment and I have proßic-d bv it; but take it as a rare moment. Usually I hate to speak of what. ] really feel to that extent that when I find myself cornered I have a tendency to say the reverse." America brought complete rupture, sorrowfully and rravcly stated in a letter to }lr. tlos.si— a letter which for the first time mentions Mrs. Osbourne, soon to become his wife:— "I am now engaged to be married to the wtfiiian 1 have loved for three years and a half. I do not know when the marriage can come olf, for there are many reasons' for delay. But as few people before marriage have known each oilier so long, or made more trials of each other's tenderness and constancy, I permit myself to hope some quiet at the cud of 'it all. . . . Last, in the order that has changed my feelings my people have east me off, and so (hat thundercloud, as you may almost say, has overblown. Ynu know more than most people whether or not 1 loved my father. These, things are sad; nor can any man forgive himself for bringing them about; yet they am easier to meet in fact than by anticipation. [ almost trembled whether I was doing right until I was fairly summoned; then when 1 found that I was not. shaken oiie jot, that'l could grieve, that I could sharply blame myself for the past, and yet never hesitate one second as to mx

conduct in tho future, I believed my cause was just, and I leave it witli the Lord. I certainly look for 310 reward, nor any abiding city here or hereafter, but I please myself with hoping that mv lather will not always think so badly of my conduct, or so very slightinglv of my affection as ho does at present." The hope was justified; the old man found in his daughter-in-law a charming and sympathetic friend, and before ho died tho feud was over.

It is hardly possible to do more than hint at tho interest contained in 'he new letters, I outside this story. His struggles with despondency about his work-particularly in America, far from home and be=*t with illness-hard now "As for mv poor literature, dear Henley, you must expect for a time to find it worse and worse." ... "If you despised the 'Donkey,' d«ar J»y, you should have told me so at the rime, not reserved it for a sudden revelation just now, when I am down in health, wealth, and fortune. Never please delay such confidences any more. If they come quickly they aro a help; if they come alter long silence they feel almost a taunt. And later-"Do not damp me about my work, 'qu'elle soit bonne on mauvaise,' it lias to be'done. The wolf is at the door: it is a week since I bought ruysett a drink, and unless times change I do not suppose 1 shall over buv myself another." But times' did change, and success, through tho good offices of discerning editors, came more and more. When he returned to England he was, among the elect, . a well-known literary man. ■ /

The instinct of the craftsman, the dominating thing in his life, and perhaps for all his charms its only complete sincerity, infused and interpenetrated the letters in the earlier collections. One.remembers the shrewd.notes on Kipling, on Meredith, on Scott, above all, on his own work. Tho new letters show it working as strongly as the old. You can see him trying on his correspondents—notably on Mrs. Sitivel!, with' whom ho was never playful—turns of phrase and style that come out full-blown in the volumes of essays. And you can hear some newcomments on his art. It is with one of them,- answering a query about that masterpiece in horror "The Pavilion on the Links" that wo must close:—

"Auyhow it. was fun lo write, and if yon can interest a person for an hour and a half yon have not been idle. When I suffer in mind, stories arc my refuge; I take- them like opium; and I consider one who writes them as a sort of doctor of the mind. And frankly, it is not Shakespenre we'take to when we arc in a 'hot .corner; nor, certainly, George Eliotno, nor even Balzac. It is Charles Reade, or old Dninas. or the Arabian Nights, or the best of Walter Scott; it is stories we want, not the high poetic function which represents the world."