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
cataracthalf-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."
CHAPTER XX - EGOTISTIC ELEMENT AND ITS EFFECTS
FROM these sources now traced out by us - his youthfulness of
spirit, his mystical bias, and
tendency to dream - symbolisms
leading to
disregard of common feelings - flows too often the
indeterminateness of Stevenson's work, at the very points where for
direct interest there should be decision. In THE MASTER OF
BALLANTRAE this leads him to try to bring the balances even as
regards our interest in the two brothers, in so far justifying from
one point of view what Mr Zangwill said in the
quotation we have
given, or, as Sir Leslie Stephen had it in his second
series of the
STUDIES OF A BIOGRAPHER:
"The younger brother in THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE, who is black-
mailed by the utterly reprobate master, ought surely to be
interesting instead of being simply
sullen and dogged. In the
later adventures, we are invited to
forgive him on the ground that
his brain has been
affected: but the
impression upon me is that he
is sacrificed throughout to the interests of the story [or more
strictly for the
working out of the problem as
originally conceived
by the author]. The curious
exclusion of women is natural in the
purely
boyish stories, since to a boy woman is simply an
incumbrance upon
reasonable modes of life. When in CATRIONA
Stevenson introduces a love story, it is still unsatisfactory,
because David Balfour is so much the undeveloped animal that his
passion is
clumsy, and his charm for the girl unintelligible. I
cannot feel, to say the truth, that in any of these stories I am
really among living human beings with whom, apart from their