Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was a Scottish writer of international fame, known mainly for Treasure Island and The strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Novelist, poet, travel writer, Stevenson experimented with many genres: adventure, horror, travel…He was acclaimed in his time and is still acclaimed in ours, but was strangely dismissed as a second class author over many decades of the twentieth century, a strange time of cultural self-denial when moral intentions seemed to matter more than creativity. Stevenson was also an intensive traveller. He went to France numerous times, crossed the Atlantic, crossed the American continent, sailed to the South Pacific, and died in the South Seas aged forty-four.
Short biography
Stevenson was born Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson in Edinburgh on November 13th, 1850. His father was a successful lighthouse engineer. He did visit the western shores of Scotland in his young age, accompanying his father, found more interest in the sceneries which had already inspired Walter Scott than in civil engineering, and it is from the exposure to Celtic verbal culture over these travels that he drew his art of story-telling. Three things had a profound influence on Stevenson’s early life, therefore influencing his future as a writer: his weak health, explaining why he would eventually die supposedly of tuberculosis (although people now think it was a different disease), and why Scottish winters were terrible, dark ordeals for him; his Presbyterian family, of which he did not share the religious views; and Edinburgh, that he chose to escape all his life, even though it had a profound influence on his aesthetic view of the world, its dark, dreary side, its physical contrast between good and evil… He attended Edinburgh University, chose not pursue engineering as a career, and studied law. He became increasingly bohemian, let his hair grow, belonged to the LJR club (Liberty, Justice, Reverence), something which his father eventually discovered much to his discomfort: “Disregard everything our parents have taught us”, so goes the preamble of the LJR constitution.
Stevenson then took part in literary circles. He met Leslie Stephen from the Cornhill magazine, who liked Stevenson’s work, and then introduced him to William Ernest Henley, a man with a wooden leg who would then become a close friend and also the model for Long John Silver of Treasure Island. It is because of health reasons that Stevenson started travelling, first to Menton in 1873; then back in Scotland, he finished his studies but never practised law. And he travelled again, mainly in France, Grez-sur-Loing, Fontainebleau and Paris, where he also spent time within the local Bohemian circles. He made a canoe voyage with Walter Simpson between Belgium and France, true story which would become the basis for his first book, An Inland voyage. At the end of the canoe voyage, he also met Fanny Van de Grift Osbourne. He would later fall for her and become her lover. He travelled to the Cévennes, which would inspire another book, Travels with a donkey in the Cévennes. He then decided to join Fanny and embarked for America. He arrived in New York and travelled to California by train, eventually reaching Monterey. He was once again fighting against his poor health, and had to wait before making the trip to San Francisco, where he finally found Fanny. He married her in 1880, they spent time in the Napa Valley, and together travelled back to Britain.
Between 1880 and 1887, Stevenson continued to struggle with his health, and regularly changed residence, living in Scotland and England, but mainly Bournemouth, Poole, Dorset, and France in the winter. This is during this period that he wrote his most famous works: The strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Treasure Island, Kidnapped, The black arrow.
In 1888, he chose to leave Britain and travel to the South Seas. This is where he would spend the rest of his life and die. His first port of call was San Francisco, then Hawaï, then Tahiti, New Zealand and finally Samoa. He wrote “In the South seas” as an account of his South Pacific trips. He settled in Valima, a village situated in the Samoan island of Upola, where he managed to be in very friendly terms with the locals whilst managing the colonial authorities. He asked many of his friends from Britain to come and visit him, but none of them ever did. After being very concerned he was losing his creative streak, he produced interesting work in the last few years: “Catriona” (or David Balfour), and also “Weir of Hermiston”, which he never finished but that he considered to be his best. He then died aged forty-four of a cerebral haemorrhage. Tusitala (or “story-teller”, his Samoan name) was buried on Mount Vaea.
Stevenson’s heritage
At the end of the Nineteenth century, along with Kipling, Stevenson was one of the most popular writers. The diversity of Stevenson’s work, adventure, travel writing, “gothic” tales, meant later literary authorities struggled to put him in a category, explaining why both in France and in England he came to be considered as a second class writer, or a children’s writer (witness the proliferation of shortened versions and adaptations of Treasure Island). In France, the “high brow-ness” of the Structuralist phase, with its theoretical, uncompromising approach to writing, its emphasis on style over content, its willingness to break with the past at any cost, its disdain of minor genres, its rejection of narrative, all this meant Stevenson was forgotten. Fortunately, he has come back in recent years, and more and more people now appreciate him for what he is: a prolific, extraordinary story-teller and writer.
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To write with authority about another man, we must have fellow-feeling and some common ground of experience with our subject. We may praise or blame according as we find him related to us by the best or worst in ourselves; but it is only in virtue of some relationship that we can be his judges, even to condemn. Feelings which we share and understand enter for us into the tissue of the man’s character; those to which we are strangers in our own experience we are inclined to regard as blots, exceptions, inconsistencies, and excursions of the diabolic; we conceive them with repugnance, explain them with difficulty, and raise our hands to heaven in wonder when we find them in conjunction with talents that we respect or virtues that we admire. David, king of Israel, would pass a sounder judgment on a man than either Nathaniel or David Hume. Now, Principal Shairp’s recent volume, although I believe no one will read it without respect and interest, has this one capital defect—that there is imperfect sympathy between the author and the subject, between the critic and the personality under criticism. Hence an inorganic, if not an incoherent, presentation of both the poems and the man. Of Holy Willie’s Prayer, Principal Shairp remarks that “those who have loved most what was best in Burns’s poetry must have regretted that it was ever written.” To the Jolly Beggars, so far as my memory serves me, he refers but once; and then only to remark on the “strange, not to say painful,” circumstance that the same hand which wrote the Cotter’s Saturday Night should have stooped to write the Jolly Beggars. The Saturday Night may or may not be an admirable poem; but its significance is trebled, and the power and range of the poet first appears, when it is set beside the Jolly Beggars. To take a man’s work piecemeal, except with the design of elegant extracts, is the way to avoid, and not to perform, the critic’s duty. The same defect is displayed in the treatment of Burns as a man, which is broken, apologetical, and confused. The man here presented to us is not that Burns, teres atque rotundus—a burly figure in literature, as, from our present vantage of time, we have begun to see him. This, on the other hand, is Burns as he may have appeared to a contemporary clergyman, whom we shall conceive to have been a kind and indulgent but orderly and orthodox person, anxious to be pleased, but too often hurt and disappointed by the behaviour of his red-hot protégé, and solacing himself with the explanation that the poet was “the most inconsistent of men.” If you are so sensibly pained by the misconduct of your subject, and so paternally delighted with his virtues, you will always be an excellent gentleman, but a somewhat questionable biographer. Indeed, we can only be sorry and surprised that Principal Shairp should have chosen a theme so uncongenial. When we find a man writing on Burns, who likes neither Holy Willie, nor the Beggars, nor the Ordination, nothing is adequate to the situation but the old cry of Géronte: “Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère?” And every merit we find in the book, which is sober and candid in a degree unusual with biographies of Burns, only leads us to regret more heartily that good work should be so greatly thrown away.
It is far from my intention to tell over again a story that has been so often told; but there are certainly some points in the character of Burns that will bear to be brought out, and some chapters in his life that demand a brief rehearsal. The unity of the man’s nature, for all its richness, has fallen somewhat out of sight in the pressure of new information and the apologetical ceremony of biographers. Mr. Carlyle made an inimitable bust of the poet’s head of gold; may I not be forgiven if my business should have more to do with the feet, which were of clay?
Any view of Burns would be misleading which passed over in silence the influences of his home and his father. That father, William Burnes, after having been for many years a gardener, took a farm, married, and, like an emigrant in a new country, built himself a house with his own hands. Poverty of the most distressing sort, with sometimes the near prospect of a gaol, embittered the remainder of his life. Chill, backward, and austere with strangers, grave and imperious in his family, he was yet a man of very unusual parts and of an affectionate nature. On his way through life he had remarked much upon other men, with more result in theory than practice; and he had reflected upon many subjects as he delved the garden. His great delight was in solid conversation; he would leave his work to talk with the schoolmaster Murdoch; and Robert, when he came home late at night, not only turned aside rebuke but kept his father two hours beside the fire by the charm of his merry and vigorous talk. Nothing is more characteristic of the class in general, and William Burnes in particular, than the pains he took to get proper schooling for his boys, and, when that was no longer possible, the sense and resolution with which he set himself to supply the deficiency by his own influence. For many years he was their chief companion; he spoke with them seriously on all subjects as if they had been grown men; at night, when work was over, he taught them arithmetic; he borrowed books for them on history, science, and theology; and he felt it his duty to supplement this last—the trait is laughably Scottish—by a dialogue of his own composition, where his own private shade of orthodoxy was exactly represented. He would go to his daughter as she stayed afield herding cattle, to teach her the names of grasses and wild flowers, or to sit by her side when it thundered. Distance to strangers, deep family tenderness, love of knowledge, a narrow, precise, and formal reading of theology—everything we learn of him hangs well together, and builds up a popular Scotch type. If I mention the name of Andrew Fairservice, it is only as I might couple for an instant Dugald Dalgetty with old Marshal Loudon, to help out the reader’s comprehension by a popular but unworthy instance of a class. Such was the influence of this good and wise man that his household became a school to itself, and neighbours who came into the farm at meal-time would find the whole family, father, brothers, and sisters, helping themselves with one hand, and holding a book in the other. We are surprised at the prose style of Robert; that of Gilbert need surprise us no less; even William writes a remarkable letter for a young man of such slender opportunities. One anecdote marks the taste of the family. Murdoch brought Titus Andronicus, and, with such dominie elocution as we may suppose, began to read it aloud before this rustic audience; but when he had reached the passage where Tamora insults Lavinia, with one voice and “in an agony of distress” they refused to hear it to an end. In such a father and with such a home, Robert had already the making of an excellent education; and what Murdoch added, although it may not have been much in amount, was in character the very essence of a literary training. Schools and colleges, for one great man whom they complete, perhaps unmake a dozen; the strong spirit can do well upon more scanty fare.
Robert steps before us, almost from the first, in his complete character—a proud, headstrong, impetuous lad, greedy of pleasure, greedy of notice; in his own phrase “panting after distinction,” and in his brother’s “cherishing a particular jealousy of people who were richer or of more consequence than himself:” with all this, he was emphatically of the artist nature. Already he made a conspicuous figure in Tarbolton church, with the only tied hair in the parish, “and his plaid, which was of a particular colour, wrapped in a particular manner round his shoulders.” Ten years later, when a married man, the father of a family, a farmer, and an officer of Excise, we shall find him out fishing in masquerade, with fox-skin cap, belted great-coat, and great Highland broadsword. He liked dressing up, in fact, for its own sake. This is the spirit which leads to the extravagant array of Latin Quarter students, and the proverbial velveteen of the English landscape-painter; and, though the pleasure derived is in itself merely personal, it shows a man who is, to say the least of it, not pained by general attention and remark. His father wrote the family name Burnes; Robert early adopted the orthography Burness from his cousin in the Mearns; and in his twenty-eighth year changed it once more to Burns. It is plain that the last transformation was not made without some qualm; for in addressing his cousin he adheres, in at least one more letter, to spelling number two. And this, again, shows a man preoccupied about the manner of his appearance even down to the name, and little willing to follow custom. Again, he was proud, and justly proud, of his powers in conversation. To no other man’s have we the same conclusive testimony from different sources and from every rank of life. It is almost a commonplace that the best of his works was what he said in talk. Robertson the historian “scarcely ever met any man whose conversation displayed greater vigour;” the Duchess of Gordon declared that he “carried her off her feet;” and, when he came late to an inn, the servants would get out of bed to hear him talk. But, in these early days at least, he was determined to shine by any means. He made himself feared in the village for his tongue. He would crush weaker men to their faces, or even perhaps—for the statement of Sillar is not absolute—say cutting things of his acquaintances behind their back. At the church door, between sermons, he would parade his religious views amid hisses. These details stamp the man. He had no genteel timidities in the conduct of his life. He loved to force his personality upon the world. He would please himself, and shine. Had he lived in the Paris of 1830, and joined his lot with the Romantics, we can conceive him writing Jehan for Jean, swaggering in Gautier’s red waistcoat, and horrifying Bourgeois in a public café with paradox and gasconnade.
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Published by Les Éditions de Londres
©2016 – Les Éditions de Londres
ISBN: 978-1-910628-84-3