Stevenson at Manasquan

by Charlotte Eaton

I think that if there is any clue to the character of a great man we must look to his mother. Mrs. Stevenson embodied the idea of her son's peculiar charm; there was the same triumphal youthfulness, and her cheeks were round and rosy like a ripe apple.

I think of the mother now, after so many years, as the crowning influence of the day, quiet and reticent, but always felt, and honored by all as became the mother of our welcome guest.

In her letters, written in the Marquesas to her sister in Scotland, she carries out this impression of habitual freshness of spirit, and her humor is subtle and optimistic: "Nothing gives me more pleasure or a better appetite than an obstacle overcome." She shows herself the life of "The Silver Ship," as the people of Fakarava dubbed the Casco, and never a word of criticism or complaint is penned at any inconvenience or annoyance endured by the way. Indeed, one marvels at her tranquillity in the midst of so many complications—just as one wondered at the simplicity of Queen Victoria in her diary. One of the chief delights in the perusal of these letters is the questions they project into the mind of the reader. Is it a style, a native virtue, a mannerism, a fad, or what?

For example, she never suspects that the French man-o'-war in one of the bays may account for some of the good behavior of the natives, or that their bounty in cocoanuts and bread-fruit may be tendered with an eye to the novelties to be had in exchange, but accepts all in good faith, as part of their native generosity.

And what a joy it is to see her taking holy communion with these people, so lately reclaimed from cannabalism, and taking the ceremony "au grand serieux"! Thus, a missionary within, a warship without, the amenities of religion and society are enjoyed to the full.

One lays down these letters and laughs, many a time, where no laughter was intended. Certainly, she was a good mixer as well as the born mother of a genius.

Stevenson's death is an anomaly no less pathetic than his life, for in eluding extinction by consumption, he probably achieved a still earlier end by apoplexy. I had the account from Mrs. Low, who received it directly from "Fanny" by letter. Mrs. Stevenson was mixing a salad of native ingredients of which Stevenson was very fond, when he joined her in the kitchen, complaining that he was not very well, and sitting down, laid his head on her shoulder, where in about twenty minutes he expired.

I said at the beginning that I was not disappointed in the personality of Stevenson, but it would be nearer the mark to say that my anticipations fell far short of the reality.

It is often the case in meeting literary celebrities that one has the feeling that they are first authors, and after that men. Rodin, the French sculptor, focuses this idea by saying that "many are artists at the expense of some qualities of manhood." With Stevenson one was clearly in the presence of a man, and after that the scholar and the gentleman.

Was it not this fine distinction that, in spite of woolen shirt and a third-class transportation, awoke the suspicions of his companions of the steerage, that prompted the already quoted remark, "You are not one of us?"