robert louis stevenson and his friends—stevenson as a roadmaker—timbo—stevenson on the schooner—the skipper—“tusitala” and the natives—conventionality—a visit to king malietoa—stevenson’s love of adventure—stevenson the writer—genius in the southern seas—socialism

i saw stevenson several times after that at society balls and concerts in apia, where sometimes he seemed full of merriment and indeed the life of the party, and again at other times strangely silent, revealing the man of moods. i have never heard that he was fond of being alone, but i can vouch for it that he was as often alone in his wanderings over the islands as he was with friends; indeed i think i saw him more often alone than otherwise. i met mr strong twice, i think, when he was with stevenson. mr moore too, who wrote with stevenson in samoa, was a pleasant man, and robert louis stevenson and he were as familiar as brothers.

almost the last time i saw stevenson was at the tivoli in apia; he was with mr moore and several other men whom i cannot recall. they were all taking refreshments and talking. stevenson was flushed a bit, his eyes were very bright, and with his hat off, revealing a lofty, pale brow, he looked unlike the ordinary run of men. he was in an excellent mood, and mr moore and another member of the party were so intensely amused at what he was saying that they almost upset their glasses and spluttered as they laughed; which gave stevenson very obviously great pleasure, for he was as fond of a joke as any of them.

on that special occasion i was in the company of the chief mate of a large schooner which was leaving apia the next day for honolulu. stevenson, or one of the party, called us across and offered us drinks and cigars. soon after my companion, who had to get on board his ship, left and i went with him; and as we got outside we still heard the jovial exclamations of stevenson and his friends as they yarned on, their voices fading behind us as we walked away into the moonlight and shadows of the coco-palms many years ago.

stevenson would often tackle rough work, such as tree-chopping and digging; and was often to be seen perspiring and covered with grime as he helped the natives to make tracks across the rough jungle and forest land that surrounded vailima. bare-footed, dressed in old clothes and a seaman’s cast-off cap, he looked like some vagabond dust-man. his manner to the natives who worked for him was jovial enough; he would shout: “go it, sambo, that’s right, te rom and te pakea[3] if you work hard”; and then with a twinkle in his eyes he’d stand and watch them lugging the wheelbarrows up the slope as they jabbered like school-children and worked their hardest. several of stevenson’s friends also worked with him: one of them would be cutting the trees down as the novelist smoked, and jocularly criticising him, telling him to “keep moving and not be such a loafer.” mrs stevenson arrived on the scene of hard work once and chided him for exerting himself. “don’t do that, dear, or you will be ill again,” she would say; and the novelist would look up and then work harder than ever.

3. meaning rum, refreshments and tobacco.

he was to be found in all the out-of-the-way places and would go miles alone, usually on foot; though he had an old horse or ass, i forget which, he seldom rode it.

one day i was walking along near the coast when a little native boy of about six years of age, came limping out of the jungle scrub just by the track. i picked the little fellow up and discovered he had trodden on some glass, and had a deep gash in his foot. as i was carrying him down to the shore to wash his wound, stevenson and a boy came strolling by. stevenson, who was always very kind to children, examined the wound, took out his pocket-handkerchief and bound the foot up, after we had well bathed it: his manner to the little outcast was one of extreme tenderness.

i was living with two kindly disposed old natives at that time, so i picked the child up and carried him home. we found out the next day that the poor little fellow’s parents had been drowned by the upsetting of a canoe in a typhoon off apia harbour. he was very thin and looked ill, so i gave my hosts some money and told them to feed him up, which they did. i became very fond of him; he had thick curls all over his head, and his cheery little brown face was lit up by a pair of beautiful brown eyes. he slept near me, and every morning he would jump off his bed-mat and caper about like a puppy and would insist in helping me put my boots on. he heard me play the violin and was deeply interested in it. i was always catching him looking at my violin, and each time he looked up at me artfully, as much as to say: “i must not touch your wonderful music. oh no, i’m not that kind of samoan baby!”

i only chided him once, when i caught the little dark tinker unscrewing all my violin pegs. he gave a terrified shriek as i ran after him, and was off like a frightened rabbit. when i at length caught him, and regained my property, he looked up at me with pleading eyes, gave a baby-like cry, and in musical, infantile samoan phrases asked to be forgiven. so i at once placed him on my shoulder and gave him a ride to his heart’s delight; and after that he stood guard over my violin, and came rushing up to me if even the dog went near it. i let him sleep with me sometimes, and he placed his arms about my neck as though i were some sweet-bosomed mother; and so in that way fell asleep the little brown savage in the arms of western civilisation.

of course this is not telling you much of robert louis stevenson, but to me, and in my memory of it all, it’s just as important, perhaps even more so. the old samoan wife became very fond of timbo, as i called him, and he became quite plump. so i secured a good home for him for life, or till he grew up, and therefore you will see that i have also done good mission work in the south seas!

i heard when i came home afterwards that stevenson had seen timbo and given him some presents, including a box of tin german soldiers. timbo gave me half of them. i was obliged to accept them to please him. if he’s alive still he must be a fine young fellow, for he was affectionate and plucky even as a tiny child. i remember how i once took him for a canoe ride, and his delight as i rocked the small craft in the shallow water till he fell overside, for he could swim like a fish. once i took him out in apia harbour and we went aboard a schooner that had encountered a typhoon; she was being overhauled, for her deck was almost washed clean, the rigging was a mass of tangle and the galley had been washed away. the skipper was a pleasant enough man; he hailed from san francisco and had a voice that could compete with the wildest gale’s thunder, but nevertheless his heart was in the right place when whisky was scarce. i had met him ashore and, hearing that i came from sydney, and had lived near his home in san francisco, he got into conversation with me and hinted that there was a chance of a berth aboard for me, if i felt inclined to take it.

while i was on this schooner one afternoon suddenly stevenson and his wife came on board; they had been brought out in one of the small native canoes that were always hovering by the beach, awaiting passengers wanting to visit the anchored crafts in the harbour. the novelist was in high spirits and helped mrs stevenson up the rope ladder in great mirth. mrs robert louis stevenson was an excellent sailor and made no fuss about the ascent, as she clambered up and leapt on the deck with a bounce!

the skipper knew them well and was very polite to them. a young american or australian lady, i forget which, was also visiting on board, and the skipper introduced her to mr and mrs stevenson. she devoted all her attention to the novelist, and as they were having lunch together in the schooner’s cuddy stevenson’s misery, as she plied him with questions and reiterated her flattering approval of his books, was very evident. “oh, i think your books most delightful; how do you think of such things? was it really true about that rich uncle and the derelict piano? have you read lady audley’s secret?” so she rattled on. stevenson looked appealingly at his wife, in an attempt to get her to engage the girl’s attention, but still she persisted in reiterating those things which she thought were music to the novelist’s ears. suddenly stevenson looked up, and with his fine eyes alive with satire said something to the effect that “he did not write books for ladies to read,” punctuating the remark with a look that made the garrulous visitor immediately retire into her shell.

the convivial equilibrium was not restored till the skipper sat down at the cuddy’s harmonium and, with his feet pedalling away at full speed, started to sing with his thunderous voice:

“fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,

yo! ho! ho! for a bottle of rum!”

the young lady who had so annoyed stevenson joined in, and revealed the fact that her voice as a musical medium was a deal more pleasant than when it tried to flatter a writer of books. stevenson seemed delighted to find such an opportunity insidiously to apologise for his previous irritability, and so at once started to applaud the lady’s singing in an almost exaggerated fashion.

a bottle of whisky was opened, and the skipper drank half-a-tumblerful, just to sample it and see if he had really opened the special brand which he had been recommending to his visitors. finding there was no mistake, with all the liberality of a sailor, he allotted to each a due portion; whereby the dimly lit cabin festival was immensely enhanced. stevenson’s mirth was frequently stimulated by the drunken mate, who repeatedly poked his head into the cuddy door and, with a half-apologetic leer at the ladies, looked at the skipper and said: “all’s well, sir. i’m going ashore.” the skipper, who was half-seas-over himself, looked at him contemptuously and said: “clear out of it.” “ay, ay, sir,” responded the mate, and in a few minutes he was back again, and out came the same information, “all’s well, sir. i’m off ashore.”

suddenly the skipper arose and went on deck and a loud argument commenced, interspersed with those maritime epithets which enforce sea law and are not to be found in navigation books. after a brief interval of silence the skipper could be heard shouting out oaths as he shook his fist to the mate, who was being rowed away ashore by the natives who always haunted the gangways of anchored ships.

at sunset the party left the schooner, and the skipper went with them, and we heard their laughter fading away over the darkening waters as the singing natives paddled them away to apia’s island town.

that same night i also went ashore with the sailors. timbo sat in the middle of the ship’s boat; he had been entertained by the hands in the forecastle. as soon as i arrived on the beach i made my way to my friendly natives’ home, for the hour was late and i wanted to get timbo off to bed. i was deep in thought, and as he toddled beside me i held his hand. suddenly i was startled by hearing the child make throaty gurgles as though he wanted to be sick, his little brown face wrinkling up as he made fearful grimaces. “what’s the matter, timbo?” i said, somewhat alarmed, and for answer he looked up at me helplessly and dropped several objects in the scrub. i picked them up and found that he had been sucking away at a large, rank meerschaum pipe, which i at once recognised as belonging to the boatswain of the schooner which we had just left. the boy had also stolen a purse with a few coppers in it and a small leather belt purse full of brass buttons. i felt pretty wild with the little fellow at first, because it meant that i had to go back to the schooner and return the things.

taking timbo up, i sat on a log and laid him across my knees, ready to give him a good spanking, for it was not his first misdemeanour; indeed, he had done many things which i have left untold. as i laid him face downwards, so that i might administer chastisement, he twisted his little curly head round and looked appealingly up at me with his big brown eyes: as if to say: “oh, noble white man from the far-off moral integrity of western civilisation, may i beg of you to overlook the sad indiscretion of a samoan child?” that part whereon i was about to administer justice looked so small and helpless that i did that which i should have liked to have been done to me in my earlier years, for i relented and stood timbo on his feet. then i said: “timbo, for that which you have done you will be arrested and taken to mulinuu jail, where the wicked chiefs are imprisoned.” hearing this, he clung to me and sobbed, and large tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed on to his small mahogany-coloured toes. so i said: “timbo, i forgive you.” for i knew, deep down in my heart, that, though i was white, i had in my childish days committed several little indiscretions very similar to timbo’s. he was only a tiny fellow, and i thought of english babies who at his age were still in arms and busy sucking dummies; and i knew that civilisation itself was a monstrous baby, devoid of wit, sucking away at the dry, windy dummy and soothing itself with the thought that it was swallowing kindly feeding milk. as i thought i looked at timbo, and the expression of gratitude on his little half-wild face, as he stood on his head and waved his feet to the skies, seemed to applaud my mild philosophy.

in all that i recall of robert louis stevenson—his manner to strangers, his ever-ready attention to those who would earnestly tell him something, his kindness to the natives and to all who were in a conventional sense beneath him—was revealed a large mind with a sympathetic, human outlook.

often little actions, something done on the impulse of the moment, told of simplicity and tenderness and the greatness which reveals a spirit that sees the link of fellowship between men, no matter what their caste or position in human affairs.

at times he might have appeared theatrical to those around him; but it was the expression of an intellectual, dramatic instinct, not for the stage, but for the drama played by men of this world, as though he were ever gazing critically on mortals before the limelight of existence and saying, half to himself: “there you are! i told you so. what would you say to all that you’ve just heard if you read it in a book? you wouldn’t believe it, i’ll be bound.”

his manner to mrs stevenson revealed an affectionate, confiding nature that loved attention. i should think it was the affection of a boy’s heart, with the strong strain of a discerning man who knew the nature of women. he would always treat native women with the same deference that he showed to the women of his own race; a deference always delicately courteous, excepting on those occasions when women might court his criticism by criticising him, or by casting aside the delicate armour of their sex and assuming man’s r?le.

his kindness and the trouble he took on behalf of the samoans is well known, and the natives earnestly expressed their gratitude by listening to and following the advice of “tusitala,” as they called him, and when he died they loudly bewailed his death. the poet-author’s coffin was borne on the strong shoulders of samoan chiefs, and the sound of their wailing, as they carried the coffin onwards up the slopes, with slow footsteps, to the grave on vaea’s sea-girt height, was his funeral chant.

i saw robert louis stevenson in many places and in many moods, and looking back, as i now can, the perspective clearly shows me that he was a religious man in the true sense of that term. in no wise bigoted, he often fell into the ranks of christianity and beat time, with a smile on his lips, as though he wished to set an example to those around him, in his knowledge that the example was better than his own half-sad, hopeful smile. at times, too, he would fall out of the ranks and become a harum-scarum renegade, and at such moments he seemed to have no idea of the existence of the barrier-lines that men, before the public, draw between the jovial rogue and the respectable citizen. “well, captain, how goes it? got an eye-opener aboard?” he would say as he jumped aboard the schooner’s deck; and then he would turn to the sailor who might be cleaning brass close by and offer him a cigarette, or walk into the forecastle and chum with the crew, or look over the ship’s side and shy a copper to the swimming natives who haunted the bay, with the sea-birds, looking for a living. such was stevenson’s manner in the isles of samoa, where, notwithstanding the wildness and the proximity to primitive life, many of the emigrant citizens still did things, or did not do things, because of the standard set by a majority.

it does not matter where you go, or how remote from civilisation your dwelling-place may be, you are sure to have some living illustration before you to tell you that the chains of conventionality are forged from the natures of men. i believe that if we could come back to this world a myriad years hence, when the sun has cooled down to a ghostly moon, when the seas are frozen and swinging to the tideless desolation that precedes the final crashing of the planetary system, and the human race has dwindled to a camp of twelve shivering mortals wrapped in bearskins, we should find them sitting over the last log fire without wood, with gloomy faces, anxiously awaiting monday—because it is sunday!

mrs stevenson was as much a bohemian as her husband. she accompanied him on his short visits to apia town, and on those occasions she was generally to be seen hurriedly rushing back to get, or inquire for, that which had been left behind. the novelist walked ahead and, as he went on dreaming, forgot that his wife was out with him till the domestic voice came again. mrs stevenson was very pleasant to talk to; she invited me to vailima, but i was not able to go. indeed, i was only a lad and, not being a lady’s man, would have run twenty miles to escape vailima fashion.

i recall many men who were acquaintances of robert louis stevenson, and whom i have never heard of since. i remember one old man in particular whom stevenson was always glad to meet. indeed, the novelist’s face lit up directly he saw him. his name was callard, and he was a bit of a scallawag, was a character and had plenty of spare cash. he was never silent, but talked all day long and nearly all night, and always had some new trouble to relate. i slept in his room one night with two other men and he kept on and on about some friend who had swindled him out of five dollars in san francisco, for that was his native place. “yes, he did me, by heaven he did”; and saying this he would start reckoning up on a bit of paper, and sit on the side of the bed swearing till my friend and i said: “if you won’t worry any more about it we’ll give you the five dollars.” about a week after he took a passage on the ’frisco mail-boat. i really believe that he hurried home and spent five hundred dollars to ease his mind about that five dollars, and would have spent a thousand dollars sooner than be done. i am rather like that myself, but i do not let such losses prey on my mind, for if i did, and tried to get even with the culprit, i should be incessantly travelling off somewhere or other.

well, stevenson often met callard, and the old chap treated him as though he was a boy, told the novelist jokes, spun yarns and repeatedly nudged him in the ribs; and the two would finally end up by retiring to the bar and standing each other treat.

callard’s great ambition at that time was to see king malietoa laupepa at mulinuu. i went off with him, and with the assistance of some malietoans got him an introduction at the royal court. callard behaved with great propriety, indeed, bowed to almost all the native servants of the court retinue! i played the violin to the king, who was a most agreeable gentleman, and carried himself with a deal more importance than mataafa did. callard spoke day and night of the king’s handshake, and chuckled in his very sleep at the thought of what his friends in america would think when they heard of callard and the king of samoa together. he went especially to vailima to tell stevenson about king malietoa, and kept the novelist amused the whole evening.

callard’s eyebrows were about half-an-inch long and they stuck straight out, and as he spoke his eyelids kept closing as though he was in deep thought; and what with that and his high, bald head, he was a cheerful-looking man. he always drank whisky, and stevenson tucked him up to sleep on his couch at vailima when he was too full of it to walk back to his lodgings! i am quite sure if stevenson had lived the world would have heard of callard.

wanganui river, n.z.

stevenson had a sneaking regard for vagabonds, and his eyes twinkled with delight in their company. he was very credulous and believed a deal that he heard. i think he would have gone off exploring for some new country, or a treasure island, in five minutes, if he had been encouraged by some of the fearless adventurers whom he mixed with through his love of vagabondage and adventure. the questions he used to ask men of the seafaring class revealed how implicitly he believed that which they were telling him, yet at other times he seemed alert with suspicion and in a mood to disbelieve actual facts.

though i heard stevenson make several attempts to play the violin, and also heard him pedalling at the harmonium, i cannot recall that he accomplished anything that struck me as showing musical talent—that is, talent revealing a quick ear to distinguish the scales and intervals of mechanical music. indeed the pedals made more noise and sounded more rhythmical than the time he played; and he looked like some careworn priest toiling away on the treadmill of penance to save his soul. but still i can say that stevenson had a gift that was something much greater than an ear for light melody. he was a great tone poet! his mind was a shell that caught echoes from the vastness of creation, and the murmurs of humanity in all its joy, passion and sorrow. otherwise he could never have even noticed, let alone described as he did, for not in all literature will you find another who describes sound so perfectly at one stroke as stevenson did. you can hear nature’s moods, in all her wild grandeur of seas and the winds in the mountain forests, as you read his books. the seas beating over the barrier reefs, the vast silence of the tropical night, the starlit coco-palms and the coughing derelict beachcomber sleeping beneath them, become realities that haunt your mind, because they are made and played by a great musician who was an artist in nature’s great orchestra.

i think if stevenson had been able to cast aside all thought of the critical inspection of lovers of polite literature, and the mechanical niceties of phrase and thought, and had written his reminiscences down in a book, the characters therein would have walked, talked and laughed with cinema realism. down in the magical world of words, before the mind’s eye and ear, we should have seen the vast tropical pacific, and the stars over it reflected in the lagoons of the far-scattered isles clad with coco-palms as if painted by the magical silver oils of moonlight. we should have heard the cry of the traders and seen the beachcombers’ ragged clothes fluttering by tossing waters, and paddled canoes filled with the swarthy faces of wild men, on the waves that were breaking over the shores of his wonderful pages.

but, unfortunately, it was not to be, because of the great truth that we cannot do differently from that which we do. we are born in the chains of grim conventionality that become inevitably a part of us. indeed he who professes to be utterly free from it, and to have no regard for it in his work, has his published book as strong evidence against his sincerity.

i’ve met far greater geniuses than robert louis stevenson in the southern seas—geniuses so intense with pathos, wit, insight and heroic courage that though they had never even read a book, or learnt to write, their minds were gold mines of truth and experience and all that men have ever attempted to tell in polite phrase. could they, by some magical means, have turned a handle and so written down in a book their reminiscences, and their thoughts on human affairs, modern literature would not have to bewail the loss of its golden age, but would be absorbed with delight, filled with ecstatic charm over the pathos and the wonderful touches of truth, in what would be the great classic, the new odyssey of modern times.

but to return to stevenson. i once heard him arguing violently on board a ship, when he was at dinner in the saloon. at the time i was busily cleaning the brass door handle. it grieves me to have to confess to this humble occupation while i was seeking fame and fortune in far countries, but it was the execution of this little detail of one of my many professions that gave me the opportunity of hearing the celebrated author’s opinion on socialism.

one of the diners, who sat opposite robert louis stevenson, was a big red-faced man, weighing about sixteen stone, a quantity of heavy jewellery which adorned his clothing being included. he breathed violently as he ate and kept insisting on the wonderful virtues of socialism. stevenson combated with him in fine style, winning every point. all i can remember of the conversation was that the author said: “socialism is based on ideas of equality and the freedom of the individual; yet its principal aim in practice would be to destroy individuality and freedom, and the equality would be a system producing nothing else but a nation of slaves.”

i think stevenson was right, for i have noticed that socialists are not continually busy in giving away anything. indeed, socialists have so developed the instinct of commercial grab that they can always perceive, “by the cut of your jib” (a socialistic phrase), how much you are worth and whether you would part with it without the use of muscular force. i am not well read in the ethics of socialism, because i cannot waste my time. if a burglar broke into my house, and i caught him stealing my goods as his fair share, i should not want to read his private correspondence and hear his views on human affairs, or wish to know if he had a clean shirt on ere i threw him out of the window or fetched the police. socialists do not like sharing their property with others any more than i do.

i have striven to tell in the brief foregoing details my impressions and experiences of robert louis stevenson. i hope they may be interesting. in the books that deal with his life in the south seas it is little short of marvellous how tamely his life there is painted, especially when one thinks that his island home was overrun by semi-civilised natives and a white population of the most mixed and adventurous people the world could well place together; and certainly stevenson was not the kind of man to travel to the south seas and seek no other excitement beyond an afternoon walk or a fashionable dance in an apia ballroom.

it was somewhere about the period which i am dealing with that a discussion was going on concerning father damien, the celebrated catholic priest who had sacrificed his life for the sake of the lepers at the dread lazaretto on the isle of molokai. in my first book of reminiscences in the south seas i touched briefly on the few incidents which i heard from a native friend of mine, raeltoa the samoan. and before i proceed with my later reminiscences of samoa and elsewhere i will tell you all i heard about father damien whilst i was in honolulu.