Robert Louis Stevenson

BY G. K. CHESTERTON

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 1928
COPYRIGHT, 1928 By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY
THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I
"THE MYTH OF STEVENSON" II IN THE COUNTRY OF SKELT
III YOUTH AND EDINBURGH IV THE REACTION TO
ROMANCE V THE SCOTTISH STORIES VI THE STYLE OF
STEVENSON VII EXPERIMENT AND RANGE VIII THE LIMITS
OF A CRAFT IX THE PHILOSOPHY OF GESTURE X THE
MORAL OF STEVENSON
* * * *
CHAPTER I
"THE MYTH OF STEVENSON"
IN this brief study of Stevenson I propose to follow a somewhat
unusual course; or to sketch what may be considered a rather eccentric

outline. It can only be justified in practice; and I have a healthy fear
that my practice will not justify it. Nevertheless, I have not adopted it
without considerable thought, and even doubt, about the best way of
dealing with a real and practical problem. So before it collapses
completely in practice, I will give myself the triumph and the joy of
justifying it in principle.
The difficulty arises thus. In the great days of Stevenson critics had
begun to be ashamed of being critics, and of giving to their ancient
function the name of criticism. It was the fashion to publish a book that
was a bundle of reviews and to call it "Appreciations." But the world
advances; and if that sort of book is published now, it might well bear
the general title of "Depreciations." Stevenson has suffered more than
most from this new fashion of minimising and finding fault; and some
energetic and successful writers have thrown themselves into the
business almost with the eagerness of stockbrokers, bent on making a
slump instead of a boom in Stevenson Stock. It may be questioned
whether we need welcome the bear any more than the bull in the
china-shop of elegant English letters. Others seem to make quite a
hobby of proving a particular writer to be overrated. They write long
and laborious articles, full of biographical detail and bitter commentary,
in order to show that the subject is unworthy of attention; and write
pages upon Stevenson to prove that he is not worth writing about.
Neither their motives nor their methods are very clear or satisfactory. If
it be true that all swans are geese to the discriminating eye of the
scientific ornithologist, it hardly suffices to explain so long or so
fatiguing a wild-goose chase.
But it is true that, in a sense more general than that of these rather
irritable individuals, such a reaction does exist. And it is a reaction
against Stevenson, or at least against Stevensonians. Perhaps it would
be most correct to call it a reaction against Stevensoniana. And let me
say at this early stage that I heartily agree that there has been far too
much Stevensoniana. In one sense, indeed, everything about anybody
so interesting as Stevenson is interesting. In one sense, everything
about everybody is interesting. But not everybody can interest
everybody else: and it is well to know an author is loved, but not to

publish all the love-letters. Sometimes we only had to endure that most
awful and appalling tragedy: a truth told once too often. Sometimes we
heard Stevensonian sentiments repeated in violation of all Stevensonian
rules. For of all things he hated dilution: and loved to take language
neat, like a liqueur. In short, it was overdone; it was too noisy and yet
all on one note; above all, it was too incessant and too prolonged. As I
say, there were a variety of causes, which it would be unnecessary and
sometimes unamiable to discuss. There was perhaps something in it of
the very virtue of Stevenson; he was tolerant of many societies and
interested in many men; and there was nothing to ward off the direst
results of the men being interested in him. Especially after he was dead,
one person after another turned up and wrote a book about meeting
Stevenson on a steamboat or in a restaurant; and it is not surprising that
such book-makers began to look as vulgar as bookies. There was
perhaps something in it of the old joke of Johnson: that the Scots are in
a conspiracy to praise each other. It was often because the Scots are
secret sentimentalists and cannot always keep the secret. Their interest
in a story so brilliant and in some ways so pathetic was perfectly
natural and human; but for all that, their interest was overdone. It was
sometimes, I regret to say, because the interest might fairly be called a
vested interest. Anyhow, any number of things happened to combine to
vulgarise the thing; but vulgarising a thing does