The Marietta journal. [volume] (Marietta, Ga.) 1866-1909, 1895-12-12
A GLIMPSE OF STEVENSON.
The Novelist's Spirit Was Buoyant, De-
spite His Wretched Health.

SR@SS LID w 1Sttheu hS3lLns
Hewas i'll when I saw him in New
York in the spring of 1883, after he
had come down from the Adiron-
dacks. He was in bed, as he often
used to be for days together-so Of
ten that the beautiful portrait
which, in the previous autumn, St.
Gaudens had made of him backed
by his pillows and covered by his
blankets, must, I fancy, seem to
many Americans friends the Steven
son whom they knew best. He was
III dismal hotel, in the most dis
NAL possible chamber. Even a very
buoyant soul might have been par
doned if, then and there, it had de-
clined upon inactivity and gloom.
But these were not the constituents
of the atmosphere I found.
There were a great many things
ON Stevenson's bed-things to eat
and to smoke, things to write with
and to read. I have seen tidier sick
beds and also invalids more modish.
ly attired. This one wore over his
shoulders an old rcd cloak with a
hole for the head in the middle Ga
serape, l supposedly, which, faded
and spotted with ink, looked much
like schoolroom tablecloth. But
the untidiness seemed a proof of his
desire to make the most of each
passing minute; clearly, the litter
ing things had been brought, not in
case they might be wanted, but as
answers to actual and eager needs.
Ill as he was, Stevenson had been
reading and writing-and smoking,
as st. Gaudens shows-and, in fact,
/ call him an invalid chiefly because,
as l remember him, the term has
such a picturesque unftness. His
body was in evil case, but his spirit
was more bright, more eager, more
ardently and healthily alive than
that of any other mortal
I find myself repeating the one
word "eager. There is none which
better BELTS Stevenson's appearance
and manner and talk. His mind
seemed to culver with perpetual
hope of something that would give
1t o new idea to feed upon, new
fact to file away, a new experience
to be tested and savored. I could
read this attitude even in the quick
cordiality of his greeting. The well
como was not for me, as myself, but
for the new person-for the new hu-
man being, who, possessing ears
and tongue, might possibly con-
tribute some item to the harvest of
the day.
Despite his mastery of the arts of
language, I do not believe that Ste
venson ever excelled in the artiice
of small talk; he must always have
had too many real words to say and
have felt too sure the other folk
would like to hear them. This, in
deed, was one great secret of his
charm; he assumed that you, too,
were alertly alive; he believed that
youwould understand and share his
interest in all interesting things.
Therefore one interview was enough
to prove him what his friends assert
and his books declare him to have
been-a philosopher very wise in
that most precious kind of lore
which gives the soul modesty and
poise, cheerfulness, humor and cour.
age; a student of human nature, not
with classifications and categories
to fill out, but with special well
coming niche prepared for the re-
ception of each new human soul; q
detached intelligence" but heart,
intimately attached to every palpi-
tant fiber in the web of existence,
which loved to love and chose for
its hatred only fundamentally hate
full and harmful things like hypoc-
risy, vanity, intolerance and cow
ardice in the face of life. He seemed
, SO individual not because he was
more eccentric than others, but be-
cause he was moro genuine and
moro broad, moro self expressive,
and possessed of wider and richer
self to be explained. Robert Louis
Stevenson and His Writing by
Mrs. M. G. Van Rensselaer,, in Cen
fury.