THE LOVE STORY OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Otago Witness, Issue 2242, 18 February 1897, Page 53

THE LOVE STORY OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

It used to be aaid in the old Bonanza days, i.e., about 18 year* sgo, that one could grow anything on earth in California except a model husband. The men were handsome, talented, amiable, and kind — so very kind, indeed, that the idea of concentrating the affections npon ona object was incomprehensible to them. — It got to be the fashion for wives to take their children and go as far away from California as they possibly could. The day Mrs Osbourne went to Paris, taking her daughter with her, no one was surprised. They bad a happy life in Paris, where they were at once taken up by literary and artistic people. Mrs Osbourne wrote for the American magazines. Isobel had her lessons, and both mother and daughter studied drawing and painting. One summer they went to Barbizon, and Robert Louis Stevenson was there. He was supposed to be studying art, and he was learning at least to thoroughly understand painters and painting. But there's no doubt tbe Scotch master builder was chiefly occupied then, as ever, with the choosing of words to make into sentenoei, the building of chapters oat of those sentences, and the construction of books by means of those chapters. In lighter moments he liked to pick literary puzzles to pieces and pnt them together again — tbe sort of thing that Mrs Oabourne enjoyed very much indeed. Thus our hero and heroine, walking blindfold into the maze, became excellent friends. With their customary sagacity the artists observed that Stevenson was probably falling in love with Isobel. Isob»l was now about 15, a precocious little witch with big black eyes — so big, they were almost out of drawing. She sketched cleverly, danced like a Will-o'-the-Wisp, sang all the merry songs going with the neateat kind of a Parisian accent, and, as may be imagined, every staid and serious Englishman she saw wanted to marry her. It was tbe mother, however, not- Isobel, who had captured Robert Louis Stevenson's heart for good and all. It would have been hard for a person with j a literary or artistic bent to have found a more fascinating, companionable woman than Mrs Osbonrne. Blessed with A DISTINCT AND ORIGINAL PERSONALITY, she was to the average Philistine a perfectly incomprehensible being. She was a slender, spirituelle little brunette, with a sweet, soft voice — a voice curiously like the cooing of I doves, a voice that* never under any circum- ' stance? changed its timbre. Her eyes were dark and bright, her regular features were ' quiet and reserved in expression. In dress she was extremely conservative, usually , wearing princess gowns of black or dark cashmere, and on State occasions black velvet. A more complete expression of quiet, refined femininity wonld have been hard to find, except that she was never with- ' out a cigarette. She was also an inspired cook. She would glide into a kitchen, glide out again, and there would follow an onion omelette worthy of a sonnet. < It is doubtful if Stevenson realised he had j fallen in love at Barbizon. Mrs Oabourne may have foreseen danger, for, returning to California, she promptly put 6000 miles of travelling between herself and her tempta- J tion to take an «ndue interest in a sickly but j most gifted young man. j THE HOMB-COMINa was not altogether a saccesß, so inconsiderate is Providence of good resolution!?. It mast be confessed that Mi* Osbourne, ever genial and popular, with the faults of bis virtues, always disarmed criticism by his good-natured frankness and quaint philosophy. Rumour said — and if not true it was ben trovato—th&t he freely confessed he was only fit to be a Mormon or a Turk, and said that his good little lady had a perfect right to a divorce " with all the trimmings," i.e., custody of the children and alimony. Be that as it may, Mrs Oabourne, accompanied by her sister, Miss Vandergrift, her daughter Isobel, and her son Sam, went down to the sleepy old town of Monterey to live In retirement until the divorce was obtained. Meanwhile, 6000 miles away, Robert Louis Stevenson seems to have grown restless. Perhaps Mrs Oabourne's discreet desertion opened his eyes to his feelings, while making j him esteem her the more. He was in poor j health, aad enjoying no very great command j of money. Yet in spite of protests he undertook a long voyage nnder rnde conditions ; he became an amateur emigrant. Providence is a great playwright. No mortal unit could dare such sweep of invention, or sprinkle coincidences and surprises with so full a hand. The rest of this TENDEE LOVJB STOEY could be told in soberness and truth by no outsider. But any looker-on might plan the •ynopsis of a few dramatic scenes, founded on the actual facts of the case. It would be something like this : The heroine, standing alone upon tbe threshold of her house — and j of her freedom — looks out across the bay of Monterey. She wishes she could gaze into the future and trace her ultimate destiny as easily as she can trace, through the crystal-clear Californian atmosphere, the distant outlines of the Santa Cruz headlands. Enter to her, unannounced, unexpected, an Amateur Emigrant. It is the hero, weak, weary, hollow-eyed, # but makiDg a brave effort to deceive himself and everyone else. He has jmt run over from Europe to make a little call. He happened accidentally to obtain her address from a friend in San Francisco. Is there anything so foolish as tbe noßsonse of a wife man 1 Bat he cannot hide the bonnie love-light that leaps into his eye and shows her the way that he is going. And she 7 Well, for one instant she smiles cynically at the immorality of a Providence that allows what might have been a temptation to come after a six-thousand mile Chase to a woman who is praying to do right £nd she says to herself, " I have done every)bing to avoid distressing him, but now I • jraafc be firm. How fortunate for me that I

am older than he and incapable of falling in love ! " • So she says that she is not receiving friends at present, and sends him away. She is cool, quiet, and firm. Exit Amateur Emij grant. When he is well out of sight the ! heroine puts her handkerchief to her eyes. Not that she loves him, but that she pities him. He looks so ill and disappointed ; he is so grieved that his visit was untimely. He is alone, and a stranger. [Curtain.] During the entr'acte the hero has entirely disappeared and the heroine has been granted a divorce. The next curtain rises upon a woman who is wondering why it ia a crime, and not a misfortune, to have been unhappily married ' and then divorced. She thinks of the hero. She is glad she haa not seen him She nevar wants to marry again — never. Enter female relatives and friends. They talk across her. One is of the opinion that it is wicked to put stepfathers over half-orphaned children. Another tells an awful story about the fate of a woman. who married a man younger than herself. Another thinks that the etiquette of a divorce should be the same as that of a funeral, advining complete seclusion from all society and all amusements for at least a year or two. Heroine is enchanted with the idea of complete seclusion, and, having a headache, decides to begin at once. Exeunt female relatives and friends. Here the action appears to lag, but it'a only a way that playwright Providence has of working up a surprise. Enter a messenger in hot haste. THE HERO IS DYING. He has a bsecnorrhage of the lungs. He is attended by a mutual friend, the heroine's family doctor. " You are his only acquaintance here," writes the doctor. " For God's sake come down and try to brace him. And you can write the letter to his mother for me — that's a good friend. No time to lose." The heroine's face goes white ; there is a look of unutterable intensity in her dark eyes. The whole situation goes before htr like a flash. She ia older than he 1 — mother of two children. But he — why, he is dying I For the first time she knows that for better or for worse, in sickness or in health, in life or in death, she loves him. " Your answer 1 " says the messenger. A soft voice says : "I am coming." [Curtain ] The next scene takes place in the sick room. The hero, with pale, sharp features, matted hair, and folded waxen hands, lies as if dead. The doctor, big, burly, and kind, is moving about the room. The heroine stands with her slim hands tnieted together. Her face is ivory white, and her eyes burn like flames. The doctor comes over and whispers, " Can you not remain 1 " " I—lI — I don't know. Tell me — will he live ? There must be hope." " Ha may." "Oh!" "But for that he must have two things — a cheerful mind and perfect nursing. The man is my friend, although I have not known him loDg. I would give anything to save him, but money cannot buy what he needs — a mother, sister, or wife. Why, you are crying ! " * " ©h, I think of his loneliness, and of his mother. It is too cruel 1 " Unconsciously they had raised their voices. The sick man on the bed opens wide his big, glassy eyes. He looks at them and listens. The doctor pate his hand on the woman's shoulder. " I believe you love that man — tell me the truth." He tears rain down, she first bows her head, then lifts it, looks the doctor straight in the face, and says, " I do." Tbe doctor nods his head. •' Going to marry again ? " * 11 Oh, no I You must understand. I—I."I — I." There is a stir in the sick man's tod. His lip 3 are moving; he wants to speak. Tbe doctor goes over and benda his ear to the hero's lips. The heroine leans against the mantelpiece and hides her bead in her arms. She loves him, but she cannot marry him for years, perhaps it will be never. He is young, and if he recovers be may change his mmd — may never ask her Yet she loves him. How can she leave him here alone, dying, maybe ? What is she to say 7 What is she to do 1 Suddenly she finds herself "shaken and taken " by the doctor, who grins joyously as Be whispers facetious words of abuse. " Thought yourself clever, eh ? Thought you'd keep a secret from the family doctor ? " " I swear to you " " Tat — tvt — tut. No swearing, I know all. He told me just now — at the risk of another haemorrhage — the gTeat booby ! " " Told what? I mnst know — I must know." " It's great new 3to you, isn't it 1 Told me that yon and he were to be married just as soon as he could sit up." " But, doctor, I haven't " She hesitates — her eyes wander across the room — everything swims — the tension on her j nerves is something terrible. Suddenly through the mist she sees tbe face. of the hero. Ha is trying to lift Mb head ; there is a look of dying appeal in his eyes. Oh 1 there is no time to be lost 1 She goes over to the hero and -fixes his pillow as if he were a baby ; her lips just brush Mb forehead. Then she turns to the doctor and says with a funny little smile . " Forgive me, won't you ? You shall be the only one asked to the wedding." [CUBTAIN.] —Minnie Buchanan Goodman, in the : Weekly Sun

— For " Music ia the Parks ' the London ! County Council spent during the last season : the sum of £7021 7* 6d. The sile of pro- ' grammes netted £23G B*. and £399 12s waa 1 derived from letting chairs. In addition to the council's own bands others were hired at , a ccst of £2149. The perforniMices amounted f to 798.