102 Six Nineteenth-Century Fictionists
but the vivacity of his thought, which helps most. It is not
the mere adventure, but the art with which he relates the
adventure, that makes his stories enduringly entertaining.
Stevenson’s spirit was the spirit of a brave man, of an
absolutely brave man, of an absolutely and cheerfully brave
man. All that means a good deal; there are many brave
people in the world, but not all of them are absolutely brave,
and yet fewer are consistently cheerful in their courage. To
be as brave as Stevenson two things are necessary: first, that
a man be constantly in peril, and secondly, that he be gal-
lantly indifferent to his peril. That was the spirit of Ste-
venson—gallantly indifferent to peril that was never absent.
In this glad world there are many people who are always
healthy and always singing at their work. In this sad world
there are many people who are always ill and yet too brave
to murmur. But Stevenson was always ill and always sing-
ing. We feel that a well man should always work and al-
ways be cheerful about his work. We feel that a sick man
should rest, but that he ought to be patient and resigned.
But when we find a sick man always working and always
radiantly cheerful in his work and suffering, we find the rare
exception—we find Robert Louis Stevenson.
He was an invalid all his life, seeking the wide world
over, from the wintry Orkney Islands to the perpetual sum-
mer of the South Pacific Islands—seeking, not health, but
merely a place where he could live and do his day’s work—
and always brave and cheerful, always heartening others
with his eager friendship and his writings.
He was ill from infancy, probably inherited from his
mother a weak chest and a nervous system too highly strung
for placid peace. Poor health prevented systematic school-
ing, though he attended different schools of Edinburgh in a
desultory way. Poor health prevented assiduous study at