I knew so little about Stevenson (1850-94) that I didn’t know his middle name was pronounced “Lewis” rather than “Loo-ee,” though I had a vague idea he’d been to the South Pacific.
Stevenson’s parents were devout, upper-middle-class Scots, determined that their son should be an engineer like Old Pa or, failing that, a lawyer. Instead, they got a scrawny aesthete, an indolent atheist, a nervous long-haired Bohemian fop who triggered the “gay-dar” of his artsy friends. He combined some actual bad health with a canny hypochondria that kept him on the parental payroll for years.
He enjoyed hanging out with friends, playing at writing, and altering his consciousness chemically. He was noted for his intelligent conversation and for being an outstanding oddball. He was acquainted with most of the major authors of his day.
Treasure Island and A Child’s Garden of Verses brought him an audience, then the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde brought him widespread fame and a semi-steady income at last.
Randomly, he was talked into leasing a yacht for a tour of the Pacific Islands by his tenuously sane wife. The ship’s captain took one look at Stevenson – who was, by RLS’s standards, a picture of health at the time – and ordered that everything needed for a burial at sea be loaded aboard.
Stevenson had no idea he would spend his final years on a plantation in Samoa, where he was known as “Tusi Tala,” “the teller of tales.” The behind-the-scenes colonialist plotting in supposedly independent Samoa in his last years (Stevenson saw “parallels with the Highland crises of the eighteenth century” p. 434) read like the plot of a Conrad novel.
“Requiem,” the poem on Stevenson’s tomb, “has been set to music and taught to generations of Samoan school children, holding a place in the island’s culture something like that of ‘Greensleeves’ in ours.” (p. 459)