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To America

In his address, read by proxy at the unveiling ceremony of the Borglum plaque at Baker’s in Saranac Lake in 1915, Lloyd Osbourne said: “Once in this house Stevenson lay down a copy of ‘Don Quixote’ he was reading and said, with a curious poignancy that lingers still in my ears: ‘That’s what I am–just another Don Quixote.’ I think that was the most illuminating thing he ever said about himself. It was the realization that his high-flown ideals, his supersensitive honor, his vehement resentment of wrong and injustice were perhaps hopelessly at discord with the world he lived in.”

Sticking up for the underdog and bringing truth to power were baked-in traits of Robert Louis Stevenson and, by 1887, possibly an escape mechanism. Living like a “weevil in a biscuit” in the suburban villa he called Skerryvore in Bournemouth, England, was grinding down the author of the “Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde.” Most of the time the chronic invalid was forced to remain inside and avoid activity, which sometimes included writing, his reason to be. For all of his renowned optimism, Stevenson couldn’t fool himself. What did he have to look forward to except a steady, often bloody disintegration of body, if not soul, until he was a dead weevil in a biscuit, an inglorious end. Like his father, Louis wanted to die with his boots on and, if possible, do a death with meaning, like Socrates, to make a point about something.

As a good subject of Queen Victoria, RLS kept up on news of the Empire, while he loathed Prime Minister Gladstone even after he heard that Gladstone had been up all of one night reading “Treasure Island.” The Irish problem was always in the news, and in Stevenson’s opinion, anything Gladstone’s government did would be criminal. When Irish resistance again took the form of mobbing people of unpopular religions or political opinions or economic status, the Don Quixote in Louis was aroused upon news of a murder and subsequent misguided retaliation against an innocent group of bereaved women that flooded the British press.

Here was a cause for RLS to champion and, in doing it, possibly get his death over with while making a statement at the same time. It sounds crazy because it was, but to Louis, or anybody in a similar condition, maybe it wasn’t. His ability to reason may have been affected by a wine laced with cocaine that his Bournemouth physician had prescribed. The plan, for Stevenson, seemed suicidal from the start. He, the delicate “weevil in a biscuit” but now a known author as well, would risk traveling to Ireland to draw attention to the immorality and injustice reported there by actually moving in with the victims of mob violence. In a letter to the widow Anne Jenkin, a family friend, RLS shared his motives:

“I do not love this home-keeping, house-tending life of mine. … My work can be done anywhere; hence I can take up without loss a backgoing Irish farm. … Writers are so much in the public eye, that a writer being murdered would throw a bull’s eye light upon this cowardly business. … I am not unknown in the States, from which come the funds that pay for these brutalities. … Nobody else is taking up this obvious and crying duty. … If you will not even be murdered, the climate will miserably kill you. … The purpose is to brave crime. … The cause of England in Ireland is not worth supporting. I am not supporting that. But populations should not be taught to gain public ends by private crime. … For all men to bow before a threat of crime is to loosen and degrade beyond redemption that whole fabric of man’s decency.”

And so it wasn’t. Surprisingly, or maybe not, Fanny Stevenson, his wife, went along with the plan. Louis quoted her: “It is nonsense, but if you go, I will go.” Maybe Fanny was betting with herself that the whole scheme would fizzle away like so many of her husband’s unfinished stories. As it would turn out, Ireland would be completely forgotten at the same time Louis read a telegram from Edinburgh. His father, Thomas Stevenson, was dying, and he must return to his hometown immediately. It was the first week of May 1887.

On May 6, Margaret Stevenson, the author’s mother, wrote in her journal: “Lou arrived this afternoon and his father does not know him.” On May 8, it was over. Thomas went out true to form, with his boots on, fully dressed with Scottish broadcloth and cravat, sitting upright in bed. “That was his constant wish; also, that he might smoke a pipe on his last day,” said Louis to Sidney Colvin. Thomas had been quite religious, even wrote his own book on Christianity, and had often told his son that life, as far as he was concerned, was little more than “a shambling sort of omnibus taking him to his hotel.” His funeral was said to have been the largest private burial ceremony that Edinburgh had ever thrown, and his only son couldn’t even attend. Louis had caught a cold, and his Uncle George Balfour, another doctor in the family, made him stay home at 17 Heriot Row, the family residence. Thomas and his rebellious son had gone through stormy times, but fortunately they were reconciled in time to truly appreciate each other for a few years. Forced to stay home from the cemetery, Louis paid his respects by finishing his ballad “Ticonderoga — A Legend of the West Highlands,” the base legend of which Thomas had found fascinating.

So what next? A milestone had come and gone. It was time for the Stevenson expedition to plot a new course and with a new member, the widow of Thomas, Margaret, or just “Maggie.” There was nothing to keep Robert Louis Stevenson close to the home front now. For his health, his physicians recommended a complete change of climate for at least a year, pointing to the Indian foothills of the Himalayas or the American Rockies as good options. Since Fanny was American and homesick, it was a quick decision. Colorado Springs would be their new destination, but they would never get there. Will Hickock Low, Stevenson’s companion from their Barbizon days, was making a living with his art in New York City when he got news of the plan. This will be a great event, he thought. In later years, Low would write his own book, “A Chronicle of Friendships” (1908), and include a chapter called “The Second Coming of Robert Louis Stevenson.”

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