It was a busy time when they packed up to leave Samoa. They had no real help, for none of the Samoans knew how to pack, though they helped in making boxes and lifting and carrying. The two women sorted, wrapped, and packed all the books of the large library, besides the Chippendale furniture that came from Scotland, and some antiques, including old carved cabinets dating back to 1642. After everything of value had been packed, there were still many odds and ends — glassware and such articles — which were left behind with the intention of sending for them later. Eventually the plan was changed and the things were given to Mr. Gurr, with whom the key of the house had been left. This explains why so many glass bowls, etc., were bought by tourists at Apia, and how every odd pen that was found was sold as Mr. Stevenson’s own and original. It was then that Mrs. Stevenson’s diary, to which I have already alluded, was overlooked in the packing, only to turn up years afterwards in London.

  It was a genuine grief to Mrs. Stevenson to sell Vailima, but, in order to retain it she would have had to keep a force of men there constantly at work “fighting the forest,” which, if left alone for a short time, speedily envelops and smothers everything in its path. If even so much as an old tin can is thrown out on the ground tropic nature at once proceeds to get rid of the defacement, and in a few days it will be covered with creepers. So, with many a pang of regret, the place was finally sold — with the reservation of the summit of Vaea where the tomb stands — to a Russian merchant named Kunst. He lived there for some time and at his death his heirs sold it to the German Government, which purchased it as a residence for the German governor of Samoa. So the flag of Germany flew over Vailima until the New Zealand expeditionary force landed and took over the islands for Great Britain, when the Union Jack was run up. The natives said that England came to Tusitala, since he could not go to her, and when his own country’s flag blew out in the breeze over his old home one could almost fancy that his spirit looked down and rejoiced. Since then it has been used as the British Government House, and at present the English administrator lives there with his wife and aides. Many changes and enlargements have been made in it since it was the home of Tusitala. The Germans cut a new road to Vailima from the highway, and the Road of the Loving Hearts, which originally led to the house, now leads to the burial place of the man for whom the grateful chiefs built it long ago.

  All was now ready for their departure, and their native friends gathered from far and wide to take part in what was for them an event of mournful significance. Tusitala’s widow was not permitted to go out to the waiting vessel in the ordinary boat, but was taken by the high chief Seumanutafa in the cutter that had been given him by the United States Government. The awning had been put up over it and it was all trimmed for the occasion in ferns and flowers. Crowds of Samoan friends — Fanua (Mrs. Gurr), Laulii (Mrs. Willis), Tamasese, Amatua, Tupua, Tautala, the Vailima household, and many others, were there in boats, also trimmed with ferns and flowers, to see them off. All went on board and were taken into the cabin, where they were treated to bottled lemonade with ice in the glasses, at which they marvelled greatly. Though they realised that the woman who had done so much for them in the few years of her residence among them — who had tended them in sickness and sympathized with them in sorrow — was about to leave them for ever, they made a strong effort not to cloud her departure with demonstrations of grief, and it was only when she took farewell of Sosimo, the man who had been her beloved husband’s body servant at Vailima, that they gave signs of breaking down. All had brought presents, and Mrs. Stevenson and her daughter stood on the deck wreathed in flowers, surrounded by baskets of pineapples, oranges, bananas, and other fruits. Each departing friend, after kissing their hands, added something to the pile of gifts — Samoan fans, seed and shell necklaces, rolls of tapa, and native woven baskets, and the two ladies had all the fingers of both hands adorned with Samoan tortoise-shell rings. As the ship steamed away the little flotilla of boats, looking like green bouquets on the water, followed them for some distance, the boatmen singing as they rowed the farewell song of the islands, To-fa mi feleni (good-bye, my friend).

  CHAPTER X

  BACK TO CALIFORNIA

  For six months or more before Mrs. Stevenson’s departure for England in 1898, she had been suffering severely from an illness which finally necessitated a surgical operation. This operation, which was a very critical one and brought her within the valley of the shadow for a time, was performed in London by Sir Frederick Treves, the noted surgeon and physician to the King. Treves asked no fee, saying that he considered it a privilege to give this service to the widow of Stevenson.

  While the family were in Dorking, where they had taken a house for the summer, Mrs. Strong received a letter of sympathy from Mrs. Stevenson’s old friend, Henry James, which is so characteristic that I am impelled to quote it:

  “Dear Mrs. Strong:

  “I have been meaning each day to write to you again and tell you how much, in these days, I am with you in thought. I can’t sufficiently rejoice that you are out of town in this fearful heat, which the air of London, as thick as the wit of some of its inhabitants, must now render peculiarly damnable. I rejoice, too, that you have, like myself, an old house in a pretty old town and an old garden with pleasant old flowers. Further, I jubilate that you are within decent distance of dear old George Meredith, whom I tenderly love and venerate. But after that, I fear my jubilation ceases. I deeply regret the turn your mother’s health has taken has not been, as it so utterly ought to be, the right one. But if it has determined the prospect of the operation, which is to afford her relief, I hope with all my heart that it will end by presenting itself to you as ‘a blessing in disguise.’ No doubt she would have preferred a good deal less disguise, but, after all, we have to take things as they come, and I throw myself into the deep comfort of gratitude that her situation has overtaken her in this country, where every perfect ministration will surround her, rather than in your far-off insular abyss of mere — so to speak — picturesqueness. I should have been, in that case, at the present writing, in a fidget too fierce for endurance, whereas I now can prattle to you quite balmily; for which you are all, no doubt, deeply grateful. Give her, please, my tender love, and say to her that if London were actually at all accessible to me, I should dash down to her thence without delay, and thrust myself as far as would be good for any of you into your innermost concerns. This would be more possible to me later on if you should still be remaining awhile at Dorking — and, at any rate, please be sure that I shall manage to see you the first moment I am able to break with the complications that, for the time, forbid me even a day’s absence from this place. I repeat that it eases my spirit immensely that you have exchanged the planet Saturn — or whichever it is that’s the furthest — for this terrestrial globe. In short, between this and October, many things may happen, and among them my finding the right moment to drop on you. I hope all the rest of you thrive and rusticate, and I feel awfully set up with your being, after your tropic isle, at all tolerant of the hollyhocks and other garden produce of my adopted home. I am extremely busy trying to get on with a belated serial — an effort in which each hour has its hideous value. That is really all my present history — but to you all it will mean much, for you too have lived in Arcadia! I embrace you fondly, if you will kindly permit it — every one; beginning with the Babe, so as to give me proper presumption, and working my way steadily up. Good-bye till soon again.

  “Yours, my dear Teuila, very constantly,

  “Henry James.”

  Except for this unfortunate illness the family spent a pleasant summer in England, in a little cottage surrounded by an old-fashioned garden near Burford.

  From a photograph by Hollinger, London.

  Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson.

  One of the purposes of this visit to England was Mrs. Stevenson’s desire to carry out one of her husband’s last requests. In a letter not to be opened until after his death he asked that, if the arrangements already made for the writing and publication of his biography by Sidney Colvin should not have been carried out within four years, it should be placed in the hands of some other person. As the four years had elapsed and nothing had been done in the matter, it was decided that Graham Balfour, Stevenson’s cousin and devoted friend, should undertake the task; and when Mrs. Stevenson had partially recovered from her illness she removed to the Balfour residence and gave her assistance for some time in laying out the plans for the book.

  Her convalescence was very slow, and, finding the damp climate of England unfavourable, she finally decided to move to the island of Madeira for rest and recuperation. Accompanied by her son and his family, her daughter having left for New York City to join her son, Austin Strong, she travelled by slow stages through France, Spain, and Portugal, reaching Madeira in the early part of December, 1898. From Lisbon they sailed in a filthy little Portuguese steamer, freighted with hay and kerosene, and the passengers, in utter disregard of the inflammable nature of the cargo, scattered cigarette ends and lighted matches all over the ship. However, a kind Providence carried them to port without accident.

  After a most uncomfortable voyage of two days and nights they drew into the beautiful bay of Funchal, with its curving shore and background of lofty mountains. The quintas, or country-houses, each surrounded by a terraced garden and vineyard, which dotted the slopes, gave a cheerful air to the landscape. Mrs. Stevenson speaks of it as the “most picturesque place” she ever saw, and she had seen many of the beauty spots of the world.

  In a letter to her daughter written from here she says: “My plans are vague. The years ahead of me seem like large empty rooms, with high ceilings and echoes. Not gay, say you, but I was never one for gaiety much — and I may discover a certain grandeur in the emptiness.”

  When at last her strength seemed equal to the long journey, she once more turned her face towards the setting sun, and beautiful California. On the way a flying stop was made in Indiana to see relatives and friends of her girlhood. Speaking of them she says, “I saw my old friends, the Fletchers. They came to see me in droves, and it was strange to see them old men and women, talking of their grandchildren. It seems so difficult to realise that one’s self is old; indeed, I don’t believe I ever shall.” While in Indianapolis she met for the first time her distinguished compatriot, James Whitcomb Riley, who afterwards wrote to her recalling the occasion of their meeting in his own gentle, kindly way. I quote the letter:

  “Indianapolis, Christmas, 1900.

  “Dear Mrs. Stevenson:

  “Since your brief visit here last winter I’ve been remembering you and your kindness every day, and in fancy have written down — hundreds of times — my thanks to you and yours — once, when first well enough to get down-town, wrapping a photograph for you of the very well man I used to be. Finding the portrait this Christmas morning, I someway think it good-omenish, and so send you the long-belated thing, together with a copy of a recent book in which are most affectionally set some old and some new lines of tribute to the dear man who is just away. How I loved him through his lovely art! And how I loved all he loved and yet loves — for with both heart and soul, and tears and smiles, he seems very near at hand. Therefore my very gentlest greetings on this blessed day go out to him as to you.

  “Fraternally,

  “James Whitcomb Riley.”

  Mrs. Stevenson wished to live within sight of the Pacific Ocean, so she purchased a lot at the corner of Hyde and Lombard Streets, on the very top of one of San Francisco’s famous hills, and at once began the building of her house, living meanwhile for a time on Belvedere Island and later at 2751 Broadway. The creation of a new thing — whether it might be a dress, a surprise dish for the table, a garden or a house, always appealed strongly to her, and as she plunged eagerly into the business of planning and discussing with architects and contractors, her interest in life rose again. As she remarked, “It is awfully exciting to build a house.” Mr. Willis Polk was the architect, but he followed her design, which she made by building a little house out of match-boxes on the corner of a table. The house was rather unusual in its plan, flat-roofed, and with architecture somewhat “on the Mexican order,” as the contractor said. It fitted in well with the landscape and gave one a feeling of home comfort and cheer within. She herself said it was “like a fort on a cliff.” Hidden from the street by a high retaining wall and a colonnade embowered in vines was a beautiful garden where she gradually collected rare plants from various parts of the world. A wide stretch of emerald lawn filled the centre, and around its borders were massed flowering shrubs and small trees — low-growing varieties purposely chosen in order not to hide the sea view from the windows. Here a climbing syringa brought from the romantic Borda gardens in Mexico, where the sad Empress Carlota used to walk, flung out its tendrils gaily to the salt sea breeze, and seemed never to miss the kindlier sun of its former home. At one side there was a small cemented pool, the birds’ drinking-place, where many of the little creatures came to dip their bills and trill their morning songs. In this quiet scented garden, kept safe from intruding eyes on all sides by vine-covered walls and shrubbery, one might sit and dream, reminded of the outside world only by the clanging of a street-car bell or the distant whistle of an ocean steamer.

  Within the walls of this house were a thousand objects gathered in her wanderings in all sorts of strange places, but the greatest attraction was the magnificent outlook over sea and land afforded by its commanding position. From the flat roof one looked down on one side upon the picturesque city, with its many hills and steeply climbing streets, all a-glitter at night with a million twinkling lights, and on the other upon the great sparkling expanse of the bay, alive with craft of every sort, from the great ocean steamer just in from the Orient to the tiny fisher boats, with their lateen sails, returning with their day’s catch from outside the “Heads.” From the drawing-room windows one could see the winking eye of Alcatraz Island, grim rocky guardian of the Golden Gate, and all the ships of the Pacific fleets making their slow way in to their docking places. How often must she have looked out upon those returning wanderers of the deep and thought with a tender sadness of that day in the treasured past when the Silver Ship sailed away with her and her beloved towards the enchanted isles!

  The house at Hyde and Lombard Streets, San Francisco, with some alterations in the way of bay windows, etc., which have been made since Mrs. Stevenson sold it.

  Once she stood watching from these windows for the transport that was coming in with soldiers from the Philippines, among whom was her nephew, Edward Orr. As the ship hove in sight she sent her grandson flying to the roof to wave a welcome with a large flag, and almost the first thing the homesick young soldier saw as he turned eager eyes shorewards was the fluttering banner high on the house-top on the hill. Having nothing else convenient with which to return the salute, he and his mates snatched a sheet from a bunk and waved it from a porthole. Meanwhile Mrs. Stevenson had despatched her son to hire a launch and take the mother and sisters of her nephew out to meet him, and as soon as the sea-worn and tired young soldiers had landed at the Presidio she sent out baskets of fruit and bottles of milk for their refreshment.

  Island memories were always dear to her, and when one day she heard that a ship had come into port manned with sailors from Samoa, she at once sent to the dock and invited them all to call on her. Soon the dark-skinned, picturesque troop, shy but proud of the attention shown them by Tusitala’s widow, arrived. The ava bowl was brought out and placed before them as they sat cross-legged on the floor in a semi-circle, and after the brewing of the ava it was drunk with all the proper ceremonies of speech-making and exchanges of compliments. Mr. Carmichael Carr, who, with his mother, the well-known singer, was one of the visitors that day, writes: “I have a wonderfully clear picture of the reception Mrs. Stevenson gave and the South Sea men she had gathered around her — their strange appearance and incantations and the peculiar drink they brewed.”

  At the Hyde Street house she received many distinguished people — actors, writers, singers, and even royalties. There Henry James, S. S. McClure, David Bispham, William Faversham and his wife, ex-Queen Liliuokalani and a hundred others went to pay her their respects. It was at a reception she was giving to Liliuokalani — which, by the way, she gave in the hope of arousing favourable interest in the Queen’s mission to Washington to seek justice — that she first met David Bispham, and first heard him sing, too, in a rather unusual way. Some one — I think it was Gelett Burgess — said to the Queen, “Will your Majesty please issue a royal command? We have never heard one.” Whereupon her Majesty pointed her finger at Bispham and said, “The bard is commanded to sing!”

  When the Stevenson Society of San Francisco held their yearly meetings of commemoration on Louis’s birthday she was the honoured guest, and it was characteristic of her to remember to invite his old friend, Jules Simoneau of Monterey, for these occasions. When she first asked the old man to come he shrugged his shoulders and said: “What! Will you take me to see your fine friends in this old blouse? I have no other clothes.” “Your clothes are nothing,” she replied. “All that matters to me is that you were my husband’s dear friend.” So he went, and was entertained in her house with as much consideration as though he had been a prince of the blood. On the evening of the dinner given by the Society at the old restaurant which had once been frequented by Stevenson, she took Simoneau in her carriage, and when a fashionable young lady in her party objected to this arrangement she was rebuked by being sent home in a street-car.