Mr. Stevenson was in town, now and again, at the old Saville Club, in Saville Row, which had the tiniest and blackest of smoking-rooms.  Here, or somewhere, he spoke to me of an idea of a tale, a Man who was Two Men.  I said “‘William Wilson’ by Edgar Poe,” and declared that it would never do.  But his “Brownies,” in a vision of the night, showed him a central scene, and he wrote “Jekyll and Hyde.”  My “friend of these days and of all days,” Mr. Charles Longman, sent me the manuscript.  In a very commonplace London drawing-room, at 10.30 P.M., I began to read it.  Arriving at the place where Utterson the lawyer, and the butler wait outside the Doctor’s room, I threw down the manuscript and fled in a hurry.  I had no taste for solitude any more.  The story won its great success, partly by dint of the moral (whatever that may be), more by its terrible, lucid, visionary power.  I remember Mr. Stevenson telling me, at this time, that he was doing some “regular crawlers,” for this purist had a boyish habit of slang, and I think it was he who called Julius Caesar “the howlingest cheese who ever lived.”  One of the “crawlers” was “Thrawn Janet”; after “Wandering Willie’s Tale” (but certainly after it), to my taste, it seems the most wonderful story of the “supernatural” in our language.

Mr. Stevenson had an infinite pleasure in Boisgobey, Montepin, and, of course, Gaboriau.  There was nothing of the “cultured person” about him.  Concerning a novel dear to culture, he said that he would die by my side, in the last ditch, proclaiming it the worst fiction in the world.  I make haste to add that I have only known two men of letters as free as Mr. Stevenson, not only from literary jealousy, but from the writer’s natural, if exaggerated, distaste for work which, though in his own line, is very different in aim and method from his own.  I do not remember another case in which he dispraised any book.  I do remember his observations on a novel then and now very popular, but not to his taste, nor, indeed, by any means, impeccable, though stirring; his censure and praise were both just.  From his occasional fine efforts, the author of this romance, he said, should have cleared away acres of brushwood, of ineffectual matter.  It was so, no doubt, as the writer spoken of would be ready to acknowledge.  But he was an improviser of genius, and Mr. Stevenson was a conscious artist.

Of course we did by no means always agree in literary estimates; no two people do.  But when certain works—­in his line in one way—­were stupidly set up as rivals of his, the person who was most irritated was not he, but his equally magnanimous contemporary.  There was no thought of rivalry or competition in either mind.  The younger romancists who arose after Mr. Stevenson went to Samoa were his friends by correspondence; from them, who never saw his face, I hear of his sympathy and encouragement.  Every writer knows the special temptations of his tribe:  they were temptations not even felt, I do believe, by Mr. Stevenson.  His heart was far too high, his nature was in every way as generous as his hand was open.  It is in thinking of these things that one feels afresh the greatness of the world’s loss; for “a good heart is much more than style,” writes one who knew him only by way of letters.