The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 17, 1907, Page 4

By Hanna Astrup Larsen newness e we still would e wer of London and an any mnewer sights riginal to enjoy what e as enjoyed be- fore us. I of course, those of essed with unlim- ted mo ° our sleeves psid n vals in obe- dience P rees that By Lucille Vivian Pierce the lovers of Stevenson in this country—and ng man in any eountry, it 1s probable, ever had increasing an army of lovers hance this year of bringing tle joyr and surety to that old man ears ago, brought ety to Robert Louis Steven- tempt is now being made to old Jules Simoneau of the members of Steven- family at the head; a fund i hoped, will give that kind, erous old man a competency 80 long lives and preclude forever the tle struggle that he has and proudly kept up for so The Stevenson Society is the movement and the n charge of Professor Henry Stephens eo tund fo Monterey, with n's owr in of the University of Cslifornia It is Jules Simoneau's last chapter. He is a very 0ld men new and Ais story bas been told very oftem, and lovers obedience, but with siz is a question that has engaged the ention of psychologists as much as it deserves. Tiouses e bear the print of the in which they w first launched upon this world in every line of thel They do not go out of fashion so Tz as do clothes, and the demand for mewness is not mperative, but they do be- shioned before very long. And then, f we can afford it, we throw out the “old sticks” and have the house I confess to wondering about it in an furnished in the latest style, or we ess sort of way as far back as I tear it down and build\something more can remember, but no solution seemed up-to-date, or we move away from: the to offer itself in return for such de- quiet strect altogether and push our- sultory speculation. Worse than that, selves into Sbme “swell” neighborhood! 1 have belled against it, not ence, And we wonder why the pulling up of ¥ a thousand times, only to be the old tent poles seems:gomehow to i back to the path of conven- pill at our heart strings, and why the jiore or less chastened new things’ never have the same dread of being ridicu- homey feeling ‘as the old. Europeans w the charm of things that have a PSR e S £/ 7 SIMONEAU, 86 YEARS Y OLD.w of Stevenson had trudgea up to his lit- tle cottage below the pines, s to a shrine, for nearly fifteen years, ever since “Louis,” as the old man calls him, died and left him also, the old friend, a little refracted aureole of fame. Because it is the last chapber it is fit- ting to revert again to those earliest pages when it was Jules Simoneau up and the benefactor and Louis Steven- son ill and weary and unrecognized— a stranger in a strange country, gnd very far down, indeed. There is a great, damp, picturesque adobe building in Monterey that has fallen upon evil days. It is the haunt of tawdry people and outcasts gener- ally; but there is a sign above the door which reads “R. Stevenson House,” and this is to tell the Stevenson lovers who come to sad, beautiful little Mon- terey that here, near thirty years ago, that vivid, careless, brave, brilliant man who belongs to everybody now lived and suffered for a few months and wrote some of his most charming papers and dreamed dreams we can only imagine and never know,.and suf- fered a loneliness that was strange and new. Until he found Jules Simoneau, Jules Simoneau, as I have said, was up in e last chapter ES TAONEAL, 4 $tevensons friend his little world. He kept a restaurant in the old French Hotel oft the plaza, where delectable French and Mexican concoctions were served and there was a white cloth and red wine on every table. Outside the windows one looked on the plaza, a deserted relic of bull-and- bhear baiting days when the Spanish beauty and gallantry of the capital of the early forties looked on and Cali- fornia spoke a foreign tongue. Stevenson often must have recalled it all as he drank his wine or chaffed with Simoneau in French or tried Itallan phrases with the filshermen who used to frequent the place, brave in a blue jersey and scarlet sash. The little cos mopolitan crowds grew to like the lean, Brown foreigner, with his feverishly happy spirits and merriment, his evi- dent {llness that he made a whim of. | But there was a day when he did @ome. The gay crowd talked on, hardly knowing what they missed—all but Simoneau. Simoneau’s feeling for the stranger had gone deeper. He had guessed his bitter, proud, little secrets, and there was a bitter fear in his heart when he went to hunt up his belated guest. He found him ‘In that damp little back room in the old hotel, rack- ingly weak and {ll, breakfastless, dinnerless, paper spread before him— the audacious bravery of the man we know now, the man who joked with death and defeat to the very last, as he joked with Simoneau that day as he lay there in pain. Simoneau has never forgotten that day. Stevenson never forgot it as long as he lived—the quick tenderness of this man who spoke a foreign tongue, ‘who brought him coffee and rolls, meat and wine, on those bittermest days when he could not get to the little crowd in the plaza restaurant, and who did not reckon up the account because this poor stranger, who spoke his tongue with such lovable, brilliant eccentrici- ties, had become his friend, and friend: do not keep accounts and reckon pence. Stevenson never forgot this friend of those dark days. Every book he published afterward, from France or Switzerland or Scotland, or from those bright lonely islands of the last days, crossed the oceans back to Mon- terey and Simoneau, with whimsical, tender messages of gratitude. Steven- used look; they know how to preserve the atmosphere which comes only from a falthful guerding of the old things. Vary few Americans, except in certain communities which we are plegsed to imagine have gone to seed in the midst of general progress, are in the secret. The craze for antiques is but another phase of the same craving for newness. The Old Amid the New 1t is refreshing in the midst atmosphere of new. pazint, fairly ing with the odor come suddenly intoa place t Yowed by the hand of time and kept loving hands ‘as a shrine for precious memories. Tt is most of all refreshing ge to of turpe 10 meet people who have the co i€ to the traditions their house prefer the ents. that < around the to any spick and span newness world has ng well back fros treet, not far from Oa a pla which Is the s of a fine and high family tradl You may have passed it a thousand times and never seen-it, or’if you e seen it, it has been to you on plain, old, gray house with nothing remarkable about it. Fronting Devisadero street is a new building bearing the prosaic inseription “Maberdasher: It you are privileged to pass through it to the owner's home in the back of the lot you will come upon one of the old- cst houses in San Francisco. It was built by John Middieton in the vear of our Lord 1850, which might not be an- ent history in the Old World, but wlilch means a long span of time in this Western world where things hap- pen quickly. After the destruction by the fire of ‘the old houses on_Rincon Hill and the gradual destruction of the o0ld adobe butidings around the Mission Dolores to maké room for more modern "structures, there are not fow piany houses in San Francisco boasting more years. It was built in Loulsfana and came around the Horn all ready to be put up, and was pegged into the ground von was one of those rare ones who never forget kindness. So I, too, climbed ths road up to the little cottage below the pines. The bowery little gardgen so overbalances it that at first it almost escapes you. All the yvear thrdugh it is a riot of bloom; the keen sea airs of the little town are kind to the little gardens; and here all the year through bloom the fuchsias, globes of pink, ‘crimson, flush and purple, and a riot of Toses and the graveled -path is flanked by a carpet of violets, sentineled in the in- terstices with tall spikes of poignant narcissus, And then one came out of the trance that a rush of sweet odors flings one into, and rapped on the . little door. Simoneau lets one in‘and makes one welcome in quaintly polite French- English; and for the moment es into the background. He knows that Stevenson dominates that little living room, as he has dominated the whole life of the kind old Frenchman. There is a large portralt facing you—that familiar, thin, individual face, with the brilliagnt farsapart eyes—with un- derneath an inscription in the nerv- ous, familiar hand; and on-the other side of the room another photograph miltar through reproductions; and the old man says: “There is Louis; the look is in the eye; he look to me like that.” The little bookcase in the corner is filled with the red-covered array of fa- miliar tales and essays, letters and travels; and he lets you take them out, those dingy well-thumbed vol- - N COPIES OF TWO PAINT- INGS OF THE PHELPS H%JSE A0E 2 B5eEns 4 wiere the haberdashery now stands. Many years later it was moved back on the lot. In 1852 it was bought by Abner Phelps, a well-known attorney. It was his hoime until his death, and all his children were barn there. Four of m, two sisters and two ‘' brothers, 1l live there, keeping the -family home intact. “It'has cost us more than building a house,” ‘said- Waltér Phelps, in telling abo: s honre, ut-we like Lo keep the old plage.™ new The old gray house was called “tho mansion” in the days of its pr it was quite the most magnificent abode te. for for miles around. . Even povw.its wide, low roems gest a comfort not found in flats. Gradually the ‘014 furniture has gone the way of all flesh, but something of the old-time atmosphere stili-clings to the place, especially in the ‘quaint rooms full of nooks afyd corners. Where business blocks now stand ‘arrayed around the Phelps home ~—shutting it out from the view of the street—there was once a flower garden three ‘acres -in extent and hardly equaled in San Francisco at the time There ‘Were walks laid out after the fashion of the times, hedges and bow- ers, and even croquet grounds days after that game came in. wide, long verandas invited the wea traveler, to rest. There were coming and going with the gay in the hors throng of guests, for the house was of the true (alifornia type of hospitality. Every Supday there were long tables spread ,fo host of giests and there were few. of the prominent people of the time who were not at one time or another under -the roof of Abner _ Phelps. N The. house stood in the middle of a raneh that took in what is now a dozen blocks in the heart of the busi- ness district. Two water color views of it painted in 1870 by Rogers, the scenic palnter of the old California Theater, and hung in places of honor in the Phelps home, show a rustic urkes that he knows by Hheart, and read the, tender, pjayful little inscrip- tions that zigzag childishly across the front leaves. To us who never saw him—*“Louis”—yet ‘know and love him so well, there is always in that little crooked {rresponsible-looking hand something of the lovable child that “Louis” was to the last. In one volume, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll.and Mr.. Hyde,” we read: “But: the -case of Robert Louis Steven- son and Jules Simoneau, if the one for- got the other, would be stranger still,” and the old ‘'man's’eyes shine again with pride and pleasure as we read it. And agaln In *“Underwoods”: “If there ever was & man who was a good man to’'me, it ‘was. Jules Simoneau.” ‘The, old man said quaintly, as we looked at him and envied him and loved him for his naive pride: “T am proud of that word.” And I try still to be that man.” . F And he is still is that man—though “Louis” has stopped writing these four- teen years, and misfortune and poverty and old age have been dogging this ' brave-hearted friend for many a year now. The whimsical courage of that gay-hearted adventurer who briefly crossed his path so long since seems more and more to have become part of the old Frenchman who loves and remembers. Perhaps he has thumbed the red books so thoroughly and lived so much in that past autumn when he, Jules Simoneau, was the prosperous one, kind to the lonely stranger at his full board, that he is, actually, a little ncarer to Stevenson than the rest of scene with steep hills and clusters of trees. Not another house in sight. In front of the -hpuse was a lake. which, however, does not appear in elther of the pictures. It was a hundred feet deep and afforded splendid oppertuni- ties boys who were devoted to swimming and duck-shooting, as the proprietor of the haberdashery will testify with a reminiscent look. This lake was filled from other lakes higher upand In times of great rainfall it sometimes happened that the sources overfiswed, with the result that the lake on what 1s now Devisadero street broke its bounds. It did not injure the Pheips home, which was placed in an elevated position, but others were less for fortunate. A man, by name Ploche, had his ho washed away, and it is a matter of history that his plano and a barrel of whisky belonging to him were found out in the Mission. Ousting the Squatters Squatters were the terror of the old settlers at that time. It was less trouble and cheaper to keep watch and prevent them from erecting thelr houses than to dislodge them when once they had built the shacks, which were the work of a single night. The elder Phelps took the usual measures to protect his very desirable property and hired ‘a desperado named Frenéh to do the work. It was the mingled de- light and horror of the children ‘when morning broke and discovered the un- welcome squatters lodged outside of their windows. Then ensued an exeit- ing. scene, in which the smashig of houses and some rather harmle: gun play figured prominently. There were no United Railroads In those haleyon days, and the only way of getting about was on horseback. Just imagine how different the world must have looked to the cavalier gal- loping across tiie sand hills ‘on- his “flery steed™ from the aspect which it presents to the weary strap-hanger of today! The first mechanical mede of locomotion was the steam car from the old Haves pavilion down at Hayes and THE INSCRIPIION IN SIMONEAUD COPY. STRANGE CASE Market streets he Mission still re- mained fnaccessible by any other means than walking er riding. When Abner Phelps died in 1373 the gay old days of festivity lapsed Into the quieter Iife of his widow and chil- dren. Still they kept up the old house. Sometimes the children thought of moving it, but in deference to thelr mother's wishes they main where it was. After her death, which happened in 1333, they lifted the old house from its foundation and pegged It down securely In the baek of the lot. Then the store was bduilt in front, where it now stands. The house, which was built in Louisiana and came around the Horn, withstood the earthquake, suffering no injury, and the sisters and brothers who live in it value their old home even more than before, as we value that whish we thought to lose, realizing from the sharpness of the pang how dear It & They were proud to think that the earthquake could not wrench it frem its foundations, but when the fire came, near they packed up a few of their be- longings and prepared to share the lot of a vast number of their homeless fal- low citizens. They were destined te De| among those who wers spared this suf- fering, and 30 the old house stands| yet, a relic of a time has few mementos in San Francisce now. ¢ The people who would taks so mueh trouble to preserve their old homal would naturally treasure all the fame ily relics, that carry with them asso- clations of Interest. Among their moet( cherished possessions are the plcture of their father painted In his New Hamp- shire home when he was years old, and a flag riddled with bullets, & tro-| phy brought from the Mexican war, in| which he served as colonel. Another| valued heirloom is a silver cup of eld-! fashioned Wwarkmanship. Tt was given Abner Phelps by the Jefferson Lodge In! allowed it to re- that Latayette, whers he was Mavor, im memory of an act of herolé ymselfish-| ness. A member of the lodze ‘;), ‘taken Il with smallpox. which in the early) forties was a much mare terrible disease than new, and Phelps nursed him, “ju because there was ne one eise to do . No wonder his daughter's rings| ith pride when she speaks of it. ) voica OF “TH, - SF 58 Gt This &6 eryoe us, however learned and sophisticated we may pride ourselves on being. The old Frenchman at 86 is like Dur- er's “Head of an Old Man.” The same indomitable look about the eyes, the same fine wrinkles, the very dignity of age; and the keen Gallic intelligence, the French charm and eagerness and magnetism dominate still, as he talks Stevenson or politics or French litera- ture with you. There is a lttle old wife, a dark, eager little Mexican face with restless eyes and eager hands. There is some- thing of the charming devilment of the gipsy in her lit face. She acts every word she says, sometimes springing from her chair with extravagant ges- ture to illustrate some whimsical point with pantomime. She it is who has made the tamales that until lately the old man has been able to sell; she it is who has proudly brought to bloom the little scented wilderness in fromt of the house, and she it is who has brought the old man every step of the long downward slope that these last months have been, an inflexible spirit. “Ah, she,” says old Jules Simoneau, “she is the good old woman. But she work too hard—she work too hard.” And his eyes dim, and he brushes h! hand across them and smiles cheerlly. ‘When I think of old Jules Simoneau bravely creeping down the last incline into the hopeful shadows, I like to think of those gallant lines of Steven- son's about a dead friend—the verses they found only after his death. Surely they fit the case of the old man very well, and -tha friend he lost’ still loves him and is waiting just ahead: \ ’ Kept stoutly step by step with you, Your whole long quiet lifetime through, Though he that ever kind and true Be gone awhile before, Be now a moment gone before, Yet doubt not that the ages will ree store Your friend to you. He has but turned a corner—still He pushes on with right good will, Through mire and marsh, by heugh and. hill, That selfsame arduous way, ;:1; selfsame upland hopeful way, at-you and he throu doubtful day it e s Attempted still. He is not dead. this friend—not d ; — e: But in the steps we mortals tread - Got some few trifling steps ahead, 5 ?Ind nearer to the end: So that you, too, once past the bend Shall meet again as face to face this friend You fancy dead. Push gayly on, strong heart, the You travel forward mile by mile, He loiters with a backward smile’ Till you can overtake, And strains his eyes to search his or, whmtiis he sees through T, Whiktling as he the brake, G Waits on a stile while |