Nothing but the lunch hour brought his musical experiments to a close. Stevenson, who had, in his own words, "been obliged to strip himself, one after another, of all the pleasures that he had chosen, except smoking" (and indeed, he was smoking cigarettes all day long) by no means disdained the pleasures of the table. Not, perhaps, in the role of a gourmet--but as an artist in the more recondite delicacies of taste and smell. "To detect the flavour of an olive is no less a piece of human perfection than to find beauty in the colours of a sunset," he observed; he coupled the flavour of wine with the beauty of the dawn, and declared that we do not recognise at its full value the great part in life that is played by eating and drinking. "There is a romance about the matter after all," he observed. "Probably the table has more devotees than love; and I am sure food is more generally entertaining than scenery." It was the "romance of the matter" that appealed to him; especially the colour, and savour, and poetical tradition of wine. "Books, and tobacco jars, and some old Burgundy as red as a November sunset, and as fragrant as a violet in April"--these, he thought, should suffice the most luxurious.
After lunch, if he anticipated an exhausting evening, he went to sleep--at a moment's notice--and after a short, sound repose, was as eager as ever to resume his pianoforte amusements; which he continued until friends arrived.
At the age of four-and-twenty, Stevenson had noted down his three chief wishes. "First, good health: secondly, a small competence: thirdly, _O Du lieber Gott!_ friends." The first: wish was irrevocably denied: the second was only just beginning to be granted, the guerdon of unresting toil: the third petition had been abundantly answered. Never was a man more happy in his friends; or one who made them so instantaneously and without effort. "He had only to speak," said one friend, "in order to be recognised in the first minute for a witty and charming gentleman, and in the second, for a man of genius." Some, indeed, like Mr. Edmund Gosse, came home dazzled and astounded, saying, as Constance does of Arthur, "Was ever such a gracious creature born?" His expression, of mingled tenderness and mirth, his "scholarly and eclectic presence"--together with his picturesque, velvet-coated appearance, and his flashing flow of words, combined to make a man so attractive and so unique as could command all love at will. And the friends were very many and very notable, who haunted Skerryvore. First and foremost was "Bob," Mr. R. A. M. Stevenson, the poet's first cousin, the brilliant art critic: "the man likest and most unlike to me," as R.L.S. described him. "Bob's" sister, Mrs. de Mattos, and her child were frequent visitors; then there were celebrities from London: such as Sargent the painter, William Archer, Sidney Colvin, W. E. Henley, Henry James; and again friends residing in the neighbourhood of Bournemouth; the poet Sir Henry Taylor, and his family; Sir Percy Shelley and his wife. These latter, indeed, regarded Stevenson almost in the light of a son. He struck them as bearing an extraordinary resemblance to Percy Bysshe Shelley; less, perhaps, in lineaments than in figure and in mind; and in consequence of this similarity, they held him very dear.