They were small things, but they
seemed somehow like a chip on a perfect statue. Surely it is only a
very fine work, of art which could leave so definite an impression
as that. Of course, there are a dozen other of his stories which
would put the average writer's best work to shame, all with the
strange Stevenson glamour upon them, of which I may discourse later,
but only to those two would I be disposed to admit that complete
excellence which would pass them into such a team as this.
And who else? If it be not an impertinence to mention a
contemporary, I should certainly have a brace from Rudyard Kipling.
His power, his compression, his dramatic sense, his way of glowing
suddenly into a vivid flame, all mark him as a great master. But
which are we to choose from that long and varied collection, many of
which have claims to the highest? Speaking from memory, I should say
that the stories of his which have impressed me most are "The Drums
of the Fore and Aft," "The Man who Would be King," "The Man who
Was," and "The Brushwood Boy." Perhaps, on the whole, it is the
first two which I should choose to add to my list of masterpieces.
They are stories which invite criticism and yet defy it. The great
batsman at cricket is the man who can play an unorthodox game, take
every liberty which is denied to inferior players, and yet succeed
brilliantly in the face of his disregard of law. So it is here. I
should think the model of these stories is the most dangerous that
any young writer could follow.
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