Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 443
TO —
TO A GARDENER
TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM
TO ALL THAT LOVE THE FAR AND BLUE
TO AN ISLAND PRINCESS
TO ANDREW LANG
TO ANY READER
TO AUNTIE
TO CHARLES BAXTER
TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN
TO DR. HAKE. (On receiving a Copy of Verses)
TO F. J. S.
TO FRIENDS AT HOME
TO H. F. BROWN
TO K. DE M.
TO KALAKAUA. (With a present of a Pearl)
TO MADAME GARSCHINE
TO MARCUS
TO MESDAMES ZASSETSKY AND GARSCHINE
TO MINNIE
TO MINNIE
TO MISS CORNISH
TO MOTHER MARYANNE
TO MRS. MACMARLAND
TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW
TO MY FATHER
TO MY MOTHER
TO MY NAME-CHILD
TO MY OLD FAMILIARS
TO MY WIFE. (A Fragment)
TO N. V. DE G. S.
TO OTTILIE
TO PRINCESS KAIULANI
TO ROSABELLE
TO S. C.
TO S. R. CROCKETT. (On receiving a Dedication)
TO SYDNEY
TO THE COMMISSIONERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS
TO THE MUSE
TO THE TUNE OF WANDERING WILLIE
TO VIRGIL AND DORA WILLIAMS
TO W. E. HENLEY
TO WHAT SHALL I COMPARE HER?
TO WILL. H. LOW
TO WILLIE AND HENRIETTA
TO YOU, LET SNOW AND ROSES
TRAVEL
TROPIC RAIN
VARIANT FORM OF THE PRECEDING POEM
VOLUNTARY
WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE. (To an air of Diabelli)
WE UNCOMMISERATE PASS INTO THE NIGHT
WHAT MAN MAY LEARN, WHAT MAN MAY DO
WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER RAIN
WHERE GO THE BOATS?
WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN
WINDY NIGHTS
WINTER
WINTER-TIME
XVI. “IT’S AN OWERCOME SOOTH FOR AGE AN’ YOUTH”
YOU LOOKED SO TEMPTING IN THE PEW
YOUNG NIGHT THOUGHT
YOUTH AND LOVE — I
YOUTH AND LOVE — II
The Travel Writing
In June 1888, the Stevensons continued their voyage across America, journeying to the Pacific aboard the yacht Casco, touring the South Sea Islands for nearly three years, before finally settling in Samoa; during his voyages, Stevenson wrote vividly about the places he visited and passionately declaimed the injustices done to the native inhabitants by Western authorities.
AN INLAND VOYAGE
This was Stevenson’s first published book. On 25 August 1876, Stevenson and his friend Walter Simpson hired a couple of canoes at Antwerp in Belgium and began a lazy journey downstream to Pontoise, France, where they ended their voyage on 14 September. In 1878, Stevenson published his account of the voyage, making much of the amusing misunderstandings that had occurred along the way (including, on one memorable occasion, almost being arrested as a spy).
Yet, the main delight of the book is the way in which Stevenson skilfully evokes the delight of travel for its own sake. On one occasion, for example, he gleefully describes how he and Simpson are taken in by a charitable French family, who mistake the dishevelled pair for itinerant pedlars. The incident is used by Stevenson as an emblem of the ethos that permeates the book — the way in which travel allows one to escape temporarily from oneself and become someone else for a few short days or weeks.
This theme is also reflected in the way in which neither Stevenson nor Simpson are referred to by name, instead being called after the names of their canoes (respectively, ‘Arethusa’ and ‘Cigarette’). Incidentally, these canoes were more akin to the modern kayak — a wooden, one-man vessel, complete with a sail.
Frontispiece to the first edition, showing a scene from the river Oise, on which the voyage took place
CONTENTS
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
TO SIR WALTER GRINDLAY SIMPSON, BART.
ANTWERP TO BOOM
ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL
THE ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE
AT MAUBEUGE
ON THE SAMBRE CANALISED: TO QUARTES
PONT-SUR-SAMBRE. WE ARE PEDLARS
THE TRAVELLING MERCHANT
ON THE SAMBRE CANALISED: TO LANDRECIES
AT LANDRECIES
SAMBRE AND OISE CANAL: CANAL BOATS
THE OISE IN FLOOD
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOÎTE
A BY-DAY
THE COMPANY AT TABLE
DOWN THE OISE: TO MOY
LA FÈRE OF CURSED MEMORY
DOWN THE OISE: THROUGH THE GOLDEN VALLEY
NOYON CATHEDRAL
DOWN THE OISE: TO COMPIÈGNE
AT COMPIÈGNE
CHANGED TIMES
DOWN THE OISE: CHURCH INTERIORS
PRÉCY AND THE MARIONNETTES
BACK TO THE WORLD
Sir Walter Simpson, a close friend of Stevenson, who accompanied him on the voyage
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
To equip so small a book with a preface is, I am half afraid, to sin against proportion. But a preface is more than an author can resist, for it is the reward of his labours. When the foundation stone is laid, the architect appears with his plans, and struts for an hour before the public eye. So with the writer in his preface: he may have never a word to say, but he must show himself for a moment in the portico, hat in hand, and with an urbane demeanour.
It is best, in such circumstances, to represent a delicate shade of manner between humility and superiority: as if the book had been written by some one else, and you had merely run over it and inserted what was good. But for my part I have not yet learned the trick to that perfection; I am not yet able to dissemble the warmth of my sentiments towards a reader; and if I meet him on the threshold, it is to invite him in with country cordiality.
To say truth, I had no sooner finished reading this little book in proof, than I was seized upon by a distressing apprehension. It occurred to me that I might not only be the first to read these pages, but the last as well; that I might have pioneered this very smiling tract of country all in vain, and find not a soul to follow in my steps. The more I thought, the more I disliked the notion; until the distaste grew into a sort of panic terror, and I rushed into this Preface, which is no more than an advertisement for readers.
What am I to say for my book? Caleb and Joshua brought back from Palestine a formidable bunch of grapes; alas! my book produces naught so nourishing; and for the matter of that, we live in an age when people prefer a definition to any quantity of fruit.
I wonder, would a negative be found enticing? for, from the negative point of view, I flatter myself this volume has a certain stamp. Although it runs to considerably upwards of two hundred pages, it contains not a single reference to the imbecility of God’s universe, nor so much as a single hint that I could have made a better one myself. — I really do not know where my head can have been. I seem to have forgotten all that makes it glorious to be man.— ’Tis an omission that renders the book philosophically unimportant; but I am in hopes the eccentricity may please in frivolous circles.
To the friend who accompanied me I owe many thanks already, indeed I wish I owed him nothing else; but at this moment I feel towards him an almost exaggerated tenderness. He, at least, will become my reader: — if it were only to follow his own travels alongside of mine.
R.L.S.
TO SIR WALTER GRINDLAY SIMPSON, BART.
My dear Cigarette,
It was enough that you should have shared so liberally in the rains and portages of our voyage; that you should have had so hard a paddle to recover the derelict ‘Arethusa’ on the flooded Oise; and that you should thenceforth have piloted a mere wreck of mankind to Origny Sainte-Benoîte and a supper so eagerly desired. It was perhaps more than enough, as you once somewhat piteously complained, that I should have set down all the strong language to you, and kept the appropriate reflexions for myself. I could not in decency expose you to share the disgrace of another and more public shipwreck. But now that this voyage of ours is going into a cheap edition, that peril, we shall hope, is at an end, and I may put your name on the burgee.
But I cannot pause till I have lamented the fate of our two ships. That, sir, was not a fortunate day when we projected the possession of a canal barge; it was not a fortunate day when we shared our day-dream with the most hopeful of day-dreamers. For a while, indeed, the world looked smilingly. The barge was procured and christened, and as the ‘Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne,’ lay for some months, the admired of all admirers, in a pleasant river and under the walls of an ancient town. M. Mattras, the accomplished carpenter of Moret, had made her a centre of emulous labour; and you will not have forgotten the amount of sweet champagne consumed in the inn at the bridge end, to give zeal to the workmen and speed to the work. On the financial aspect, I would not willingly dwell. The ‘Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne’ rotted in the stream where she was beautified. She felt not the impulse of the breeze; she was never harnessed to the patient track-horse. And when at length she was sold, by the indignant carpenter of Moret, there were sold along with her the ‘Arethusa’ and the ‘Cigarette,’ she of cedar, she, as we knew so keenly on a portage, of solid-hearted English oak. Now these historic vessels fly the tricolor and are known by new and alien names.
R. L. S.
ANTWERP TO BOOM
We made a great stir in Antwerp Docks. A stevedore and a lot of dock porters took up the two canoes, and ran with them for the slip. A crowd of children followed cheering. The Cigarette went off in a splash and a bubble of small breaking water. Next moment the Arethusa was after her. A steamer was coming down, men on the paddle-box shouted hoarse warnings, the stevedore and his porters were bawling from the quay. But in a stroke or two the canoes were away out in the middle of the Scheldt, and all steamers, and stevedores, and other ‘long-shore vanities were left behind.
The sun shone brightly; the tide was making — four jolly miles an hour; the wind blew steadily, with occasional squalls. For my part, I had never been in a canoe under sail in my life; and my first experiment out in the middle of this big river was not made without some trepidation. What would happen when the wind first caught my little canvas? I suppose it was almost as trying a venture into the regions of the unknown as to publish a first book, or to marry. But my doubts were not of long duration; and in five minutes you will not be surprised to learn that I had tied my sheet.
I own I was a little struck by this circumstance myself; of course, in company with the rest of my fellow-men, I had always tied the sheet in a sailing-boat; but in so little and crank a concern as a canoe, and with these charging squalls, I was not prepared to find myself follow the same principle; and it inspired me with some contemptuous views of our regard for life. It is certainly easier to smoke with the sheet fastened; but I had never before weighed a comfortable pipe of tobacco against an obvious risk, and gravely elected for the comfortable pipe. It is a commonplace, that we cannot answer for ourselves before we have been tried. But it is not so common a reflection, and surely more consoling, that we usually find ourselves a great deal braver and better than we thought. I believe this is every one’s experience: but an apprehension that they may belie themselves in the future prevents mankind from trumpeting this cheerful sentiment abroad. I wish sincerely, for it would have saved me much trouble, there had been some one to put me in a good heart about life when I was younger; to tell me how dangers are most portentous on a distant sight; and how the good in a man’s spirit will not suffer itself to be overlaid, and rarely or never deserts him in the hour of need. But we are all for tootling on the sentimental flute in literature; and not a man among us will go to the head of the march to sound the heady drums.
It was agreeable upon the river. A barge or two went past laden with hay. Reeds and willows bordered the stream; and cattle and grey venerable horses came and hung their mild heads over the embankment. Here and there was a pleasant village among trees, with a noisy shipping-yard; here and there a villa in a lawn. The wind served us well up the Scheldt and thereafter up the Rupel; and we were running pretty free when we began to sight the brickyards of Boom, lying for a long way on the right bank of the river. The left bank was still green and pastoral, with alleys of trees along the embankment, and here and there a flight of steps to serve a ferry, where perhaps there sat a woman with her elbows on her knees, or an old gentleman with a staff and silver spectacles. But Boom and its brickyards grew smokier and shabbier with every minute; until a great church with a clock, and a wooden bridge over the river, indicated the central quarters of the town.
Boom is not a nice place, and is only remarkable for one thing: that the majority of the inhabitants have a private opinion that they can speak English, which is not justified by fact. This gave a kind of haziness to our intercourse. As for the Hôtel de la Navigation, I think it is the worst feature of the place. It boasts of a sanded parlour, with a bar at one end, looking on the street; and another sanded parlour, darker and colder, with an empty bird-cage and a tricolour subscription box by way of sole adornment, where we made shift to dine in the company of three uncommunicative engineer apprentices and a silent bagman. The food, as usual in Belgium, was of a nondescript occasional character; indeed I have never been able to detect anything in the nature of a meal among this pleasing people; they seem to peck and trifle with viands all day long in an amateur spirit: tentatively French, truly German, and somehow falling between the two.
The empty bird-cage, swept and garnished, and with no trace of the old piping favourite, save where two wires had been pushed apart to hold its lump of sugar, carried with it a sort of graveyard cheer. The engineer apprentices would have nothing to say to us, nor indeed to the bagman; but talked low and sparingly to one another, or raked us in the gaslight with a gleam of spectacles. For though handsome lads, they were all (in the Scots phrase) barnacled.
There was an English maid in the hotel, who had been long enough out of England to pick up all sorts of funny foreign idioms, and all sorts of curious foreign ways, which need not here be specified. She spoke to us very fluently in her jargon, asked us information as to the manners of the present day in England, and obligingly corrected us when we attempted to answer. But as we were dealing with a woman, perhaps our information was not so much thrown away as it appeared. The sex likes to pick up knowledge and yet preserve its superiority. It is good policy, and almost necessary in the circumstances. If a man finds a woman admire him, were it only for his acquaintance with geography, he will begin at once to build upon the admiration. It is only by unintermittent snubbing that the pretty ones can keep us in our place. Men, as Miss Howe or Miss Harlowe would have said, ‘are such encroachers.’ For my part, I am body and soul with the women; and after a well-married couple, there is nothing so beautiful in the world as the myth of the divine huntress. It is no use for a man to take to the woods; we know him; St. Anthony tried the same thing long ago, and had a pitiful time of it by all accounts. But there is this about some women, which overtops the best gymnosophist among men, that they suffice to themselves, and can walk in a high and cold zone without the countenance of any trousered being. I declare, although the reverse of a professed ascetic, I am more obliged to women for this ideal than I should be to the majority of them, or indeed to any but one, for a spontaneous kiss. There is nothing so encouraging as the spectacle of self-sufficiency. And when I think of the slim and lovely maidens, running the woods all night to the note of Diana’s horn; moving among the old oaks, as fancy-free as they; things of the forest and the starlight, not touched by the commotion of man’s hot and turbid life — although there are plenty other ideals that I should prefer — I find my heart beat at the thought of this one. ’Tis to fail in life, but to fail with what a grace! That is not lost which is not regretted. And where — here slips out the male — where would be much of the glory of inspiring love, if there were no contempt to overcome?
ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL
Next morning, when we set forth on the Willebroek Canal, the rain began heavy and chill. The water of the canal stood at about the drinking temperature of tea; and under this cold aspersion, the surface was covered with steam. The exhilaration of departure, and the easy motion of the boats under each stroke of the paddles, supported us through this misfortune while it lasted; and when the cloud passed and the sun came out again, our spirits went up above the range of stay-at-home humours. A good breeze rustled and shivered in the rows of trees that bordered the canal. The leaves flickered in and out of the light in tumultuous masses. It seemed sailing weather to eye and ear; but down between the banks, the wind reached us only in faint and desultory puffs. There was hardly enough to steer by. Progress was intermittent and unsatisfactory. A jocular person, of marine antecedents, hailed us from the tow-path with a ‘C’est vite, mais c’est long.’
The canal was busy enough. Every now and then we met or overtook a long string of boats, with great green tillers; high sterns with a window on either side of the rudder, and perhaps a jug or a flower-pot in one of the windows; a dinghy following behind; a woman busied about the day’s dinner, and a handful of children. These barges were all tied one behind the other with tow ropes, to the number of twenty-five or thirty; and the line was headed and kept in motion by a steamer of strange construction. It had neither paddle-wheel nor screw; but by some gear not rightly comprehensible to the unmechanical mind, it fetched up over its bow a small bright chain which lay along the bottom of the canal, and paying it out again over the stern, dragged itself forward, link by link, with its whole retinue of loaded skows. Until one had found out the key to the enigma, there was something solemn and uncomfortable in the progress of one of these trains, as it moved gently along the water with nothing to mark its advance but an eddy alongside dying away into the wake.
