The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. XIX (of 25) - The Ebb-Tide; Weir of Hermiston
206 pages
English

The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. XIX (of 25) - The Ebb-Tide; Weir of Hermiston

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206 pages
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Publié le 08 décembre 2010
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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. XIX (of 25), by Robert Louis Stevenson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. XIX (of 25) The Ebb-Tide; Weir of Hermiston Author: Robert Louis Stevenson Release Date: January 21, 2010 [eBook #31037] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - SWANSTON EDITION VOL. XIX (OF 25)*** E-text prepared by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SWANSTON EDITION VOLUME XIX Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies have been printed, of which only Two Thousand Copies are for sale. This is No. ............ R. L. S. AND OTHERS IN THE SANS-SOUCI SALOON, BUTARITARI, GILBERT ISLANDS THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON VOLUME NINENTEEN LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS THE EBB-TIDE PAGE NOTE BY M R. LLOYD OSBOURNE 3 PART I.—THE TRIO CHAPTER I. NIGHT ON THE BEACH II. MORNING ON THE BEACH—THE T HREE LETTERS III. T HE OLD CALABOOSE—DESTINY AT THE DOOR IV. T HE YELLOW F LAG V. T HE CARGO OF CHAMPAGNE VI. T HE PARTNERS 7 19 29 39 46 69 PART II.—THE QUARTETTE VII. T HE PEARL-F ISHER VIII. BETTER ACQUAINTANCE IX. T HE DINNER PARTY X. T HE OPEN DOOR XI. DAVID AND GOLIATH XII. A T AIL-PIECE 81 96 109 118 131 151 WEIR OF HERMISTON INTRODUCTORY 159 161 175 181 196 205 208 212 228 253 270 278 284 297 I. LIFE AND DEATH OF MRS. WEIR II. F ATHER AND SON III. IN THE MATTER OF THE HANGING OF DUNCAN JOPP IV. OPINIONS OF THE BENCH V. WINTER ON THE MOORS: 1. AT HERMISTON 2. KIRSTIE 3. A BORDER F AMILY VI. A LEAF FROM CHRISTINA’S PSALM-BOOK VII. ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES VIII. A NOCTURNAL VISIT IX. AT THE WEAVER’S STONE SIR SIDNEY COLVIN’S NOTE GLOSSARY OF SCOTS WORDS 1 THE EBB-TIDE A Trio and Quartette WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH LLOYD OSBOURNE “There is a tide in the affairs of men ” NOTE.—On the pronunciation of a name very frequently repeated in these pages, the reader may take for a guide— “It was the schooner Farallone. ” 2 R. L. S.—L. O. NOTE BY MR. LLOYD OSBOURNE STEVENSON and I little knew, when we began our collaboration, that we were afterwards to raise such a hornets’ nest about our ears. The critics resented such an unequal partnership, and made it impossible for us to continue it. It may be that they were right; they wanted Stevenson’s best, and felt pretty sure they would not get it in our collaboration. But when they ascribed all the good in our three books to Stevenson and all the bad to me, they went a little beyond the mark. It is a pleasure to me to recall that the early part of both “The Wrecker” and “The Ebb-Tide” was almost entirely my own; so also were the storm scenes of the Norah Creina; so also the fight on the Flying Scud; so also the inception of Huish’s scheme, the revelation of it to his companions, his landing on the atoll with the bottle of vitriol in his breast. On the other hand, the Paris portion of “The Wrecker” was all Stevenson’s, as well as the concluding chapters of both the South Sea books. It is not possible to disentangle anything else that was wholly mine or his —the blending was too complete, our method of work too criss-crossed and intimate. For instance, we would begin by outlining the story in a general way; this done, we marshalled it into chapters, with a few explanatory words to each; then it was for me to write the first draft of Chapter I. This I would read to him, and if satisfactory it was laid to one side; but were it not, 3 I would rewrite it, embodying his criticisms. Each chapter in turn was fully discussed in advance before I put pen to paper; and in this way, though the actual first draft was in my own hand, the form of the story continually took shape under Stevenson’s eyes. When my first draft of the entire book was finished he would rewrite it again from cover to cover. I can remember nothing more delightful than the days we thus passed together. If our three books are in no wise great, they preserve, it seems to me, something of the zest and exhilaration that went into their making—the good humour, the eagerness. We were both under the glamour of the Islands—and that life, so strange, so picturesque, so animated, took us both by storm. Kings and beachcombers, pearl-fishers and princesses, traders, slavers, and schooner-captains, castaways, and runaways—what a world it was! And all this in a fairyland of palms, and glassy bays, and little lost settlements nestling at the foot of forest and mountain, with kings to make brotherhood with us, and a dubious white man or two, in earrings and pyjamas, no less insistent to extend to us the courtesies of the “beach.” It was amid such people, and amid such scenes, that “The Ebb-Tide” and “The Wrecker” were written. LLOYD OSBOURNE. 4 5 PART I THE TRIO 6 7 THE EBB-TIDE CHAPTER I NIGHT ON THE BEACH THROUGHOUT the island world of the Pacific, scattered men of many European races, and from almost every grade of society, carry activity and disseminate disease. Some prosper, some vegetate. Some have mounted the steps of thrones and owned islands and navies. Others again must marry for a livelihood; a strapping, merry, chocolate-coloured dame supports them in sheer idleness; and, dressed like natives, but still retaining some foreign element of gait or attitude, still perhaps with some relic (such as a single eye-glass) of the officer and gentleman, they sprawl in palm-leaf verandahs and entertain an island audience with memoirs of the music-hall. And there are still others, less pliable, less capable, less fortunate, perhaps less base, who continue, even in these isles of plenty, to lack bread. At the far end of the town of Papeete, three such men were seated on the beach under a purao-tree. It was late. Long ago the band had broken up and marched musically home, a motley troop of men and women, merchant clerks and navy officers, dancing in its wake, arms about waist and crowned with garlands. Long ago darkness and silence had gone from house to house about the tiny pagan city. Only the street-lamps shone on, making a glow-worm halo in the umbrageous alleys, or drawing a tremulous image on the waters of the port. A sound of snoring ran among the piles of lumber by the Government pier. It was wafted ashore from the graceful clipper-bottomed schooners, where they lay moored close in like dinghies, and their crews were stretched upon the deck under the open sky or huddled in a rude tent amidst the disorder of merchandise. But the men under the purao had no thought of sleep. The same temperature in England would have passed without remark in summer; but it was bitter cold for the South Seas. Inanimate nature knew it, and the bottle of cocoa-nut oil stood frozen in every bird-cage house about the island; and the men knew it, and shivered. They wore flimsy cotton clothes, the same they had sweated in by day and run the gauntlet of the tropic showers; and to complete their evil case, they had no breakfast to mention, less dinner, and no supper at all. In the telling South Sea phrase, these three men were on the beach. Common calamity had brought them acquainted, as the three most miserable English-speaking creatures in Tahiti; and beyond their misery, they knew next to nothing of each other, not even their true names. For each had made a long apprenticeship in going downward; and each, at some stage of the descent, had been shamed into the adoption of an alias. And yet not one of them had figured in a court of justice; two were men of kindly virtues; and one, as he sat and shivered under the purao, had a tattered Virgil in his pocket. Certainly, if money could have been raised upon the book, Robert Herrick would long ago have sacrificed that last possession; but the demand for literature, which is so marked a feature in some parts of the South Seas, extends not so far as the dead tongues; and the Virgil, which 8 he could not exchange against a meal, had often consoled him in his hunger. He would study it, as he lay with tightened belt on the floor of the old calaboose, seeking favourite passages and finding new ones only less beautiful because they lacked the consecration of remembrance. Or he would pause on random country walks; sit on the path-side, gazing over the sea on the mountains of Eimeo; and dip into the Aeneid, seeking sortes. And if the oracle (as is the way of oracles) replied with no very certain nor encouraging voice, visions of England at least would throng upon the exile’s memory: the busy schoolroom, the green playing-fields, holidays at home, and the perennial roar of London, and the fireside, and the white head of his father. For it is the destiny of those grave, restrained, and classic writers, with whom we make enforced and often painful acquaintanceship at school, to pass into the blood and become native in the memory; so that a phrase of Virgil speaks not so much of Mantua or Augustus, but of English places and the student’s own irrevocable youth. Robert Herrick was the son of an intelligent, active, and ambitious man, small partner in a considerable London house. Hopes were conceived of the boy; he was sent to a good school, gained there an Oxford scholarship, and proceeded in course to the western University. With all his talent and taste (and he had much of both) Robert was deficient in consistency and inte
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