Our hearts were uplifted, but now we were mightily embarrassed as to the
figure we would cut before the Writers to the Signet. You must remember
that we were two young vagabonds in the earliest twenties, travelling
with slim knapsacks, and much soiled by a fortnight on the road. I was
in knickerbockers and khaki shirt; Mifflin in greasy gray flannels and
subfusc Norfolk. Our only claims to gentility were our monocles. Always
take a monocle on a vagabond tour: it is a never-failing source of
amusement and passport of gentility. No matter how ragged you are, if
you can screw a pane in your eye you can awe the yokel or the tradesman.
The private records of the firm of Guild and Shepherd doubtless show
that on Friday, July 28, 1911, one of their polite young attachés,
appearing as per appointment at 17 Heriot Row, was met by two eccentric
young gentlemen, clad in dirty white flannel hats, waterproof capes,
each with an impressive monocle. Let it be said to the honour of the
attaché in question that he showed no symptoms of surprise or alarm. We
explained, I think, that we were scouting for my father, who (it was
alleged) greatly desired to settle down in Edinburgh. And we had
presence of mind enough to enquire about plumbing, stationary wash-tubs,
and the condition of the flues. I wish I could remember what rent was
quoted.
He showed us all through the house; and you may imagine that we stepped
softly and with beating hearts. Here we were on the very track of the
Magician himself: his spirit whispered in the lonely rooms. We imagined
R.L.S. as a little child, peering from the windows at dusk to see Leerie
light the street-lamps outside--a quaint, thin, elvish face with shining
brown eyes; or held up in illness by Cummie to see the gracious dawn
heralded by oblongs of light in the windows across the Queen Street
gardens. We saw the college lad, tall, with tweed coat and cigarette,
returning to Heriot Row with an armful of books, in sad or sparkling
mood. The house was dim and dusty: a fine entrance hall, large dining
room facing the street--and we imagined Louis and his parents at
breakfast. Above this, the drawing room, floored with parquet oak, a
spacious and attractive chamber. Above this again, the nursery, and
opening off it the little room where faithful Cummie slept. But in vain
we looked for some sign or souvenir of the entrancing spirit. The room
that echoed to his childish glee, that heard his smothered sobs in the
endless nights of childish pain, the room where he scribbled and brooded
and burst into gusts of youth's passionate outcry, is now silent and
forlorn.
With what subtly mingled feelings we peered from room to room, seeing
everything, and yet not daring to give ourselves away to the courteous
young agent. And what was it he said?--"This was the house of Lord
So-and-so" (I forget the name)--"and incidentally, Robert Louis
Stevenson lived here once. His signature occurs once or twice in the
deeds."
_Incidentally_!...
Like many houses in Auld Reekie, 17 Heriot Row is built on a steep slant
of ground, so that the rear of the house is a storey or more higher than
the face. We explored the kitchens, laundries, store-rooms, and other
"offices" with care, imagining that little "Smoutie" may have run here
and there in search of tid-bits from the cook. Visions of that
childhood, fifty years before, were almost as real as our own. We seemed
to hear the young treble of his voice. That house was the home of the
Stevensons for thirty years (1857-1887)--surely even the thirty years
that have gone by since Thomas Stevenson died cannot have laid all those
dear ghosts we conjured up!
We thanked our guide and took leave of him. If the firm of Guild and
Shepherd should ever see this, surely they will forgive our innocent
deception, for the honour of R.L.S. I wonder if any one has yet put a
tablet on the house? If not, Mifflin and I will do so, some day.
In the evenings we used to wander up to Heriot Row in the long Northern
dusk, to sit on the front steps of number 17 waiting for Leerie to come
and light the famous lamp which still stands on the pavement in front of
the dining-room windows:
For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!
But no longer does Leerie "with lantern and with ladder come posting
up the street." Nowadays he carries a long pole bearing a flame
cunningly sheltered in a brass socket. But the Leerie of 1911
("Leerie-light-the-lamps" is a generic nickname for all lamplighters in
Scotland) was a pleasant fellow even if ladderless, and we used to have
a cigar ready for him when he reached 17. We told him of R.L.S., of whom
he had vaguely heard, and explained the sanctity of that particular
lamp. He in turn talked freely of his craft, and learning that we were
Americans he told us of his two sisters "in Pennsylvania, at 21 Thorn
Street." He seemed to think Pennsylvania a town, but finally we learned
that the Misses Leerie lived in Sewickley where they were doing well,
and sending back money to the "kiddies." Good Leerie, I wonder do you
still light the lamps on Heriot Row, or have you too seen redder
beacons on Flanders fields?
One evening I remember we fell into discussion whether the lamp-post was
still the same one that R.L.S. had known. We were down on hands and
knees on the pavement, examining the base of the pillar by match-light
in search of possible dates. A very seedy and disreputable looking man
passed, evidently regarding us with apprehension as detectives. Mifflin,
never at a loss, remarked loudly "No, I see no footprints here," and as
the ragged one passed hastily on with head twisted over his shoulder, we
followed him. At the corner of Howe Street he broke into an uneasy
shuffle, and Mifflin turned a great laugh into a Scotland Yard sneeze.
Howe Street crosses Heriot Row at right angles, only a few paces prom
No. 17. It dips sharply downhill toward the Water of Leith, and Mifflin
and I used to stand at the corner and wonder just where took place the
adventure with the lame boy which R.L.S. once described when setting
down some recollections of childhood.
In Howe street, round the corner from our house, I often saw a lame
boy of rather a rough and poor appearance. He had one leg much
shorter than the other, and wallowed in his walk, in consequence,
like a ship in a seaway. I had read more than enough, in tracts and
_goody_ story books, of the isolation of the infirm; and after many
days of bashfulness and hours of consideration, I finally accosted
him, sheepishly enough I daresay, in these words: "Would you like to
play with me?" I remember the expression, which sounds exactly like
a speech from one of the goody books that had nerved me to the
venture. But the answer was not one I had anticipated, for it was
a blast of oaths. I need not say how fast I fled. This incident was
the more to my credit as I had, when I was young, a desperate
aversion to addressing strangers, though when once we had got into
talk I was pretty certain to assume the lead. The last particular
may still be recognized. About four years ago I saw my lame lad, and
knew him again at once. He was then a man of great strength, rolling
along, with an inch of cutty in his mouth and a butcher's basket on
his arm. Our meeting had been nothing to him, but it was a great
affair to me.
We strolled up the esplanade below the Castle, pausing in Ramsay's
Gardens to admire the lighted city from above. In the valley between the
Castle and Princes Street the pale blue mist rises at night like an
exhalation from the old gray stones. The lamps shining through it blend
in a delicate opalescent sheen, shot here and there with brighter
flares. As the sky darkens the castle looms in silhouette, with one
yellow square below the Half Moon Battery. "There are no stars like the
Edinburgh street lamps," says R.L.S. Aye, and the brightest of them all
shines on Heriot Row.
The vision of that child face still comes to me, peering down from the
dining-room window. R.L.S. may never have gratified his boyish wish to
go round with Leerie and light the lamps, but he lit many and more
enduring flames even in the hearts of those who never saw him.