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THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SWANSTON EDITION
VOLUME XXI
_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._ ...........
[Illustration: R.L.S. ON THE FORWARD DECK OF THE SCHOONER "EQUATOR"]
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
VOLUME TWENTY-ONE
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 STORY OF A LIE
CHAPTER PAGE
I. INTRODUCES THE ADMIRAL 3
II. A LETTER TO THE PAPERS 8
III. IN THE ADMIRAL'S NAME 14
IV. ESTHER ON THE FILIAL RELATION 21
V. THE PRODIGAL FATHER MAKES HIS DEBUT AT HOME 24
VI. THE PRODIGAL FATHER GOES ON FROM STRENGTH TO
STRENGTH 31
VII. THE ELOPEMENT 41
VIII. BATTLE ROYAL 50
IX. IN WHICH THE LIBERAL EDITOR APPEARS AS
"DEUS EX MACHINA" 60
THE MERRY MEN
I. EILEAN AROS 69
II. WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS 76
III. LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY 89
IV. THE GALE 100
V. A MAN OUT OF THE SEA 112
OLALLA 127
HEATHERCAT
PART I.--THE KILLING-TIME
I. TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT 177
II. FRANCIE 182
III. THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE 195
THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
I. NANCE AT THE "GREEN DRAGON" 203
II. IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED 210
III. JONATHAN HOLDAWAY 218
IV. MINGLING THREADS 223
V. LIFE IN THE CASTLE 229
VI. THE BAD HALF-CROWN 233
VII. THE BLEACHING-GREEN 238
VIII. THE MAIL GUARD 244
THE YOUNG CHEVALIER
PROLOGUE--THE WINE-SELLER'S WIFE 253
I. THE PRINCE 263
FABLES
I. THE PERSONS OF THE TALE 269
II. THE SINKING SHIP 272
III. THE TWO MATCHES 274
IV. THE SICK MAN AND THE FIREMAN 275
V. THE DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER 276
VI. THE PENITENT 277
VII. THE YELLOW PAINT 277
VIII. THE HOUSE OF ELD 280
IX. THE FOUR REFORMERS 286
X. THE MAN AND HIS FRIEND 287
XI. THE READER 287
XII. THE CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER 288
XIII. THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER 289
XIV. THE CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE 290
XV. THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG 291
XVI. SOMETHING IN IT 291
XVII. FAITH, HALF-FAITH, AND NO FAITH AT ALL 295
XVIII. THE TOUCHSTONE 297
XIX. THE POOR THING 304
XX. THE SONG OF THE MORROW 310
THE STORY OF A LIE
THE STORY OF A LIE
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCES THE ADMIRAL
When Dick Naseby was in Paris he made some odd acquaintances, for he was
one of those who have ears to hear, and can use their eyes no less than
their intelligence. He made as many thoughts as Stuart Mill; but his
philosophy concerned flesh and blood, and was experimental as to its
method. He was a type-hunter among mankind. He despised small game and
insignificant personalities, whether in the shape of dukes or bagmen,
letting them go by like sea-weed; but show him a refined or powerful
face, let him hear a plangent or a penetrating voice, fish for him with
a living look in some one's eye, a passionate gesture, a meaning or
ambiguous smile, and his mind was instantaneously awakened. "There was a
man, there was a woman," he seemed to say, and he stood up to the task
of comprehension with the delight of an artist in his art.
And indeed, rightly considered, this interest of his was an artistic
interest. There is no science in the personal study of human nature. All
comprehension is creation; the woman I love is somewhat of my handiwork;
and the great lover, like the great painter, is he that can so embellish
his subject as to make her more than human, whilst yet by a cunning art
he has so based his apotheosis on the nature of the case that the woman
can go on being a true woman, and give her character free play, and show
littleness, or cherish spite, or be greedy of common pleasures, and he
continue to worship without a thought of incongruity. To love a
character is only the heroic way of understanding it. When we love, by
some noble method of our own or some nobility of mien or nature in the
other, we apprehend the loved one by what is noblest in ourselves. When
we are merely studying an eccentricity, the method of our study is but a
series of allowances. To begin to understand is to begin to sympathise;
for comprehension comes only when we have stated another's faults and
virtues in terms of our own. Hence the proverbial toleration of artists
for their own evil creations. Hence, too, it came about that Dick
Naseby, a high-minded creature, and as scrupulous and brave a gentleman
as you would want to meet, held in a sort of affection the various human
creeping things whom he had met and studied.
One of these was Mr. Peter Van Tromp, an English-speaking, two-legged
animal of the international genus, and by profession of general and more
than equivocal utility. Years before he had been a painter of some
standing in a colony, and portraits signed "Van Tromp" had celebrated
the greatness of colonial governors and judges. In those days he had
been married, and driven his wife and infant daughter in a pony trap.
What were the steps of his declension? No one exactly knew. Here he was
at least, and had been, any time these past ten years, a sort of dismal
parasite upon the foreigner in Paris.
It would be hazardous to specify his exact industry. Coarsely followed,
it would have merited a name grown somewhat unfamiliar to our ears.
Followed as he followed it, with a skilful reticence, in a kind of
social chiaroscuro, it was still possible for the polite to call him a
professional painter. His lair was in the Grand Hotel and the gaudiest
cafes. There he might be seen jotting off a sketch with an air of some
inspiration; and he was always affable, and one of the easiest of men to
fall in talk withal. A conversation usually ripened into a peculiar sort
of intimacy, and it was extraordinary how many little services Van Tromp
contrived to render in the course of six-and-thirty hours. He occupied
a position between a friend and a courier, which made him worse than
embarrassing to repay. But those whom he obliged could always buy one of
his villainous little pictures, or, where the favours had been prolonged
and more than usually delicate, might order and pay for a large canvas,
with perfect certainty that they would hear no more of the transaction.
Among resident artists he enjoyed the celebrity of a non-professional
sort. He had spent more money--no less than three individual fortunes,
it was whispered--than any of his associates could ever hope to gain.
Apart from his colonial career, he had been to Greece in a brigantine
with four brass carronades; he had travelled Europe in a chaise and
four, drawing bridle at the palace-doors of German princes; queens of
song and dance had followed him like sheep, and paid his tailor's bills.
And to behold him now, seeking small loans with plaintive condescension,
sponging for breakfast on an art-student of nineteen, a fallen Don Juan
who had neglected to die at the propitious hour, had a colour of romance
for young imaginations. His name and his bright past, seen through the
prism of whispered gossip, had gained him the nickname of "The Admiral."
Dick found him one day at the receipt of custom, rapidly painting a pair
of hens and a cock in a little water-colour sketching-box, and now and
then glancing at the ceiling like a man who should seek inspiration from
the muse. Dick thought it remarkable that a painter should choose to
work over an absinthe in a public cafe, and looked the man over. The
aged rakishness of his appearance was set off by a youthful costume; he
had disreputable grey hair and a disreputable sore, red nose; but the
coat and the gesture, the outworks of the man, were still designed for
show. Dick came up to his table and inquired if he might look at what
the gentleman was doing. No one was so delighted as the Admiral.
"A bit of a thing," said he. "I just dash them off like that. I--I dash
them off," he added, with a gesture.
"Quite so," said Dick, who was appalled by the feebleness of the
production.
"Understand me," continued Van Tromp; "I am a man of the world. And
yet--once an artist always an artist. All of a sudden a thought takes me
in the street; I become its prey; it's like a pretty woman; no use to
struggle; I must--dash it off."
"I see," said Dick.
"Yes," pursued the painter; "it all comes easily, easily to me; it is
not my business; it's a pleasure. Life is my business--life--this great
city, Paris--Paris after dark--its lights, its gardens, its odd corners.
Aha!" he cried, "to be young again! The heart is young, but the heels
are leaden. A poor, mean business, to grow old! Nothing remains but the
_coup d'oeil_, the contemplative man's enjoyment, Mr. ----," and he
paused for the name.
"Naseby," returned Dick.
The other treated him at once to an exciting beverage, and expatiated on
the pleasure of meeting a compatriot in a foreign land; to hear him, you
would have thought they had encountered in Central Africa. Dick had
never found any one take a fancy to him so readily, nor show it in an
easier or less offensive manner. He seemed tickled with him as an
elderly fellow about town might be tickled by a pleasant and witty lad;
he indicated that he was no precisian, but in his wildest times had
never been such a blade as he thought Dick. Dick protested, but in vain.
This manner of carrying an intimacy at the bayonet's point was Van
Tromp's stock-in-trade. With an older man he insinuated himself; with
youth he imposed himself, and in the same breath imposed an ideal on his
victim, who saw that he must work up to it or lose the esteem of this
old and vicious patron. And what young man can bear to lose a character
for vice?
As last, as it grew towards dinner-time, "Do you know Paris?" asked Van
Tromp.
"Not so well as you, I am convinced," said Dick.
"And so am I," returned Van Tromp gaily. "Paris! My young friend--you
will allow me?--when you know Paris as I do, you will have seen Strange
Things. I say no more; all I say is, Strange Things. We are men of the
world, you and I, and in Paris, in the heart of civilised existence.
This is an opportunity, Mr. Naseby. Let us dine. Let me show you where
to dine."
Dick consented. On the way to dinner the Admiral showed him where to buy
gloves, and made him buy them; where to buy cigars, and made him buy a
vast store, some of which he obligingly accepted. At the restaurant he
showed him what to order, with surprising consequences in the bill. What
he made that night by his percentages it would be hard to estimate. And
all the while Dick smilingly consented, understanding well that he was
being done, but taking his losses in the pursuit of character as a
hunter sacrifices his dogs. As for the Strange Things, the reader will
be relieved to hear that they were no stranger than might have been
expected, and he may find things quite as strange without the expense of
a Van Tromp for guide. Yet he was a guide of no mean order, who made up
for the poverty of what he had to show by a copious, imaginative
commentary.
"And such," said he, with an hiccup, "such is Paris."
"Pooh!" said Dick, who was tired of the performance.
The Admiral hung an ear, and looked up sidelong with a glimmer of
suspicion.
"Good-night," said Dick; "I'm tired."
"So English!" cried Van Tromp, clutching him by the hand. "So English!
So _blase!_ Such a charming companion! Let me see you home."
"Look here," returned Dick, "I have said good-night, and now I'm going.
You're an amusing old boy; I like you, in a sense; but here's an end of
it for to-night. Not another cigar, not another grog, not another
percentage out of me."
"I beg your pardon!" cried the Admiral with dignity.
"Tut, man!" said Dick; "you're not offended; you're a man of the world,
I thought. I've been studying you, and it's over. Have I not paid for
the lesson? _Au revoir._"
Van Tromp laughed gaily, shook hands up to the elbows, hoped cordially
they would meet again and that often, but looked after Dick as he
departed with a tremor of indignation. After that they two not
unfrequently fell in each other's way, and Dick would often treat the
old boy to breakfast on a moderate scale and in a restaurant of his own
selection. Often, too, he would lend Van Tromp the matter of a pound, in
view of that gentleman's contemplated departure for Australia; there
would be a scene of farewell almost touching in character, and a week or
a month later they would meet on the same boulevard without surprise or
embarrassment. And in the meantime Dick learned more about his
acquaintance on all sides: heard of his yacht, his chaise and four, his
brief season of celebrity amid a more confiding population, his
daughter, of whom he loved to whimper in his cups, his sponging,
parasitical, nameless way of life; and with each new detail something
that was not merely interest nor yet altogether affection grew up in his
mind towards this disreputable stepson of the arts. Ere he left Paris
Van Tromp was one of those whom he entertained to a farewell supper; and
the old gentleman made the speech of the evening, and then fell below
the table, weeping, smiling, paralysed.