Robert Louis Stevenson: An Anthology

by Kevin MacNeil

  ‘I am much more engaged in considering the position of the ship,’ said Mr Spoker.

  ‘Spoken like a good officer,’ replied the Captain, laying his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder.

  On deck they found the men had broken into the spirit-room, and were fast getting drunk.

  ‘My men,’ said the Captain, ‘there is no sense in this. The ship is going down, you will tell me, in ten minutes: well, and what then? To the philosophic eye, there is nothing new in our position. All our lives long, we may have been about to break a blood-vessel or to be struck by lightning, not merely in ten minutes, but in ten seconds; and that has not prevented us from eating dinner, no, nor from putting money in the Savings Bank. I assure you, with my hand on my heart, I fail to comprehend your attitude.’

  The men were already too far gone to pay much heed.

  ‘This is a very painful sight, Mr Spoker,’ said the Captain.

  ‘And yet to the philosophic eye, or whatever it is,’ replied the first lieutenant, ‘they may be said to have been getting drunk since they came aboard.’

  ‘I do not know if you always follow my thought, Mr Spoker,’ returned the Captain gently. ‘But let us proceed.’

  In the powder magazine they found an old salt smoking his pipe.

  ‘Good God,’ cried the Captain, ‘what are you about?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said the old salt, apologetically, ‘they told me as she were going down.’

  ‘And suppose she were?’ said the Captain. ‘To the philosophic eye, there would be nothing new in our position. Life, my old shipmate, life, at any moment and in any view, is as dangerous as a sinking ship; and yet it is man’s handsome fashion to carry umbrellas, to wear indiarubber over-shoes, to begin vast works, and to conduct himself in every way as if he might hope to be eternal. And for my own poor part I should despise the man who, even on board a sinking ship, should omit to take a pill or to wind up his watch. That, my friend, would not be the human attitude.’

  ‘I beg pardon, sir,’ said Mr Spoker. ‘But what is precisely the difference between shaving in a sinking ship and smoking in a powder magazine?’

  ‘Or doing anything at all in any conceivable circumstances?’ cried the Captain. ‘Perfectly conclusive; give me a cigar!’

  Two minutes afterwards the ship blew up with a glorious detonation.

  The Yellow Paint

  ‘That is none of my business,’ said the physician.

  IN A certain city there lived a physician who sold yellow paint. This was of so singular a virtue that whoso was bedaubed with it from head to heel was set free from the dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, and the fear of death for ever. So the physician said in his prospectus; and so said all the citizens in the city; and there was nothing more urgent in men’s hearts than to be properly painted themselves, and nothing they took more delight in than to see others painted. There was in the same city a young man of a very good family but of a somewhat reckless life, who had reached the age of manhood, and would have nothing to say to the paint: ‘Tomorrow was soon enough,’ said he; and when the morrow came he would still put it off. So he might have continued to do until his death; only, he had a friend of about his own age and much of his own manners; and this youth, taking a walk in the public street, with not one fleck of paint upon his body, was suddenly run down by a water-cart and cut off in the heyday of his nakedness. This shook the other to the soul; so that I never beheld a man more earnest to be painted; and on the very same evening, in the presence of all his family, to appropriate music, and himself weeping aloud, he received three complete coats and a touch of varnish on the top. The physician (who was himself affected even to tears) protested he had never done a job so thorough.

  Some two months afterwards, the young man was carried on a stretcher to the physician’s house.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he cried, as soon as the door was opened. ‘I was to be set free from all the dangers of life; and here have I been run down by that self-same water-cart, and my leg is broken.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said the physician. ‘This is very sad. But I perceive I must explain to you the action of my paint. A broken bone is a mighty small affair at the worst of it; and it belongs to a class of accident to which my paint is quite inapplicable. Sin, my dear young friend, sin is the sole calamity that a wise man should apprehend; it is against sin that I have fitted you out; and when you come to be tempted, you will give me news of my paint.’

  ‘O!’ said the young man, ‘I did not understand that, and it seems rather disappointing. But I have no doubt all is for the best; and in the meanwhile, I shall be obliged to you if you will set my leg.’

  ‘That is none of my business,’ said the physician; ‘but if your bearers will carry you round the corner to the surgeon’s, I feel sure he will afford relief.’

  Some three years later, the young man came running to the physician’s house in a great perturbation. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he cried. ‘Here was I to be set free from the bondage of sin; and I have just committed forgery, arson and murder.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said the physician. ‘This is very serious. Off with your clothes at once.’ And as soon as the young man had stripped, he examined him from head to foot. ‘No,’ he cried with great relief, ‘there is not a flake broken. Cheer up, my young friend, your paint is as good as new.’

  ‘Good God!’ cried the young man, ‘and what then can be the use of it?’

  ‘Why,’ said the physician, ‘I perceive I must explain to you the nature of the action of my paint. It does not exactly prevent sin; it extenuates instead the painful consequences. It is not so much for this world, as for the next; it is not against life; in short, it is against death that I have fitted you out. And when you come to die, you will give me news of my paint.’

  ‘O!’ cried the young man, ‘I had not understood that, and it seems a little disappointing. But there is no doubt all is for the best: and in the meanwhile, I shall be obliged if you will help me to undo the evil I have brought on innocent persons.’

  ‘That is none of my business,’ said the physician; ‘but if you will go round the corner to the police office, I feel sure it will afford you relief to give yourself up.’

  Six weeks later, the physician was called to the town gaol.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried the young man. ‘Here am I literally crusted with your paint; and I have broken my leg, and committed all the crimes in the calendar, and must be hanged tomorrow; and am in the meanwhile in a fear so extreme that I lack words to picture it.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said the physician. ‘This is really amazing. Well, well; perhaps, if you had not been painted, you would have been more frightened still.’

  Faith, Half-Faith and No Faith At All

  ‘We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature,’ said he, and beat his breast.

  IN THE ancient days there went three men upon pilgrimage; one was a priest, and one was a virtuous person, and the third was an old rover with his axe.

  As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds of faith.

  ‘We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature,’ said he, and beat his breast.

  ‘That is true,’ said the virtuous person.

  ‘The peacock has a scrannel voice,’ said the priest, ‘as has been laid down always in our books. How cheering!’ he cried, in a voice like one that wept. ‘How comforting!’

  ‘I require no such proofs,’ said the virtuous person.

  ‘Then you have no reasonable faith,’ said the priest.

  ‘Great is the right, and shall prevail!’ cried the virtuous person. ‘There is loyalty in my soul; be sure, there is loyalty in the mind of Odin.’

  ‘These are but playings upon words,’ returned the priest. ‘A sackful of such trash is nothing to the peacock.’

  Just then they passed a country farm, where there was a peacock seated on a rail; and the bird opened its mouth and sang with the voice of a night
ingale.

  ‘Where are you now?’ asked the virtuous person. ‘And yet this shakes not me! Great is the truth, and shall prevail!’

  ‘The devil fly away with that peacock!’ said the priest; and he was downcast for a mile or two.

  But presently they came to a shrine, where a Fakeer performed miracles.

  ‘Ah!’ said the priest, ‘here are the true grounds of faith. The peacock was but an adminicle. This is the base of our religion.’

  And he beat upon his breast, and groaned like one with colic.

  ‘Now to me,’ said the virtuous person, ‘all this is as little to the purpose as the peacock. I believe because I see the right is great and must prevail; and this Fakeer might carry on with his conjuring tricks till doomsday, and it would not play bluff upon a man like me.’

  Now at this the Fakeer was so much incensed that his hand trembled; and, lo! in the midst of a miracle the cards fell from up his sleeve.

  ‘Where are you now?’ asked the virtuous person. ‘And yet it shakes not me!’

  ‘The devil fly away with the Fakeer!’ cried the priest. ‘I really do not see the good of going on with this pilgrimage.’

  ‘Cheer up!’ cried the virtuous person. ‘Great is the right, and shall prevail!’

  ‘If you are quite sure it will prevail,’ says the priest. ‘I pledge my word for that,’ said the virtuous person.

  So the other began to go on again with a better heart.

  At last one came running, and told them all was lost: that the powers of darkness had besieged the Heavenly Mansions, that Odin was to die, and evil triumph.

  ‘I have been grossly deceived,’ cried the virtuous person.

  ‘All is lost now,’ said the priest.

  ‘I wonder if it is too late to make it up with the Devil?’ said the virtuous person.

  ‘O, I hope not,’ said the priest. ‘And at any rate we can but try. But what are you doing with your axe?’ says he to the rover.

  ‘I am off to die with Odin,’ said the rover.

  The House of Eld

  ‘Ah, poor souls, if they but knew the joys of being fettered!’

  SO SOON as the child began to speak, the gyve was riveted; and the boys and girls limped about their play like convicts. Doubtless it was more pitiable to see and more painful to bear in youth; but even the grown folk, besides being very unhandy on their feet, were often sick with ulcers.

  About the time when Jack was ten years old, many strangers began to journey through that country. These he beheld going lightly by on the long roads, and the thing amazed him. ‘I wonder how it comes,’ he asked, ‘that all these strangers are so quick afoot, and we must drag about our fetter?’

  ‘My dear boy,’ said his uncle, the catechist, ‘do not complain about your fetter, for it is the only thing that makes life worth living. None are happy, none are good, none are respectable, that are not gyved like us. And I must tell you, besides, it is very dangerous talk. If you grumble of your iron, you will have no luck; if ever you take it off, you will be instantly smitten by a thunderbolt.’

  ‘Are there no thunderbolts for these strangers?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Jupiter is longsuffering to the benighted,’ returned the catechist.

  ‘Upon my word, I could wish I had been less fortunate,’ said Jack. ‘For if I had been born benighted, I might now be going free; and it cannot be denied the iron is inconvenient, and the ulcer hurts.’

  ‘Ah!’ cried his uncle, ‘do not envy the heathen! Theirs is a sad lot! Ah, poor souls, if they but knew the joys of being fettered! Poor souls, my heart yearns for them. But the truth is they are vile, odious, insolent, ill-conditioned, stinking brutes, not truly human—for what is a man without a fetter?—and you cannot be too particular not to touch or speak with them.’

  After this talk, the child would never pass one of the unfettered on the road but what he spat at him and called him names, which was the practice of the children in that part.

  It chanced one day, when he was fifteen, he went into the woods, and the ulcer pained him. It was a fair day, with a blue sky; all the birds were singing; but Jack nursed his foot. Presently, another song began; it sounded like the singing of a person, only far more gay; at the same time there was a beating on the earth. Jack put aside the leaves; and there was a lad of his own village, leaping, and dancing and singing to himself in a green dell; and on the grass beside him lay the dancer’s iron.

  ‘O!’ cried Jack, ‘you have your fetter off!’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell your uncle!’ cried the lad.

  ‘If you fear my uncle,’ returned Jack, ‘why do you not fear the thunderbolt?’

  ‘That is only an old wives’ tale,’ said the other. ‘It is only told to children. Scores of us come here among the woods and dance for nights together, and are none the worse.’

  This put Jack in a thousand new thoughts. He was a grave lad; he had no mind to dance himself; he wore his fetter manfully, and tended his ulcer without complaint. But he loved the less to be deceived or to see others cheated. He began to lie in wait for heathen travellers, at covert parts of the road, and in the dusk of the day, so that he might speak with them unseen; and these were greatly taken with their wayside questioner, and told him things of weight. The wearing of gyves (they said) was no command of Jupiter’s. It was the contrivance of a white-faced thing, a sorcerer, that dwelt in that country in the Wood of Eld. He was one like Glaucus that could change his shape, yet he could be always told; for when he was crossed, he gobbled like a turkey. He had three lives; but the third smiting would make an end of him indeed; and with that his house of sorcery would vanish, the gyves fall, and the villagers take hands and dance like children.

  ‘And in your country?’ Jack would ask.

  But at this the travellers, with one accord, would put him off; until Jack began to suppose there was no land entirely happy. Or, if there were, it must be one that kept its folk at home; which was natural enough.

  But the case of the gyves weighed upon him. The sight of the children limping stuck in his eyes; the groans of such as dressed their ulcers haunted him. And it came at last in his mind that he was born to free them.

  There was in that village a sword of heavenly forgery, beaten upon Vulcan’s anvil. It was never used but in the temple, and then the flat of it only; and it hung on a nail by the catechist’s chimney. Early one night, Jack rose, and took the sword, and was gone out of the house and the village in the darkness.

  All night he walked at a venture; and when day came, he met strangers going to the fields. Then he asked after the Wood of eld and the house of sorcery; and one said north, and one south; until Jack saw that they deceived him. So then, when he asked his way of any man, he showed the bright sword naked; and at that the gyve on the man’s ankle rang, and answered in his stead; and the word was still Straight on. But the man, when his gyve spoke, spat and struck at Jack, and threw stones at him as he went away; so that his head was broken.

  So he came to that wood, and entered in, and he was aware of a house in a low place, where funguses grew, and the trees met, and the steaming of the marsh arose about it like a smoke. It was a fine house, and a very rambling; some parts of it were ancient like the hills, and some but of yesterday, and none finished; and all the ends of it were open, so that you could go in from every side. Yet it was in good repair, and all the chimneys smoked.

  Jack went in through the gable; and there was one room after another, all bare, but all furnished in part, so that a man could dwell there; and in each there was a fire burning, where a man could warm himself, and a table spread where he might eat. But Jack saw nowhere any living creature; only the bodies of some stuffed.

  ‘This is a hospitable house,’ said Jack; ‘but the ground must be quaggy underneath, for at every step the building quakes.’

  He had gone some time in the house, when he began to be hungry. Then he looked at the food, and at first he was afraid; but he bared the sword, and by the shining
of the sword, it seemed the food was honest. So he took the courage to sit down and eat, and he was refreshed in mind and body.

  ‘This is strange,’ thought he, ‘that in the house of sorcery there should be food so wholesome.’

  As he was yet eating, there came into that room the appearance of his uncle, and Jack was afraid because he had taken the sword. But his uncle was never more kind, and sat down to meat with him, and praised him because he had taken the sword. Never had these two been more pleasantly together, and Jack was full of love to the man.

  ‘It was very well done,’ said his uncle, ‘to take the sword and come yourself into the House of Eld; a good thought and a brave deed. But now you are satisfied; and we may go home to dinner arm in arm.’

  ‘O, dear, no!’ said Jack. ‘I am not satisfied yet.’

  ‘How!’ cried his uncle. ‘Are you not warmed by the fire? Does not this food sustain you?’

  ‘I see the food to be wholesome,’ said Jack; ‘and still it is no proof that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg.’

  Now at this the appearance of his uncle gobbled like a turkey.

  ‘Jupiter!’ cried Jack, ‘is this the sorcerer?’

  His hand held back and his heart failed him for the love he bore his uncle; but he heaved up the sword and smote the appearance on the head; and it cried out aloud with the voice of his uncle; and fell to the ground; and a little bloodless white thing fled from the room.

  The cry rang in Jack’s ears, and his knees smote together, and conscience cried upon him; and yet he was strengthened, and there woke in his bones the lust of that enchanter’s blood. ‘If the gyves are to fall,’ said he, ‘I must go through with this, and when I get home I shall find my uncle dancing.’

  So he went on after the bloodless thing. In the way, he met the appearance of his father; and his father was incensed, and railed upon him, and called to him upon his duty, and bade him be home, while there was yet time. ‘For you can still,’ said he, ‘be home by sunset; and then all will be forgiven.’