Essays; Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894 -- Travel
A magazine club supplies you with everything, from the _Quarterly_ to the
_Sunday at Home_. Grand tournaments are organised at chess, draughts,
billiards and whist. Once and again wandering artists drop into our
mountain valley, coming you know not whence, going you cannot imagine
whither, and belonging to every degree in the hierarchy of musical art,
from the recognised performer who announces a concert for the evening, to
the comic German family or solitary long-haired German baritone, who
surprises the guests at dinner-time with songs and a collection. They
are all of them good to see; they, at least, are moving; they bring with
them the sentiment of the open road; yesterday, perhaps, they were in
Tyrol, and next week they will be far in Lombardy, while all we sick folk
still simmer in our mountain prison. Some of them, too, are welcome as
the flowers in May for their own sake; some of them may have a human
voice; some may have that magic which transforms a wooden box into a
song-bird, and what we jeeringly call a fiddle into what we mention with
respect as a violin. From that grinding lilt, with which the blind man,
seeking pence, accompanies the beat of paddle wheels across the ferry,
there is surely a difference rather of kind than of degree to that
unearthly voice of singing that bewails and praises the destiny of man at
the touch of the true virtuoso. Even that you may perhaps enjoy; and if
you do so you will own it impossible to enjoy it more keenly than here,
_im Schnee der Alpen_. A hyacinth in a pot, a handful of primroses
packed in moss, or a piece of music by some one who knows the way to the
heart of a violin, are things that, in this invariable sameness of the
snows and frosty air, surprise you like an adventure. It is droll,
moreover, to compare the respect with which the invalids attend a
concert, and the ready contempt with which they greet the dinner-time
performers. Singing which they would hear with real enthusiasm—possibly
with tears—from a corner of a drawing-room, is listened to with laughter
when it is offered by an unknown professional and no money has been taken
at the door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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