St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
General
St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
Of a sudden I knocked against the cliff with such a thump as almost
bereft me of my sense; and, as reason twinkled back, I was amazed to find
that I was in a state of rest, that the face of the precipice here
inclined outwards at an angle which relieved me almost wholly of the
burthen of my own weight, and that one of my feet was safely planted on a
ledge. I drew one of the sweetest breaths in my experience, hugged
myself against the rope, and closed my eyes in a kind of ecstasy of
relief. It occurred to me next to see how far I was advanced on my
unlucky journey, a point on which I had not a shadow of a guess. I
looked up: there was nothing above me but the blackness of the night and
the fog. I craned timidly forward and looked down. There, upon a floor
of darkness, I beheld a certain pattern of hazy lights, some of them
aligned as in thoroughfares, others standing apart as in solitary houses;
and before I could well realise it, or had in the least estimated my
distance, a wave of nausea and vertigo warned me to lie back and close my
eyes. In this situation I had really but the one wish, and that was:
something else to think of! Strange to say, I got it: a veil was torn
from my mind, and I saw what a fool I was—what fools we had all been—and
that I had no business to be thus dangling between earth and heaven by my
arms. The only thing to have done was to have attached me to a rope and
lowered me, and I had never the wit to see it till that moment!
I filled my lungs, got a good hold on my rope, and once more launched
myself on the descent. As it chanced, the worst of the danger was at an
end, and I was so fortunate as to be never again exposed to any violent
concussion. Soon after I must have passed within a little distance of a
bush of wallflower, for the scent of it came over me with that impression
of reality which characterises scents in darkness. This made me a second
landmark, the ledge being my first. I began accordingly to compute
intervals of time: so much to the ledge, so much again to the wallflower,
so much more below. If I were not at the bottom of the rock, I
calculated I must be near indeed to the end of the rope, and there was no
doubt that I was not far from the end of my own resources. I began to be
light-headed and to be tempted to let go,—now arguing that I was
certainly arrived within a few feet of the level and could safely risk a
fall, anon persuaded I was still close at the top and it was idle to
continue longer on the rock. In the midst of which I came to a bearing
on plain ground, and had nearly wept aloud. My hands were as good as
flayed, my courage entirely exhausted, and, what with the long strain and
the sudden relief, my limbs shook under me with more than the violence of
ague, and I was glad to cling to the rope.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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