The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 01Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 01
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
We lingered in Moy a good part of the day, for we were fond of being
philosophical, and scorned long journeys and early starts on principle.
The place, moreover, invited to repose. People in elaborate shooting
costumes sallied from the chateau with guns and game-bags; and this was
a pleasure in itself, to remain behind while these elegant
pleasure-seekers took the first of the morning. In this way, all the
world may be an aristocrat, and play the duke among marquises, and the
reigning monarch among dukes, if he will only outvie them in
tranquility. An imperturbable demeanour comes from perfect patience.
Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or
misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a
thunderstorm.
We made a very short day of it to La Fere; but the dusk was falling, and
a small rain had begun before we stowed the boats. La Fere is a
fortified town in a plain, and has two belts of rampart. Between the
first and the second extends a region of waste land and cultivated
patches. Here and there along the wayside were posters forbidding
trespass in the name of military engineering. At last, a second gateway
admitted us to the town itself. Lighted windows looked gladsome, whiffs
of comfortable cookery came abroad upon the air. The town was full of
the military reserve, out for the French Autumn Manoeuvres, and the
reservists walked speedily and wore their formidable great-coats. It was
a fine night to be within doors over dinner, and hear the rain upon the
windows.
The _Cigarette_ and I could not sufficiently congratulate each other on
the prospect, for we had been told there was a capital inn at La Fere.
Such a dinner as we were going to eat! such beds as we were to sleep
in!--and all the while the rain raining on houseless folk over all the
poplared countryside! It made our mouths water. The inn bore the name of
some woodland animal, stag, or hart, or hind, I forget which. But I
shall never forget how spacious and how eminently habitable it looked as
we drew near. The carriage entry was lighted up, not by intention, but
from the mere superfluity of fire and candle in the house. A rattle of
many dishes came to our ears; we sighted a great field of tablecloth;
the kitchen glowed like a forge and smelt like a garden of things to
eat.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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