The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 02Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 02
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
As I continued to sit upon the dump, I began to observe that this sea
was not so level as at first sight it appeared to be. Away in the
extreme south, a little hill of fog arose against the sky above the
general surface, and as it had already caught the sun, it shone on the
horizon like the topsails of some giant ship. There were huge waves,
stationary, as it seemed, like waves in a frozen sea; and yet, as I
looked again, I was not sure but they were moving after all, with a slow
and august advance. And while I was yet doubting, a promontory of the
hills some four or five miles away, conspicuous by a bouquet of tall
pines, was in a single instant overtaken and swallowed up. It appeared
in a little, with its pines, but this time as an islet, and only to be
swallowed up once more and then for good. This set me looking nearer,
and I saw that in every cove along the line of mountains the fog was
being piled in higher and higher, as though by some wind that was
inaudible to me. I could trace its progress, one pine-tree first growing
hazy and then disappearing after another; although sometimes there was
none of this fore-running haze, but the whole opaque white ocean gave a
start and swallowed a piece of mountain at a gulp. It was to flee these
poisonous fogs that I had left the seaboard, and climbed so high among
the mountains. And now, behold, here came the fog to besiege me in my
chosen altitudes, and yet came so beautifully that my first thought was
of welcome.
The sun had now gotten much higher, and through all the gaps of the
hills it cast long bars of gold across that white ocean. An eagle, or
some other very great bird of the mountain, came wheeling over the
nearer pine-tops, and hung, poised and something sideways, as if to look
abroad on that unwonted desolation, spying, perhaps with terror, for the
eyries of her comrades. Then, with a long cry, she disappeared again
towards Lake County and the clearer air. At length it seemed to me as if
the flood were beginning to subside. The old landmarks, by whose
disappearance I had measured its advance, here a crag, there a brave
pine-tree, now began, in the inverse order, to make their reappearance
into daylight. I judged all danger of the fog was over. This was not
Noah's flood; it was but a morning spring, and would now drift out
seaward whence it came. So, mightily relieved, and a good deal
exhilarated by the sight, I went into the house to light the fire.
I suppose it was nearly seven when I once more mounted the platform to
look abroad. The fog ocean had swelled up enormously since last I saw
it; and a few hundred feet below me, in the deep gap where the Toll
House stands and the road runs through into Lake County, it had already
topped the slope, and was pouring over and down the other side like
driving smoke. The wind had climbed along with it; and though I was
still in calm air, I could see the trees tossing below me, and their
long, strident sighing mounted to me where I stood.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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