The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
I came off in public, as I have said, with flying colours; the sittings
of the court of inquiry died away like a tune that no one listens to;
and yet I was unmasked--I, whom my very adversary defended, as good as
confessed, as good as told the nature of the quarrel, and by so doing
prepared for myself in the future a most anxious, disagreeable
adventure. It was the third morning after the duel, and Goguelat was
still in life, when the time came round for me to give Major Chevenix a
lesson. I was fond of this occupation; not that he paid me much--no
more, indeed, than eighteenpence a month, the customary figure, being a
miser in the grain; but because I liked his breakfasts and (to some
extent) himself. At least, he was a man of education; and of the others
with whom I had any opportunity of speech, those that would not have
held a book upside down would have torn the pages out for pipe-lights.
For I must repeat again that our body of prisoners was exceptional:
there was in Edinburgh Castle none of that educational busyness that
distinguished some of the other prisons, so that men entered them unable
to read, and left them fit for high employments. Chevenix was handsome,
and surprisingly young to be a major: six feet in his stockings, well
set up, with regular features and very clear grey eyes. It was
impossible to pick a fault in him, and yet the sum-total was
displeasing. Perhaps he was too clean; he seemed to bear about with him
the smell of soap. Cleanliness is good, but I cannot bear a man's nails
to seem japanned. And certainly he was too self-possessed and cold.
There was none of the fire of youth, none of the swiftness of the
soldier, in this young officer. His kindness was cold, and cruel cold;
his deliberation exasperating. And perhaps it was from this character,
which is very much the opposite of my own, that even in these days, when
he was of service to me, I approached him with suspicion and reserve.
I looked over his exercise in the usual form, and marked six faults.
"H'm. Six," says he, looking at the paper. "Very annoying! I can never
get it right."
"O, but you make excellent progress!" I said. I would not discourage
him, you understand, but he was congenitally unable to learn French.
Some fire, I think, is needful, and he had quenched his fire in
soapsuds.
He put the exercise down, leaned his chin upon his hand, and looked at
me with clear, severe eyes.
"I think we must have a little talk," said he.
"I am entirely at your disposition," I replied; but I quaked, for I knew
what subject to expect.
"You have been some time giving me these lessons," he went on, "and I am
tempted to think rather well of you. I believe you are a gentleman."
"I have that honour, sir," said I.
"You have seen me for the same period. I do not know how I strike you;
but perhaps you will be prepared to believe that I also am a man of
honour," said he.
"I require no assurances; the thing is manifest," and I bowed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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