The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 22: Juvenilia and Other PapersStevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 22: Juvenilia and Other Papers
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
And then we go home in the moonlight morning, straggling a
good deal among the birch tufts and the boulders, but ever called
together again, as one of our leaders winds his horn. Perhaps some one
of the party will not heed the summons, but chooses out some by-way of
his own. As he follows the winding sandy road, he hears the flourishes
grow fainter and fainter in the distance, and die finally out, and still
walks on in the strange coolness and silence and between the crisp
lights and shadows of the moonlit woods, until suddenly the bell rings
out the hour from far-away Chailly, and he starts to find himself alone.
No surf-bell on forlorn and perilous shores, no passing knell over the
busy market-place, can speak with a more heavy and disconsolate tongue
to human ears. Each stroke calls up a host of ghostly reverberations in
his mind. And as he stands rooted, it has grown once more so utterly
silent that it seems to him he might hear the church-bells ring the hour
out all the world over, not at Chailly only, but in Paris, and away in
outlandish cities, and in the village on the river, where his childhood
passed between the sun and flowers.
IDLE HOURS
The woods by night, in all their uncanny effect, are not rightly to be
understood until you can compare them with the woods by day. The
stillness of the medium, the floor of glittering sand, these trees that
go streaming up like monstrous sea-weeds and waver in the moving winds
like the weeds in submarine currents, all these set the mind working on
the thought of what you may have seen off a foreland or over the side of
a boat, and make you feel like a diver, down in the quiet water, fathoms
below the tumbling, transitory surface of the sea. And yet in itself, as
I say, the strangeness of these nocturnal solitudes is not to be felt
fully without the sense of contrast. You must have risen in the morning
and seen the woods as they are by day, kindled and coloured in the sun's
light; you must have felt the odour of innumerable trees at even, the
unsparing heat along the forest roads, and the coolness of the groves.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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