Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (336 page)

‘Is he tall?’

‘Tall?  Well, no, I shouldn’t say
tall
Mr. Anne.’

‘Well, then, is he short?’

‘Short?  No, I don’t think I would say he was what you would call
short
.  No, not piticular short, sir.’

‘Then, I suppose, he must be about the middle height?’

‘Well, you might say it, sir; but not remarkable so.’

I smothered an oath.

‘Is he clean-shaved?’ I tried him again.

‘Clean-shaved?’ he repeated, with the same air of anxious candour.

‘Good heaven, man, don’t repeat my words like a parrot!’ I cried.  ‘Tell me what the man was like: it is of the first importance that I should be able to recognise him.’

‘I’m trying to, Mr. Anne.  But
clean-shaved
?  I don’t seem to rightly get hold of that p’int.  Sometimes it might appear to me like as if he was; and sometimes like as if he wasn’t.  No, it wouldn’t surprise me now if you was to tell me he ‘ad a bit o’ whisker.’

‘Was the man red-faced?’ I roared, dwelling on each syllable.

‘I don’t think you need go for to get cross about it, Mr. Anne!’ said he.  ‘I’m tellin’ you every blessed thing I see!  Red-faced?  Well, no, not as you would remark upon.’

A dreadful calm fell upon me.

‘Was he anywise pale?’ I asked.

‘Well, it don’t seem to me as though he were.  But I tell you truly, I didn’t take much heed to that.’

‘Did he look like a drinking man?’

‘Well, no.  If you please, sir, he looked more like an eating one.’

‘Oh, he was stout, was he?’

‘No, sir.  I couldn’t go so far as that.  No, he wasn’t not to say
stout
.  If anything, lean rather.’

I need not go on with the infuriating interview.  It ended as it began, except that Rowley was in tears, and that I had acquired one fact.  The man was drawn for me as being of any height you like to mention, and of any degree of corpulence or leanness; clean-shaved or not, as the case might be; the colour of his hair Rowley ‘could not take it upon himself to put a name on’; that of his eyes he thought to have been blue — nay, it was the one point on which he attained to a kind of tearful certainty.  ‘I’ll take my davy on it,’ he asseverated.  They proved to have been as black as sloes, very little and very near together.  So much for the evidence of the artless!  And the fact, or rather the facts, acquired?  Well, they had to do not with the person but with his clothing.  The man wore knee-breeches and white stockings; his coat was ‘some kind of a lightish colour — or betwixt that and dark’; and he wore a ‘mole-skin weskit.’  As if this were not enough, he presently haled me from my breakfast in a prodigious flutter, and showed me an honest and rather venerable citizen passing in the Square.

‘That’s
him
, sir,’ he cried, ‘the very moral of him!  Well, this one is better dressed, and p’r’aps a trifler taller; and in the face he don’t favour him noways at all, sir.  No, not when I come to look again, ‘e don’t seem to favour him noways.’

‘Jackass!’ said I, and I think the greatest stickler for manners will admit the epithet to have been justified.

Meanwhile the appearance of my landlady added a great load of anxiety to what I already suffered.  It was plain that she had not slept; equally plain that she had wept copiously.  She sighed, she groaned, she drew in her breath, she shook her head, as she waited on table.  In short, she seemed in so precarious a state, like a petard three times charged with hysteria, that I did not dare to address her; and stole out of the house on tiptoe, and actually ran downstairs, in the fear that she might call me back.  It was plain that this degree of tension could not last long.

It was my first care to go to George Street, which I reached (by good luck) as a boy was taking down the bank shutters.  A man was conversing with him; he had white stockings and a moleskin waistcoat, and was as ill-looking a rogue as you would want to see in a day’s journey.  This seemed to agree fairly well with Rowley’s
signalement
: he had declared emphatically (if you remember), and had stuck to it besides, that the companion of the great Lavender was no beauty.

Thence I made my way to Mr. Robbie’s, where I rang the bell.  A servant answered the summons, and told me the lawyer was engaged, as I had half expected.

‘Wha shall I say was callin’?’ she pursued; and when I had told her ‘Mr. Ducie,’ ‘I think this’ll be for you, then?’ she added, and handed me a letter from the hall table.  It ran:

‘Dear Mr. Ducie,

‘My single advice to you is to leave
quam primum
for the South.

Yours, T. Robbie.’

That was short and sweet.  It emphatically extinguished hope in one direction.  No more was to be gotten of Robbie; and I wondered, from my heart, how much had been told him.  Not too much, I hoped, for I liked the lawyer who had thus deserted me, and I placed a certain reliance in the discretion of Chevenix.  He would not be merciful; on the other hand, I did not think he would be cruel without cause.

It was my next affair to go back along George Street, and assure myself whether the man in the moleskin vest was still on guard.  There was no sign of him on the pavement.  Spying the door of a common stair nearly opposite the bank, I took it in my head that this would be a good point of observation, crossed the street, entered with a businesslike air and fell immediately against the man in the moleskin vest.  I stopped and apologised to him; he replied in an unmistakable English accent, thus putting the matter almost beyond doubt.  After this encounter I must, of course, ascend to the top story, ring the bell of a suite of apartments, inquire for Mr. Vavasour, learn (with no great surprise) that he did not live there, come down again and, again politely saluting the man from Bow Street, make my escape at last into the street.

I was now driven back upon the Assembly Ball.  Robbie had failed me.  The bank was watched; it would never do to risk Rowley in that neighbourhood.  All I could do was to wait until the morrow evening, and present myself at the Assembly, let it end as it might.  But I must say I came to this decision with a good deal of genuine fright; and here I came for the first time to one of those places where my courage stuck.  I do not mean that my courage boggled and made a bit of a bother over it, as it did over the escape from the Castle; I mean, stuck, like a stopped watch or a dead man.  Certainly I would go to the ball; certainly I must see this morning about my clothes.  That was all decided.  But the most of the shops were on the other side of the valley, in the Old Town; and it was now my strange discovery that I was physically unable to cross the North Bridge!  It was as though a precipice had stood between us, or the deep sea had intervened.  Nearer to the Castle my legs refused to bear me.

I told myself this was mere superstition; I made wagers with myself — and gained them; I went down on the esplanade of Princes Street, walked and stood there, alone and conspicuous, looking across the garden at the old grey bastions of the fortress, where all these troubles had begun.  I cocked my hat, set my hand on my hip, and swaggered on the pavement, confronting detection.  And I found I could do all this with a sense of exhilaration that was not unpleasing, and with a certain
crânerie
of manner that raised me in my own esteem.  And yet there was one thing I could not bring my mind to face up to, or my limbs to execute; and that was to cross the valley into the Old Town.  It seemed to me I must be arrested immediately if I had done so; I must go straight into the twilight of a prison cell, and pass straight thence to the gross and final embraces of the nightcap and the halter.  And yet it was from no reasoned fear of the consequences that I could not go.  I was unable.  My horse baulked, and there was an end!

My nerve was gone: here was a discovery for a man in such imminent peril, set down to so desperate a game, which I could only hope to win by continual luck and unflagging effrontery!  The strain had been too long continued, and my nerve was gone.  I fell into what they call panic fear, as I have seen soldiers do on the alarm of a night attack, and turned out of Princes Street at random as though the devil were at my heels.  In St. Andrew Square, I remember vaguely hearing some one call out.  I paid no heed, but pressed on blindly.  A moment after, a hand fell heavily on my shoulder, and I thought I had fainted.  Certainly the world went black about me for some seconds; and when that spasm passed I found myself standing face to face with the ‘cheerful extravagant,’ in what sort of disarray I really dare not imagine, dead white at least, shaking like an aspen, and mowing at the man with speechless lips.  And this was the soldier of Napoleon, and the gentleman who intended going next night to an Assembly Ball!  I am the more particular in telling of my breakdown, because it was my only experience of the sort; and it is a good tale for officers.  I will allow no man to call me coward; I have made my proofs; few men more.  And yet I (come of the best blood in France and inured to danger from a child) did, for some ten or twenty minutes, make this hideous exhibition of myself on the streets of the New Town of Edinburgh.

With my first available breath I begged his pardon.  I was of an extremely nervous disposition, recently increased by late hours; I could not bear the slightest start.

He seemed much concerned.  ‘You must be in a devil of a state!’ said he; ‘though of course it was my fault — damnably silly, vulgar sort of thing to do!  A thousand apologies!  But you really must be run down; you should consult a medico.  My dear sir, a hair of the dog that bit you is clearly indicated.  A touch of Blue Ruin, now?  Or, come: it’s early, but is man the slave of hours? what do you say to a chop and a bottle in Dumbreck’s Hotel?’

I refused all false comfort; but when he went on to remind me that this was the day when the University of Cramond met; and to propose a five-mile walk into the country and a dinner in the company of young asses like himself, I began to think otherwise.  I had to wait until to-morrow evening, at any rate; this might serve as well as anything else to bridge the dreary hours.  The country was the very place for me: and walking is an excellent sedative for the nerves.  Remembering poor Rowley, feigning a cold in our lodgings and immediately under the guns of the formidable and now doubtful Bethiah, I asked if I might bring my servant.  ‘Poor devil! it is dull for him,’ I explained.

‘The merciful man is merciful to his ass,’ observed my sententious friend.  ‘Bring him by all means!

“The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;”

and I have no doubt the orphan boy can get some cold victuals in the kitchen, while the Senatus dines.’

Accordingly, being now quite recovered from my unmanly condition, except that nothing could yet induce me to cross the North Bridge, I arranged for my ball dress at a shop in Leith Street, where I was not served ill, cut out Rowley from his seclusion, and was ready along with him at the trysting-place, the corner of Duke Street and York Place, by a little after two.  The University was represented in force: eleven persons, including ourselves, Byfield the aeronaut, and the tall lad, Forbes, whom I had met on the Sunday morning, bedewed with tallow, at the ‘Hunters’ Rest.’  I was introduced; and we set off by way of Newhaven and the sea beach; at first through pleasant country roads, and afterwards along a succession of bays of a fairylike prettiness, to our destination — Cramond on the Almond — a little hamlet on a little river, embowered in woods, and looking forth over a great flat of quicksand to where a little islet stood planted in the sea.  It was miniature scenery, but charming of its kind.  The air of this good February afternoon was bracing, but not cold.  All the way my companions were skylarking, jesting and making puns, and I felt as if a load had been taken off my lungs and spirits, and skylarked with the best of them.

Byfield I observed, because I had heard of him before, and seen his advertisements, not at all because I was disposed to feel interest in the man.  He was dark and bilious and very silent; frigid in his manners, but burning internally with a great fire of excitement; and he was so good as to bestow a good deal of his company and conversation (such as it was) upon myself, who was not in the least grateful.  If I had known how I was to be connected with him in the immediate future, I might have taken more pains.

In the hamlet of Cramond there is a hostelry of no very promising appearance, and here a room had been prepared for us, and we sat down to table.

‘Here you will find no guttling or gormandising, no turtle or nightingales’ tongues,’ said the extravagant, whose name, by the way, was Dalmahoy.  ‘The device, sir, of the University of Cramond is Plain Living and High Drinking.’

Grace was said by the Professor of Divinity, in a macaronic Latin, which I could by no means follow, only I could hear it rhymed, and I guessed it to be more witty than reverent.  After which the
Senatus Academicus
sat down to rough plenty in the shape of rizzar’d haddocks and mustard, a sheep’s head, a haggis, and other delicacies of Scotland.  The dinner was washed down with brown stout in bottle, and as soon as the cloth was removed, glasses, boiling water, sugar, and whisky were set out for the manufacture of toddy.  I played a good knife and fork, did not shun the bowl, and took part, so far as I was able, in the continual fire of pleasantry with which the meal was seasoned.  Greatly daring, I ventured, before all these Scotsmen, to tell Sim’s Tale of Tweedie’s dog; and I was held to have done such extraordinary justice to the dialect, ‘for a Southron,’ that I was immediately voted into the Chair of Scots, and became, from that moment, a full member of the University of Cramond.  A little after, I found myself entertaining them with a song; and a little after — perhaps a little in consequence — it occurred to me that I had had enough, and would be very well inspired to take French leave.  It was not difficult to manage, for it was nobody’s business to observe my movements, and conviviality had banished suspicion.

I got easily forth of the chamber, which reverberated with the voices of these merry and learned gentlemen, and breathed a long breath.  I had passed an agreeable afternoon and evening, and I had apparently escaped scot free.  Alas! when I looked into the kitchen, there was my monkey, drunk as a lord, toppling on the edge of the dresser, and performing on the flageolet to an audience of the house lasses and some neighbouring ploughmen.