These familiar initials are,
I suppose, the best beloved in
recent literature, certainly
they are the sweetest to me,
but there was a time when my
mother could not abide them.
She said 'That Stevenson man'
with a sneer, and, it was never
easy to her to sneer. At thought
of him her face would become
almost hard, which seems incredible,
and she would knit her lips and
fold her arms, and reply with
a stiff 'oh' if you mentioned
his aggravating name. In the
novels we have a way of writing
of our heroine, 'she drew herself
up haughtily,' and when mine
draw themselves up haughtily
I see my mother thinking of Robert
Louis Stevenson. He knew her
opinion of him, and would write,
'My ears tingled yesterday; I
sair doubt she has been miscalling
me again.' But the more she miscalled
him the more he delighted in
her, and she was informed of
this, and at once said, 'The
scoundrel!' If you would know
what was his unpardonable crime,
it was this: he wrote better
books than
mine.
I remember the day she found
it out, which was not, however,
the day she admitted it. That
day, when I should have been
at my work, she came upon me
in the kitchen, 'The Master of
Ballantrae' beside me, but I
was not reading: my head lay
heavy on the table, and to her
anxious eyes, I doubt not, I
was the picture of woe. 'Not
writing!' I echoed, no, I was
not writing, I saw no use in
ever trying to write again. And
down, I suppose, went my head
once more. She misunderstood,
and thought the blow had fallen;
I had awakened to the discovery,
always dreaded by her, that I
had written myself dry; I was
no better than an empty ink-bottle.
She wrung her hands, but indignation
came to her with my explanation,
which was that while R. L. S.
was at it we others were only
'prentices cutting our fingers
on his tools. 'I could never
thole his books,' said my mother
immediately, and indeed vindictively.
'You have not read any of them,'
I reminded her.
'And never will,' said she
with spirit.
And I have no doubt that she
called him a dark character that
very day. For weeks too, if not
for months, she adhered to her
determination not to read him,
though I, having come to my senses
and seen that there is a place
for the 'prentice, was taking
a pleasure, almost malicious,
in putting 'The Master of Ballantrae'
in her way. I would place it
on her table so that it said
good- morning to her when she
rose. She would frown, and carrying
it downstairs, as if she had
it in the tongs, replace it on
its book- shelf. I would wrap
it up in the cover she had made
for the latest Carlyle: she would
skin it contemptuously and again
bring it down. I would hide her
spectacles in it, and lay it
on top of the clothes-basket
and prop it up invitingly open
against her tea-pot. And at last
I got her, though I forget by
which of many contrivances. What
I recall vividly is a key-hole
view, to which another member
of the family invited me. Then
I saw my mother wrapped up in
'The Master of Ballantrae' and
muttering the music to herself,
nodding her head in approval,
and taking a stealthy glance
at the foot of each page before
she began at the top. Nevertheless
she had an ear for the door,
for when I bounced in she had
been too clever for me; there
was no book to be seen, only
an apron on her lap and she was
gazing out at the window. Some
such conversation as this followed:-
'You have been sitting very
quietly, mother.'
'I always sit quietly, I never
do anything, I'm just a finished
stocking.'
'Have you been reading?'
'Do I ever read at this time
of day?'
'What is that in your lap?'
'Just my apron.'
'Is that a book beneath the
apron?'
'It might be a book.'
'Let me see.'
'Go away with you to your work.'
But I lifted
the apron. 'Why, it's "The Master of Ballantrae!"'
I exclaimed, shocked.
'So it is!' said my mother,
equally surprised. But I looked
sternly at her, and perhaps she
blushed.
'Well what do you think: not
nearly equal to mine?' said I
with humour.
'Nothing like them,' she said
determinedly.
'Not a bit,' said I, though
whether with a smile or a groan
is immaterial; they would have
meant the same thing. Should
I put the book back on its shelf?
I asked, and she replied that
I could put it wherever I liked
for all she cared, so long as
I took it out of her sight (the
implication was that it had stolen
on to her lap while she was looking
out at the window). My behaviour
may seem small, but I gave her
a last chance, for I said that
some people found it a book there
was no putting down until they
reached the last page.
'I'm no that kind,' replied
my mother.
Nevertheless our old game with
the haver of a thing, as she
called it, was continued, with
this difference, that it was
now she who carried the book
covertly upstairs, and I who
replaced it on the shelf, and
several times we caught each
other in the act, but not a word
said either of us; we were grown
self-conscious. Much of the play
no doubt I forget, but one incident
I remember clearly. She had come
down to sit beside me while I
wrote, and sometimes, when I
looked up, her eye was not on
me, but on the shelf where 'The
Master of Ballantrae' stood inviting
her. Mr. Stevenson's books are
not for the shelf, they are for
the hand; even when you lay them
down, let it be on the table
for the next comer. Being the
most sociable that man has penned
in our time, they feel very lonely
up there in a stately row. I
think their eye is on you the
moment you enter the room, and
so you are drawn to look at them,
and you take a volume down with
the impulse that induces one
to unchain the dog. And the result
is not dissimilar, for in another
moment you two are at play. Is
there any other modern writer
who gets round you in this way?
Well, he had given my mother
the look which in the ball-room
means, 'Ask me for this waltz,'
and she ettled to do it, but
felt that her more dutiful course
was to sit out the dance with
this other less entertaining
partner. I wrote on doggedly,
but could hear the whispering.
'Am I to be a wall-flower?'
asked James Durie reproachfully.
(It must have been leap-year.)
'Speak lower,' replied my mother,
with an uneasy look at me.
'Pooh!' said James contemptuously,
'that kail-runtle!'
'I winna have him miscalled,'
said my mother, frowning.
'I am done with him,' said
James (wiping his cane with his
cambric handkerchief), and his
sword clattered deliciously (I
cannot think this was accidental),
which made my mother sigh. Like
the man he was, he followed up
his advantage with a comparison
that made me dip viciously.
'A prettier sound that,' said
he, clanking his sword again,
'than the clack-clack of your
young friend's shuttle.'
'Whist!' cried my mother, who
had seen me dip.
'Then give me your arm,' said
James, lowering his voice.
'I dare not,' answered my mother.
'He's so touchy about you.'
'Come, come,' he pressed her,
'you are certain to do it sooner
or later, so why not now?'
'Wait till he has gone for
his walk,' said my mother; 'and,
forbye that, I'm ower old to
dance with you.'
'How old are you?' he inquired.
'You're gey an' pert!' cried
my mother.
'Are you seventy?'
'Off and on,' she admitted.
'Pooh,' he said, 'a mere girl!'
She replied instantly, 'I'm
no' to be catched with chaff';
but she smiled and rose as if
he had stretched out his hand
and got her by the finger-tip.
After that they whispered so
low (which they could do as they
were now much nearer each other)
that I could catch only one remark.
It came from James, and seems
to show the tenor of their whisperings,
for his words were, 'Easily enough,
if you slip me beneath your shawl.'
That is what she did, and furthermore
she left the room guiltily, muttering
something about redding up the
drawers. I suppose I smiled wanly
to myself, or conscience must
have been nibbling at my mother,
for in less than five minutes
she was back, carrying her accomplice
openly, and she thrust him with
positive viciousness into the
place where my Stevenson had
lost a tooth (as the writer whom
he most resembled would have
said). And then like a good mother
she took up one of her son's
books and read it most determinedly.
It had become a touching incident
to me, and I remember how we
there and then agreed upon a
compromise: she was to read the
enticing thing just to convince
herself of its inferiority.
'The Master of Ballantrae'
is not the best. Conceive the
glory, which was my mother's,
of knowing from a trustworthy
source that there are at least
three better awaiting you on
the same shelf. She did not know
Alan Breck yet, and he was as
anxious to step down as Mr. Bally
himself. John Silver was there,
getting into his leg, so that
she should not have to wait a
moment, and roaring, 'I'll lay
to that!' when she told me consolingly
that she could not thole pirate
stories. Not to know these gentlemen,
what is it like? It is like never
having been in love. But they
are in the house! That is like
knowing that you will fall in
love to-morrow morning. With
one word, by drawing one mournful
face, I could have got my mother
to abjure the jam-shelf - nay,
I might have managed it by merely
saying that she had enjoyed 'The
Master of Ballantrae.' For you
must remember that she only read
it to persuade herself (and me)
of its unworthiness, and that
the reason she wanted to read
the others was to get further
proof. All this she made plain
to me, eyeing me a little anxiously
the while, and of course I accepted
the explanation. Alan is the
biggest child of them all, and
I doubt not that she thought
so, but curiously enough her
views of him are among the things
I have forgotten. But how enamoured
she was of 'Treasure Island,'
and how faithful she tried to
be to me all the time she was
reading it! I had to put my hands
over her eyes to let her know
that I had entered the room,
and even then she might try to
read between my fingers, coming
to herself presently, however,
to say 'It's a haver of a book.'
'Those pirate stories are so
uninteresting,' I would reply
without fear, for she was too
engrossed to see through me.
'Do you think you will finish
this one?'
'I may as well go on with it
since I have begun it,' my mother
says, so slyly that my sister
and I shake our heads at each
other to imply, 'Was there ever
such a woman!'
'There are none of those one-legged
scoundrels in my books,' I say.
'Better without them,' she
replies promptly.
'I wonder, mother, what it
is about the man that so infatuates
the public?'
'He takes no hold of me,' she
insists. 'I would a hantle rather
read your books.'
I offer obligingly to bring
one of them to her, and now she
looks at me suspiciously. 'You
surely believe I like yours best,'
she says with instant anxiety,
and I soothe her by assurances,
and retire advising her to read
on, just to see if she can find
out how he misleads the public.
'Oh, I may take a look at it
again by-and- by,' she says indifferently,
but nevertheless the probability
is that as the door shuts the
book opens, as if by some mechanical
contrivance. I remember how she
read 'Treasure Island,' holding
it close to the ribs of the fire
(because she could not spare
a moment to rise and light the
gas), and how, when bed-time
came, and we coaxed, remonstrated,
scolded, she said quite fiercely,
clinging to the book, 'I dinna
lay my head on a pillow this
night till I see how that laddie
got out of the barrel.'
After this, I think, he was
as bewitching as the laddie in
the barrel to her - Was he not
always a laddie in the barrel
himself, climbing in for apples
while we all stood around, like
gamins, waiting for a bite? He
was the spirit of boyhood tugging
at the skirts of this old world
of ours and compelling it to
come back and play. And I suppose
my mother felt this, as so many
have felt it: like others she
was a little scared at first
to find herself skipping again,
with this masterful child at
the rope, but soon she gave him
her hand and set off with him
for the meadow, not an apology
between the two of them for the
author left behind. But near
to the end did she admit (in
words) that he had a way with
him which was beyond her son.
'Silk and sacking, that is what
we are,' she was informed, to
which she would reply obstinately,
'Well, then, I prefer sacking.'
'But if he had been your son?'
'But he is not.'
'You wish he were?'
'I dinna deny but what I could
have found room for him.'
And still at times she would
smear him with the name of black
(to his delight when he learned
the reason). That was when some
podgy red-sealed blue-crossed
letter arrived from Vailima,
inviting me to journey thither.
(His directions were, 'You take
the boat at San Francisco, and
then my place is the second to
the left.') Even London seemed
to her to carry me so far away
that I often took a week to the
journey (the first six days in
getting her used to the idea),
and these letters terrified her.
It was not the finger of Jim
Hawkins she now saw beckoning
me across the seas, it was John
Silver, waving a crutch. Seldom,
I believe, did I read straight
through one of these Vailima
letters; when in the middle I
suddenly remembered who was upstairs
and what she was probably doing,
and I ran to her, three steps
at a jump, to find her, lips
pursed, hands folded, a picture
of gloom.
'I have a letter from - '
'So I have heard.'
'Would you like to hear it?'
'No.'
'Can you not abide him?'
'I cauna thole him.'
'Is he a black?'
'He is all that.'
Well, Vailima was the one spot
on earth I had any great craving
to visit, but I think she always
knew I would never leave her.
Sometime, she said, she should
like me to go, but not until
she was laid away. 'And how small
I have grown this last winter.
Look at my wrists. It canna be
long now.' No, I never thought
of going, was never absent for
a day from her without reluctance,
and never walked so quickly as
when I was going back. In the
meantime that happened which
put an end for ever to my scheme
of travel. I shall never go up
the Road of Loving Hearts now,
on 'a wonderful clear night of
stars,' to meet the man coming
toward me on a horse. It is still
a wonderful clear night of stars,
but the road is empty. So I never
saw the dear king of us all.
But before he had written books
he was in my part of the country
with a fishing-wand in his hand,
and I like to think that I was
the boy who met him that day
by Queen Margaret's burn, where
the rowans are, and busked a
fly for him, and stood watching,
while his lithe figure rose and
fell as he cast and hinted back
from the crystal waters of Noran-side.
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