who knows, he might have made a casual conquest. Nor did Stevenson suppress any of this in the Travels; even the remark about stays for Clarisse’s bovine haunches remains. For this was acceptable Victorian smoking-room bavardage about buxom serving-wenches and perky laundry-girls, which goes back in the travellers’ tradition beyond Byron’s Swiss chambermaids to Sterne’s supple French milliners in A Sentimental Journey. Stevenson manages it with a flourish, and yet the effect is not wholly happy or convincing. There is something a little awkward and defensive about the episode, and I think this was because Stevenson was no longer one of the boys in the usual sense. In particular the undertone of class superiority comes uneasily from him, and is not at all in keeping with the rest of the journal, or with the man who was to travel steerage to New York in the Amateur Emigrant. What Clarisse really brought out in him, I think, was his intense sexual loneliness and longing for Fanny Osbourne.
At all events, Stevenson did not remain at Le Pont de Montvert, but hurried on down the steep, twisting road through the Gorges du Tarn towards Florac, and spent one of his worst nights camped on the steep chestnut terraces which shelve out above the river. The place was so narrow that he had to lay his sack on a little plateau formed by the roots of a tree, while tethering Modestine several yards higher up on another shelf. The position was unpleasantly exposed to the road, the air heavy with the noise of frogs and mosquitos, the ground alive with ants, and the fallen chestnut leaves full of inexplicable sounds and scurryings which he afterwards put down to rats. For the first time during his journey Stevenson admits that he was frightened—“profoundly shaken”—and unable to sleep. He fingered his pistol and tossed uneasily, listening to the river running below in the darkness: “I perspired by fits, my limbs trembled, fever got into my mind and prevented all continuous and happy thinking; I was only conscious of broken, vanishing thoughts travelling through my mind as if upon a whirlwind …”
Nothing ill occurred, except in the morning he was surprised in the act of packing by two labourers come to prune the trees. One of the men demanded in unfriendly tones why Stevenson had slept there. “My faith,” said Stevenson pulling on his gaiters and trying to hide his pistol, “I was tired.” They watched, swinging their pruning knives at the next tree but one, until Stevenson and Modestine had stumbled back down on to the road.
I had a sort of superstitious fear of this same night, and it was the one time I looked for company. Le Brun picked out a rather jaunting chapeau de paille leaning over the bridge at Montvert; it belonged to a tall smiling chap carrying a backpack and old painter’s case with brass locks. We went to the cafe and discussed local wine (“le rouge de Cahors est tellement fort…”), Cézanne, Swiss army penknives, the Beatles, and of course English girls. Later we camped down by the Tarn, made a fire, and got gently drunk. Le Paille admitted he wanted to be a great painter, and Le Brun muttered most strangely about being a great poet. “C’est égal,” said Le Paille, “on le fera.” I forgot all about Stevenson and slept like a log
In the dawn, over bread and black coffee, somewhat penitential, I explained about Stevenson’s travels and Modestine. Le Paille regarded me indulgently: “Mais vraiment tu es plus fou que moi. Il faut vivre ta propre vie à toi. Sinon…” We parted cheerfully, with mock flourishes of the hats, repeated at several turns in the road, as we moved off in opposite directions. Bonjour Monsieur Courbet. Bonjour Monsieur Steamson. But I have often thought of that “sinon…” since.
On the road to Florac, pensive after his bad night, Stevenson was rewarded by his last significant encounter of the route. As it stands in his journal it has an almost proverbial quality. He fell in with an old man in a brown nightcap—“clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with an excited smile”—who was driving two sheep and a goat to market, accompanied by a little girl, his grand-daughter.
“Connaissez-vous le Seigneur?” the old man began briskly, and started to question Stevenson about his faith. This strange figure, whom Stevenson later described as “my mountain Plymouth Brother”, turned out to be a member of an obscure but genial Protestant sect, and for some reason took the Scotsman to be of the same persuasion. Far from embarrassing him, their halting, somewhat inspired conversation served to confirm Stevenson in his pantheistic beliefs and in the principle of tolerance which he had been meditating on ever since La Trappe. The old man also seemed to appreciate the saving grace of a life lived in the open, free from formalities and conventional creeds.
I could not help thinking that Stevenson, for all his troubles, had brought down from the high hills a transcendental glow. “The old man cried out, when I told him I sometimes preferred sleeping under the stars to a close and noisy alehouse, ‘Now I see you know the Lord!’ “It struck me that their conversation along the winding road was ideally the kind of talk that Stevenson, in other circumstances, would have liked to have had with his father. He felt there was no real dishonesty in sliding over their differences and trying to keep to common ground: “I declare myself a Morave, with this Moravian, just as I tried to persuade the priest at Our Lady of the Snows that I was, in essential things, a Catholic; it is not my fault if they put me out, I continue to knock at the door, I will be in; there is no sect in the world I do not count mine.”
Adding to this in the Travels, Stevenson drew the lesson more explicitly, giving the incident a weight and universality that he associated with Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, one of the models for his own book:
For charity begins blindfold: and only through a series of similar misapprehensions rises at length into a settled principle of love and patience, and a firm belief in all our fellow men. If I deceived the good old man, in the like manner I would willingly go on to deceive others. And if ever at length, out of our separate and sad ways, we should all come together into one common house, I have a hope, to which I cling dearly, that my mountain Plymouth Brother will hasten to shake hands with me again. Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful by the way, he and I came down upon a hamlet on the Tarn.
This I suppose is the most public meaning of the Travels, its formal declaration of informality in faith, with the stress on charity and good fellowship as the most profound virtues for the journey of life. In a sense it is a quite deliberate contradiction of his stiff Presbyterian upbringing, and it was not without irony that Stevenson remarks: “I scarcely knew I was so good a preacher.” And is the “good old man” his father (in the journal he addresses him as “mon père”)?
Perhaps: it is particularly difficult to appreciate the degree to which religious differences could rend an otherwise close and loving family a hundred years ago. Differences of politics, morality, even career ambition—yes, these can still be felt from the inside; but differences of creed, these are almost lost to us. Unless of course you happen like me to have been brought up within a powerful “sect” like Catholicism and know from within the struggle and sense of guilt involved in breaking away. It did not surprise me to discover that when Stevenson first announced his agnosticism (although a very Christian form of it) to his father the latter wrote bleakly: “You have rendered my whole life a failure.”
Their interview in Paris in February 1878 had much improved this situation. But Stevenson still felt the need for some kind of intermediary figure, like the old Plymouth Brother; and in this sense, while much of the Travels is “mere protestations” to Fanny, so much else in the book is still the appeal of a wayward son, “mere protestations” to Thomas Stevenson. As he put it in the journal: “‘My father,’ said I, ‘it is not easy to say who knows the Lord, and it is none of our business. Protestants and Catholics and even people who worship stones, may know Him and be known by Him, for He has made us all.’”
At Florac Stevenson again lunched at the inn, where he was received as something of a portent. “My knife, my cane, my sack, all my arrangements were cordially admired.” The village schoolmaster came in to question him, and the young innkeeper—unmarried, living with his sister—struck an amusing note: “‘Tout ce que vous avez est joli,’ said the young man, ‘et vous l’êtes’”—which Stevenson let pass with a smile. But again I sensed his hurry: he pressed on down the road towards Cassagnas—overtaken by that “black care” on his knapsack—and once again the dusk found him groping for a camp in the