Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. 7 (of 25) , livre ebook

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies have been printed, of which only Two Thousand Copies are for sale. This is No. ......... THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819916987
Langue	English

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VOLUME VII
Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five Volumesof the Works of ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Two Thousand and SixtyCopies have been printed, of which only Two Thousand Copies are forsale. This is No. ......... THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUISSTEVENSON
BOOK I
PRINCE ERRANT
PRINCE OTTO
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH THE PRINCE DEPARTS ON AN ADVENTURE
You shall seek in vain upon the map of Europe forthe bygone state of Grünewald. An independent principality, aninfinitesimal member of the German Empire, she played, for severalcenturies, her part in the discord of Europe; and, at last, in theripeness of time and at the spiriting of several bald diplomatists,vanished like a morning ghost. Less fortunate than Poland, she leftnot a regret behind her; and the very memory of her boundaries hasfaded.
It was a patch of hilly country covered with thickwood. Many streams took their beginning in the glens of Grünewald,turning mills for the inhabitants. There was one town, Mittwalden,and many brown, wooden hamlets, climbing roof above roof, along thesteep bottom of dells, and communicating by covered bridges overthe larger of the torrents. The hum of watermills, the splash ofrunning water, the clean odour of pine sawdust, the sound and smellof the pleasant wind among the innumerable army of the mountainpines, the dropping fire of huntsmen, the dull stroke of thewood-axe, intolerable roads, fresh trout for supper in the cleanbare chamber of an inn, and the song of birds and the music of thevillage-bells – these were the recollections of the Grünewaldtourist.
North and east the foothills of Grünewald sank withvarying profile into a vast plain. On these sides many small statesbordered with the principality, Gerolstein, an extinct grand duchy,among the number. On the south it marched with the comparativelypowerful kingdom of Seaboard Bohemia, celebrated for its flowersand mountain bears, and inhabited by a people of singularsimplicity and tenderness of heart. Several intermarriages had, inthe course of centuries, united the crowned families of Grünewaldand Maritime Bohemia; and the last Prince of Grünewald, whosehistory I purpose to relate, drew his descent through Perdita, theonly daughter of King Florizel the First of Bohemia. That theseintermarriages had in some degree mitigated the rough, manly stockof the first Grünewalds, was an opinion widely held within theborders of the principality. The charcoal burner, the mountainsawyer, the wielder of the broad axe among the congregated pines ofGrünewald, proud of their hard hands, proud of their shrewdignorance and almost savage lore, looked with an unfeigned contempton the soft character and manners of the sovereign race.
The precise year of grace in which this tale beginsshall be left to the conjecture of the reader. But for the seasonof the year (which, in such a story, is the more important of thetwo) it was already so far forward in the spring, that whenmountain people heard horns echoing all day about the north-westcorner of the principality, they told themselves that Prince Ottoand his hunt were up and out for the last time till the return ofautumn.
At this point the borders of Grünewald descendsomewhat steeply, here and there breaking into crags; and thisshaggy and trackless country stands in a bold contrast to thecultivated plain below. It was traversed at that period by tworoads alone; one, the imperial highway, bound to Brandenau inGerolstein, descended the slope obliquely and by the easiestgradients. The other ran like a fillet across the very forehead ofthe hills, dipping into savage gorges, and wetted by the spray oftiny waterfalls. Once it passed beside a certain tower or castle,built sheer upon the margin of a formidable cliff, and commanding avast prospect of the skirts of Grünewald and the busy plains ofGerolstein. The Felsenburg (so this tower was called) served now asa prison, now as a hunting-seat; and for all it stood so lonesometo the naked eye, with the aid of a good glass the burghers ofBrandenau could count its windows from the lime-tree terrace wherethey walked at night.
In the wedge of forest hillside enclosed between theroads, the horns continued all day long to scatter tumult; and atlength, as the sun began to draw near to the horizon of the plain,a rousing triumph announced the slaughter of the quarry. The firstand second huntsman had drawn somewhat aside, and from the summitof a knoll gazed down before them on the drooping shoulders of thehill and across the expanse of plain. They covered their eyes, forthe sun was in their faces. The glory of its going down wassomewhat pale. Through the confused tracery of many thousands ofnaked poplars, the smoke of so many houses, and the evening steamascending from the fields, the sails of a windmill on a gentleeminence moved very conspicuously, like a donkey's ears. And hardby, like an open gash, the imperial high-road ran straight sunward,an artery of travel.
There is one of nature's spiritual ditties, that hasnot yet been set to words or human music: "The Invitation to theRoad"; an air continually sounding in the ears of gipsies, and towhose inspiration our nomadic fathers journeyed all their days. Thehour, the season, and the scene, all were in delicate accordance.The air was full of birds of passage, steering westward andnorthward over Grünewald, an army of specks to the up-looking eye.And below, the great practicable road was bound for the samequarter.
But to the two horsemen on the knoll this spiritualditty was unheard. They were, indeed, in some concern of mind,scanning every fold of the subjacent forest, and betraying bothanger and dismay in their impatient gestures. "I do not see him,Kuno," said the first huntsman, "nowhere – not a trace, not a hairof the mare's tail! No, sir, he's off; broke cover and got away.Why, for twopence I would hunt him with the dogs!" "Mayhap, he'sgone home," said Kuno, but without conviction. "Home!" sneered theother. "I give him twelve days to get home. No, it's begun again;it's as it was three years ago, before he married; a disgrace!Hereditary prince, hereditary fool! There goes the government overthe borders on a grey mare. What's that? No, nothing – no, I tellyou, on my word, I set more store by a good gelding or an Englishdog. That for your Otto!" "He's not my Otto," growled Kuno. "Then Idon't know whose he is," was the retort. "You would put your handin the fire for him to-morrow," said Kuno, facing round. "Me!"cried the huntsman. "I would see him hanged! I'm a Grünewaldpatriot – enrolled, and have my medal, too; and I would help aprince! I'm for liberty and Gondremark." "Well, it's all one," saidKuno. "If anybody said what you said, you would have his blood, andyou know it." "You have him on the brain," retorted his companion.– "There he goes!" he cried, the next moment.
And sure enough, about a mile down the mountain, arider on a white horse was seen to flit rapidly across a heathyopen and vanish among the trees on the farther side. "In tenminutes he'll be over the border into Gerolstein," said Kuno. "It'spast cure." "Well, if he founders that mare, I'll never forgivehim," added the other, gathering his reins.
And as they turned down from the knoll to rejointheir comrades, the sun dipped and disappeared, and the woods fellinstantly into the gravity and greyness of the early night.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH THE PRINCE PLAYS HAROUN-AL-RASCHID
The night fell upon the Prince while he wasthreading green tracks in the lower valleys of the wood; and thoughthe stars came out overhead and displayed the interminable order ofthe pine-tree pyramids, regular and dark like cypresses, theirlight was of small service to a traveller in such lonely paths, andfrom thenceforth he rode at random. The austere face of nature, theuncertain issue of his course, the open sky and the free air,delighted him like wine; and the hoarse chafing of a river on hisleft sounded in his ears agreeably.
It was past eight at night before his toil wasrewarded and he issued at last out of the forest on the firm whitehigh-road. It lay downhill before him with a sweeping eastwardtrend, faintly bright between the thickets; and Otto paused andgazed upon it. So it ran, league after league, still joiningothers, to the farthest ends of Europe, there skirting thesea-surge, here gleaming in the lights of cities; and theinnumerable army of tramps and travellers moved upon it in alllands as by a common impulse, and were now in all places drawingnear to the inn door and the night's rest. The pictures swarmed andvanished in his brain; a surge of temptation, a beat of all hisblood, went over him, to set spur to the mare and to go on into theunknown for ever. And then it passed away; hunger and fatigue, andthat habit of middling actions which we call common sense, resumedtheir empire; and in that changed mood his eye lighted upon twobright windows on his left hand, between the road and river.
He turned off by a by-road, and in a few minutes hewas knocking with his whip on the door of a large farmhouse, and achorus of dogs from the farmyard were making angry answer. A verytall, old, white-headed man came, shading a candle, at the summons.He had been of great strength in his time, and of a handsomecountenance; but now he was fallen away, his teeth were quite gone,and his voice when he spoke was broken and falsetto. "You willpardon me," said Otto. "I am a traveller and have entirely lost myway." "Sir," said the old man, in a very stately, shaky manner,"you are at the River Farm, and I am Killian Gottesheim, at yourdisposal. We are here, sir, at about an equal distance fromMittwalden in Grünewald and Brandenau in Gerolstein: six leagues toeither, and the road excellent; but there is not a wine-bush, not acarter's alehouse, anywhere between. You will have to accept myhospitality for the night; rough hospitality, to which I make youfreely welcome; for, sir," he added, with a bow, "it is God whosends the guest." "A