A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES
By Robert Louis Stevenson
This is an account of one night's camping-out experience in the mountains of southeastern France. Stevenson's only companion was Modestine, a donkey "not much bigger than a dog, the color of a mouse, with a kindly eye and a determined jaw." The selection is especially fine in its interpretation of night out of doors. Read it to gather the impressions that the sights and sounds made upon the author. Then read it to discover what you would have listened for (and probably heard) had you been in the same position.
From Bleymard after dinner, although it was already
late, I set out to scale a portion of the Lozère. An
ill-marked stony droveroad guided me forward; and I met
nearly half a dozen bullock carts descending from the woods,
each laden with a whole pine tree for the winter's firing.5
At the top of the woods, which do not climb very high upon
this cold ridge, I struck leftward by a path among the
pines, until I hit on a dell of green turf, where a streamlet
made a little spout over some stones to serve me for a water
tap. "In a more sacred or sequestered bower . . . nor 10
nymph, nor faunus, haunted." The trees were not old,
but they grew thickly round the glade; there was no outlook,
except northeastward upon distant hilltops or straight
upward to the sky; and the encampment felt secure and
private like a room. By the time I had made my arrangements 15
and fed Modestine, the day was already beginning
to decline. I buckled myself to the knees into my sack and
made a hearty meal; and as soon as the sun went down, I
pulled my cap over my eyes and fell asleep.
Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but
in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews
and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the
face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death to
people choked between walls and curtains, is only a light 5
and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield. All night
long he can hear Nature breathing deeply and freely; even
as she takes her rest, she turns and smiles; and there is
one stirring hour unknown to those who dwell in houses,
when a wakeful influence goes abroad over the sleeping 10
hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are on their feet.
It is then that the cock first crows, not this time to announce
the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman speeding the course
of the night. Cattle awake on the meadows; sheep break
their fast on dewy hillsides, and change to a new lair among 15
the ferns; and houseless men, who have lain down with
the fowls, open their dim eyes and behold the beauty of
the night.
At what inaudible summons, at what gentle touch of
Nature, are all these sleepers thus recalled in the same hour 20
to life? Do the stars rain down an influence, or do we
share some thrill of mother earth below our resting bodies?
Even shepherds and old country folk, who are the deepest
read in these arcana, have not a guess as to the means or
purpose of this nightly resurrection. Towards two in the 25
morning, they declare the thing takes place; and neither
know nor inquire further. And at least it is a pleasant
incident. We are disturbed in our slumber only, like the
luxurious Montaigne, "that we may the better and more
sensibly relish it." We have a moment to look upon the 30
stars, and there is a special pleasure for some minds in
the reflection that we share the impulse with all outdoor
creatures in our neighborhood, that we have escaped out
of the Bastille of civilization, and are become, for the time
being, a mere kindly animal and a sheep of Nature's flock.
When that hour came to me among the pines, I wakened
thirsty. My tin was standing by me, half full of water. 5
I emptied it at a draft. The stars were clear, colored and
jewellike, but not frosty. A faint silvery vapor stood for
the Milky Way. All around me the black fir points stood
upright and stock-still. By the whiteness of the packsaddle,
I could see Modestine walking round and round at the 10
length of the tether; I could hear her steadily munching
at the sward; but there was not another sound, save the
indescribable quiet talk of the runnel over the stones. I
lay lazily smoking and studying the color of the sky, as
we call the void of space, from where it showed a reddish15
gray behind the pines to where it showed a glossy blue-black
between the stars.
A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a stream
of air, passed down the glade from time to time; so that
even in my great chamber the air was being renewed all 20
night long. I have not often enjoyed a more serene possession
of myself, nor felt more independent of material aids.
The outer world, from which we cower into our houses, seemed
after all a gentle, habitable place; and night after night a
man's bed, it seemed, was laid and waiting for him in the25
fields, where God keeps an open house. I thought I had
rediscovered one of those truths which are revealed to
savages and hid from political economists: at the least, I
had discovered a new pleasure for myself. And yet even
while I was exulting in my solitude I became aware of a 30
strange lack. I wished a companion to lie near me in the
starlight, silent and not moving, but ever within touch.
For there is a fellowship more quiet even than solitude,
and which, rightly understood, is solitude made perfect.
As I thus lay, between content and longing, a faint
noise stole towards me through the pines. I thought, at
first, it was the crowing of cocks or the barking of dogs at 5
some very distant farm; but steadily and gradually it took
articulate shape in my ears, until I became aware that a
passenger was going by upon the highroad of the valley
and singing loudly as he went. There was more of good will
than grace in his performance; but he trolled with ample 10
lungs; and the sound of his voice took hold upon the hillside
and set the air shaking in the leafy glens. I have
heard people passing by night in sleeping cities; some of
them sang; one, I remember, played loudly on the bagpipes.
I have heard the rattle of a cart or carriage spring 15
up suddenly after hours of stillness and pass, for some
minutes, within the range of my hearing as I lay abed.
There is a romance about all who are abroad in the black
hours, and with something of a thrill we try to guess their
business. But here the romance was double: first, this 20
glad passenger, who sent up his voice in music through the
night; and then I, on the other hand, buckled into my
sack, and smoking alone in the pine woods between four
and five thousand feet towards the stars.
When I awoke again (Sunday, 29th September) many of 25
the stars had disappeared, only the stronger companions
of the night still burned visibly overhead; and away
towards the east I saw a faint haze of light upon the horizon,
such as had been the Milky Way when I was last awake.
Day was at hand. I lit my lantern, and by its glowworm 30
light put on my boots and gaiters; then I broke up some
bread for Modestine, filled my can at the water tap, and
lit my spirit lamp to boil myself some chocolate. The blue
darkness lay long in the glade where I had so sweetly
slumbered; but soon there was a broad streak of orange
melting into gold along the mountain top of Vivarais.
A solemn glee possessed my mind at this gradual and lovely5
coming in of day. I heard the runnel with delight; I
looked round me for something beautiful and unexpected;
but the still black pine trees, the hollow glade, the munching
ass, remained unchanged in figure. Nothing had
altered but the light, and that, indeed, shed over all a 10
spirit of life and of breathing peace, and moved me to a
strange exhilaration.
I drank my water chocolate, which was hot if it was not
rich, and strolled here and there, and up and down about
the glade. While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady 15
wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the
quarter of the morning. It was cold and set me sneezing.
The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its
passage; and I could see the thin, distant spires of pines
along the edge of the hill, rock slightly to and fro against the 20
golden east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread at
a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and sparkles,
and the day had come completely.
I hastened to prepare my pack, and tackle the steep
ascent that lay before me; but I had something on my 25
mind. It was only a fancy; yet a fancy will sometimes be
importunate. I had been most hospitably received and
punctually served in my green caravansary. The room
was airy, the water excellent, and the dawn had called me
to a moment. I say nothing of the tapestries or the inimitable 30
ceiling, nor yet of the view which I commanded from
the windows; but I felt I was in some one's debt for all
this liberal entertainment. And so it pleased me, in a
half-laughing way, to leave pieces of money on the turf
as I went along, until I had left enough for my night's
lodging. I trust they did not fall to some rich and churlish
drover. 5
—Travels with a Donkey.
1. What did Stevenson see during the night? What did he hear? How did he feel? The details are not unlike those in Robinson Crusoe.
2. Re-read the first paragraph, page 178, and tell what its chief idea is. Select the paragraph in which the description is clearest to you. Read it aloud. Observe how the simple words are arranged to make pictures and to produce rhythm. Stevenson rewrote many times to get this easy clearness.
3. If you have ever slept out of doors what impressed you most? What sounds did Stevenson probably fail to hear? Was he a naturalist?
4. Stevenson was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. He belonged to a family of civil engineers. His health was always poor, so he traveled a great deal. He went to France and to Switzerland. He came to America and spent some time in the Adirondacks. Finally he settled on an island far out in the Pacific Ocean, where he lived till his death, in 1894. In spite of his poor health, he was a busy writer of novels, essays, short stories, and verse.