Master of Ballantrae | Page 3

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The Master of Ballantrae by Robert Louis Stevenson Scanned and
proofed by David Price [email protected]

The Master of Ballantrae A Winter's Tale

To Sir Percy Florence and Lady Shelley
Here is a tale which extends over many years and travels into many
countries. By a peculiar fitness of circumstance the writer began,
continued it, and concluded it among distant and diverse scenes. Above
all, he was much upon the sea. The character and fortune of the
fraternal enemies, the hall and shrubbery of Durrisdeer, the problem of
Mackellar's homespun and how to shape it for superior flights; these
were his company on deck in many star-reflecting harbours, ran often
in his mind at sea to the tune of slatting canvas, and were dismissed
(something of the suddenest) on the approach of squalls. It is my hope
that these surroundings of its manufacture may to some degree find
favour for my story with seafarers and sea-lovers like yourselves.
And at least here is a dedication from a great way off: written by the
loud shores of a subtropical island near upon ten thousand miles from
Boscombe Chine and Manor: scenes which rise before me as I write,
along with the faces and voices of my friends.
Well, I am for the sea once more; no doubt Sir Percy also. Let us make
the signal B. R. D.!
R. L. S.

WAIKIKI, May 17, 1889

PREFACE

Although an old, consistent exile, the editor of the following pages
revisits now and again the city of which he exults to be a native; and
there are few things more strange, more painful, or more salutary, than
such revisitations. Outside, in foreign spots, he comes by surprise and
awakens more attention than he had expected; in his own city, the
relation is reversed, and he stands amazed to be so little recollected.
Elsewhere he is refreshed to see attractive faces, to remark possible
friends; there he scouts the long streets, with a pang at heart, for the
faces and friends that are no more. Elsewhere he is delighted with the
presence of what is new, there tormented by the absence of what is old.
Elsewhere he is content to be his present self; there he is smitten with
an equal regret for what he once was and for what he once hoped to be.
He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station, on his last
visit; he was feeling it still as he alighted at the door of his friend Mr.
Johnstone Thomson, W.S., with whom he was to stay. A hearty
welcome, a face not altogether changed, a few words that sounded of
old days, a laugh provoked and shared, a glimpse in passing of the
snowy cloth and bright decanters and the Piranesis on the dining-room
wall, brought him to his bed-room with a somewhat lightened cheer,
and when he and Mr. Thomson sat down a few minutes later, cheek by
jowl, and pledged the past in a preliminary bumper, he was already
almost consoled, he had already almost forgiven himself his two
unpardonable errors, that he should ever have left his native city, or
ever returned to it.
"I have something quite in your way," said Mr. Thomson. "I wished to
do honour to your arrival; because, my dear fellow, it is my own youth
that comes back along with you; in a very tattered and withered state, to
be sure, but - well! - all that's left of it."
"A great deal better than nothing," said the editor. "But what is this
which is quite in my way?"
"I was coming to that," said Mr. Thomson: "Fate has put it in my power
to honour your arrival with something really original by way of dessert.
A mystery."

"A mystery?" I repeated.
"Yes," said his friend, "a mystery. It may prove to be nothing, and it
may prove to be a great deal. But in the meanwhile it is truly
mysterious, no eye having looked on