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    The Pavillion on the Links
    The Pavillion on the Links
    The Pavillion on the Links
    Ebook80 pages1 hour

    The Pavillion on the Links

    By Robert Louis Stevenson

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Classic long short story. According to Wikipedia: "Robert Louis (Balfour) Stevenson ( 1850 - 1894), was a Scottish novelist, poet, and travel writer, and a leading representative of Neo-romanticism in English literature. He was the man who "seemed to pick the right word up on the point of his pen, like a man playing spillikins", as G. K. Chesterton put it. He was also greatly admired by many authors, including Jorge Luis Borges, Ernest Hemingway, Rudyard Kipling, Vladimir Nabokov, and J. M. Barrie. Most modernist writers dismissed him, however, because he was popular and did not write within their definition of modernism. It is only recently that critics have begun to look beyond Stevenson's popularity and allow him a place in the canon."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeltzer Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781455354146
    Author

    Robert Louis Stevenson

    Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850, changing his second name to ‘Louis’ at the age of eighteen. He has always been loved and admired by countless readers and critics for ‘the excitement, the fierce joy, the delight in strangeness, the pleasure in deep and dark adventures’ found in his classic stories and, without doubt, he created some of the most horribly unforgettable characters in literature and, above all, Mr. Edward Hyde.

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    3.5/5

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    • 2/5
      An odd little book. Vivid, as Stevenson almost always is, but the engine of plot, character, and circumstance does not achieve the same high level of function as in his best works.

    Book preview

    The Pavillion on the Links - Robert Louis Stevenson

    THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

    published by Samizdat Express, Orange, CT, USA

    established in 1974, offering over 14,000 books

    Books and Stories by Robert Louis Stevenson:

    Across the Plains

    The Art of Writing

    Ballads

    Black Arrow

    The Bottle Imp

    Catriona or David Balfour (sequel to Kidnapped)

    A Child's Garden of Verses

    The Ebb-Tide

    Edinburgh

    Essays

    Essays of Travel

    Fables

    Familiar Studies of Men and Books

    Father Damien

    Footnote to History

    In the South Seas

    An Inland Voyage

    Island Nights' Entertainments

    Kidnapped

    Lay Morals

    Letters

    Lodging for the Night

    Markheim

    Master of Ballantrae

    Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin

    Memories and Portraits

    Merry Men

    Moral Emblems

    New Arabian Nights

    New Poems

    The Pavilion on the Links

    Four Plays

    The Pocket R. L. S.

    Prayers Written at Vailima

    Prince Otto

    Records of a Family of Engineers

    The Sea Fogs

    The Silverado Squatters

    Songs of Travel

    St. Ives

    The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

    Tales and Fantasies

    Thrawn Janet

    Travels with a Donkey

    Treasure Island

    Underwoods

    Vailima Letters

    Virginibus Puerisque

    The Waif Woman

    Weir of Hermiston

    The Wrecker

    The Wrong Box

    feedback welcome: info@samizdat.com

    visit us at samizdat.com

    I

    I was a great solitary when I was young.  I made it my pride to keep aloof and suffice for my own entertainment; and I may say that I had neither friends nor acquaintances until I met that friend who became my wife and the mother of my children.  With one man only was I on private terms; this was R. Northmour, Esquire, of Graden Easter, in Scotland.  We had met at college; and though there was not much liking between us, nor even much intimacy, we were so nearly of a humor that we could associate with ease to both. Misanthropes, we believed ourselves to be; but I have thought since that we were only sulky fellows.  It was scarcely a companionship, but a coexistence in unsociability.  Northmour's exceptional violence of temper made it no easy affair for him to keep the peace with anyone but me; and as he respected my silent ways, and let me come and go as I pleased, I could tolerate his presence without concern.  I think we called each other friends.

    When Northmour took his degree and I decided to leave the university without one, he invited me on a long visit to Graden Easter; and it was thus that I first became acquainted with the scene of my adventures.  The mansion house of Graden stood in a bleak stretch of country some three miles from the shore of the German Ocean.  It was as large as a barrack; and as it had been built of a soft stone, liable to consume in the eager air of the seaside, it was damp and draughty within and half ruinous without. It was impossible for two young men to lodge with comfort in such a dwelling.  But there stood in the northern part of the estate, in a wilderness of links and blowing sand hills, and between a plantation and the sea, a small pavilion or belvedere, of modern design, which was exactly suited to our wants; and in this hermitage, speaking little, reading much, and rarely associating except at meals, Northmour and I spent four tempestuous winter months.  I might have stayed longer; but one March night there sprung up between us a dispute, which rendered my departure necessary.  Northmour spoke hotly, I remember, and I suppose I must have made some tart rejoinder.  He leaped from his chair and grappled me; I had to fight, without exaggeration, for my life; and it was only with a great effort that I mastered him, for he was near as strong in body as myself, and seemed filled with the devil. The next morning, we met on our usual terms; but I judged it more delicate to withdraw; nor did he attempt to dissuade me.

    It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood.  I traveled at that time with a tilt-cart, a tent, and a cooking stove, tramping all day beside the wagon, and at night, whenever it was possible, gypsying in a cove of the hills, or by the side of a wood.  I believe I visited in this manner most of the wild and desolate regions both in England and Scotland; and, as I had neither friends nor relations, I was troubled with no correspondence, and had nothing in the nature of headquarters, unless it was the office of my solicitors, from whom I drew my income twice a year.  It was a life in which I delighted; and I fully thought to have grown old upon the march, and at last died in a ditch.

    It was my whole business to find desolate corners, where I could camp without the fear of interruption; and hence, being in another part of the same shire, I bethought me suddenly of the Pavilion on the Links.  No thoroughfare passed within three miles of it.  The nearest town, and that was but a fisher village, was at a distance of six or seven.  For ten miles of length, and from a depth varying from three miles to half a mile, this belt of barren country lay along the sea.  The beach, which was the natural approach, was full of quicksands.  Indeed I may say there is hardly a better place of concealment in the United Kingdom.  I determined to pass a week in the Sea-Wood of Graden Easter, and making a long stage, reached it about sundown on a wild September day.

    The country, I have said, was mixed sand hill and links, LINKS being a Scottish name for sand which has ceased drifting and become more or less solidly covered with turf.  The pavilion stood on an even space: a little behind it, the wood began in a hedge of elders huddled together by the wind; in front, a few tumbled sand hills stood between it and the sea.  An outcropping of rock had formed a bastion for the sand, so that there was here a promontory in the coast line between two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides, the rock again cropped out and formed an islet of small

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