The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sea Fogs, by Robert Louis Stevenson

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Title: The Sea Fogs

Author: Robert Louis Stevenson

Release Date: June 1, 2009 [EBook #5272]
Last Updated: November 26, 2012

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEA FOGS ***




Produced by David Schwan, and David Widger






 




THE SEA FOGS  





By Robert Louis Stevenson  





With an Introduction by Thomas Rutherford Bacon  

Western Classics No. 1  
               A sheeted spectre white and tall,
               The cold mist climbs the castle wall
               And lays its hand upon thy cheek.

               —Longfellow.









Introduction

THE SEA FOGS









Introduction  


Robert Louis Stevenson first came to California in 1879 for the purpose of  getting married. The things that delayed his marriage are sufficiently set  forth in his "Letters" (edited by Sidney Colvin) and in his "Life"  (written by Graham Balfour). It is here necessary to refer only to the  last of the obstacles, the breaking down of his health. It is in  connection with the evil thing that came to him at this time that he first  makes mention of "the sea fogs," that beset a large part of the California  coast. He speaks of them as poisonous; and poisonous they are to any one  who is afflicted with pulmonary weakness, but bracing and glorious to  others. They give the charm of climate to dwellers around the great bay.  How he took this first very serious attack of the terrible malady is  indicated in the letter to Edmund Gosse, dated April 16, 1880. His  attitude toward death is shown here, and is further shown in his little  paper AEs Triplex, in which he successfully vindicates his generation from  the charge of cowardice in the face of death. Stevenson's two  distinguishing characteristics were his courage and his determination to  be happy as the right way of making other people happy. His courage, far  more than change of scene and climate, gave him fourteen more years in  which to contribute to the sweetness and light of the world. These years  were made fruitful to others by his determined happiness, a happiness in  which the main factor, outside of his own determination, came from the  companionship which his marriage brought to him. The great principles by  which he lived influenced those who did not know him personally, through  his gift of writing. He always maintained that it was not a gift but an  achievement, and that any one could write as well as he by taking as much  pains. We may well doubt the soundness of this theory, but we cannot doubt  the spiritual attitude from which it came. It came from no mock humility,  but from a feeling that nothing was creditable to him except what he did.  He asked no credit for the talents committed to his charge. He asked  credit only for the use be made of the talents.  

Stevenson was married May 19, 1880. His health, which had delayed the  marriage, determined the character of the honeymoon. He must get away from  the coast and its fogs. His honeymoon experiences are recorded in one of  the most delightful of his minor writings, "The Silverado Squatters." He  went, with his wife, his stepson and a dog, to squat on the eastern  shoulder of Mount Saint Helena, a noble mountain which closes and  dominates the Napa Valley, a wonderful and fertile valley, running  northward from the bay of San Francisco. Silverado was a deserted  mining-camp. Stevenson has intimated that there are more ruined cities in  California than in the land of Bashan, and in one of these he took up his  residence for about two months, "camping" in the deserted quarters of the  extinct mining company. Had he gone a little beyond the toll-house, just  over the shoulder of the mountain, he would probably never have seen the  glory of "the sea fogs." It would have been better for his health but  worse for English literature.  

My first knowledge of that glory came to me twenty years ago. I had come  to California to care for one dearly beloved by me, who was fighting the  same fight that Stevenson fought, and against the same enemy, and who was  fighting it just as bravely. I took him to the summit of the Santa Cruz  Mountains in the hope that we might escape the fogs. As I watched on the  porch of the little cottage where he lay, I saw night after night what I  believe to be the most beautiful of all natural phenomena, the sea fog of  the Pacific, seen from above. Under the full moon, or under the early sun  which slowly withers it away, the great silver sea with its dark islands  of redwood seemed to me the most wonderful of things. With my wonder and  delight, perhaps making them more poignant, was the fear lest the glory  should mount too high, and lay its attractive hand on my beloved. The fog  has been dear to me ever since. I have often grumbled at it when I was in  it or under it, but when I have seen it from above, that first thrill of  wonder and delight has come back to me always. Whether on the  Berkeley hills I see its irresistible columns moving through the Golden  Gate across the bay to take possession of the land, or whether I stand on  the height of Tamalpais and look at the white, tangled flood below,  
     "My heart leaps up when I behold."

It remains to me  
    "A vision, a delight and a desire."

When the beauty of the fog first got hold of me, I wondered whether any  one had given literary expression to its supreme charm. I searched the  works of some of the better-known California poets, not quite without  result. I was familiar with what seem to me the best of the serious verses  of Bret Harte, the lines on San Francisco,wherein the city is  pictured as a penitent Magdalen, cowled in the grey of the Franciscans,  the soft pale grey of the sea fog. The literary value of the figure  is hardly injured by the cold fog that the penitence of this particular  Magdalen has never been of an enduring quality. It is to be noted that  what Harte speaks of is not the beauty of the fog, but its sobriety and  dignity.  

Sill, with his susceptibility to the infinite variety of nature and with  the spark of the divine fire which burned in him, refers often to some of  the effects of the fog, such as the wonderful sunset colors on the  Berkeley hills in summer. But I find only one direct allusion to the  beauty of the fog itself:  
     (1)"There lies a little city in the hills;
     White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling's door,
     And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.

     "There the pure mist, the pity of the sea,
     Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'er
     And touches its still face most tenderly."

In 1887 I had not read "The Silverado Squatters." Part of it had been  published in Scribner's Magazine. It was only in the following year that I  got hold of the book and found an almost adequate expression of my own  feeling about the sea fogs. Stevenson did not know all their beauty, for  he was not here long enough, but he could tell what he saw. In other  words, he had a gift which is denied to most of us.  

Silverado is now a quite impossible place for squatting. When I first  tried to enter, I found it so given over to poison-oak and rattlesnakes  that I did not care to pursue my investigations very far. I did not know  at that time that I was quite immune from the poison of the oak and that  the California rattlesnake was quite so friendly and harmless an animal as  John Muir has since assured us that he is. The last time that I passed  Silverado, it was accessible only by the aid of a gang of wood-choppers.  

Curiously, the last great fog effect that I have seen was almost the same  which Stevenson has described. Last summer we had been staying for a month  with our friends who have a summer home about three miles beyond  Stevenson's "toll-house." It is, I believe, the most beautiful  country-seat on this round earth, and its free and gentle hospitality  cannot be surpassed. We left this delightful place of sojourning between  three and four o'clock in the morning to catch the early train from  Calistoga. Our steep climb up to the toll-house was under the broad smile  of the moon, which gradually gave way to the brilliant dawn. When we  passed the toll-house, the whole Napa Valley should have been revealed to  us, but it was not. The fog had surged through it and had hidden it. What  we saw was better than the beautiful Napa Valley. I should like to tell  what we saw, but I cannot,"For what can the man do who cometh after  the king?"  

(1) This exquisite little poem is unaccountably omitted from the Household  (and presumably complete) Edition of Sill's poems issued by Houghton,  Mifflin & Co., 1906. It is found in the little volume, "Poems," by  Edward Rowland Sill, published by the same firm at an earlier date.  Mountain View Cemetery is no longer a "little city."  







THE SEA FOGS  


A change in the colour of the light usually called me in the morning. By a  certain hour, the long, vertical chinks in our western gable, where the  boards had shrunk and separated, flashed suddenly into my eyes as stripes  of dazzling blue, at once so dark and splendid that I used to marvel how  the qualities could be combined. At an earlier hour, the heavens in that  quarter were still quietly coloured, but the shoulder of the mountain  which shuts in the canyon already glowed with sunlight in a wonderful  compound of gold and rose and green; and this too would kindle, although  more mildly and with rainbow tints, the fissures of our crazy gable. If I  were sleeping heavily, it was the bold blue that struck me awake; if more  lightly, then I would come to myself in that earlier and fairer light.  

One Sunday morning, about five, the first brightness called me. I rose and  turned to the east, not for my devotions, but for air. The night had been  very still. The little private gale that blew every evening in our canyon,  for ten minutes or perhaps a quarter of an hour, had swiftly blown itself  out; in the hours that followed, not a sigh of wind had shaken the  treetops; and our barrack, for all its breaches, was less fresh that  morning than of wont. But I had no sooner reached the window than I forgot  all else in the sight that met my eyes, and I made but two bounds into my  clothes, and down the crazy plank to the platform.  

The sun was still concealed below the opposite hilltops, though it was  shining already, not twenty feet above my head, on our own mountain slope.  But the scene, beyond a few near features, was entirely changed. Napa  Valley was gone; gone were all the lower slopes and woody foothills of the  range; and in their place, not a thousand feet below me, rolled a great  level ocean. It was as though I had gone to bed the night before, safe in  a nook of inland mountains and had awakened in a bay upon the coast. I had  seen these inundations from below; at Calistoga I had risen and gone  abroad in the early morning, coughing and sneezing, under fathoms on  fathoms of gray sea vapour, like a cloudy skya dull sight for the  artist, and a painful experience for the invalid. But to sit aloft one's  self in the pure air and under the unclouded dome of heaven, and thus look  down on the submergence of the valley, was strangely different and even  delightful to the eyes. Far away were hilltops like little islands.  Nearer, a smoky surf beat about the foot of precipices and poured into all  the coves of these rough mountains. The colour of that fog ocean was a  thing never to be forgotten. For an instant, among the Hebrides and just  about sundown, I have seen something like it on the sea itself. But the  white was not so opaline; nor was there, what surprisingly increased the  effect, that breathless crystal stillness over all. Even in its gentlest  moods the salt sea travails, moaning among the weeds or lisping on the  sand; but that vast fog ocean lay in a trance of silence, nor did the  sweet air of the morning tremble with a sound.  

As I continued to sit upon the dump, I began to observe that this sea was  not so level as at first sight it appeared to be. Away in the extreme  south, a little hill of fog arose against the sky above the general  surface, and as it had already caught the sun it shone on the horizon like  the topsails of some giant ship. There were huge waves, stationary, as it  seemed, like waves in a frozen sea; and yet, as I looked again, I was not  sure but they were moving after all, with a slow and august advance. And  while I was yet doubting, a promontory of the hills some four or five  miles away, conspicuous by a bouquet of tall pines, was in a single  instant overtaken and swallowed up. It reappeared in a little, with its  pines, but this time as an islet and only to be swallowed up once more and  then for good. This set me looking nearer, and I saw that in every cove  along the line of mountains the fog was being piled in higher and higher,  as though by some wind that was inaudible to me. I could trace its  progress, one pine tree first growing hazy and then disappearing after  another; although sometimes there was none of this forerunning haze, but  the whole opaque white ocean gave a start and swallowed a piece of  mountain at a gulp. It was to flee these poisonous fogs that I had left  the seaboard, and climbed so high among the mountains. And now, behold,  here came the fog to besiege me in my chosen altitudes, and yet came so  beautifully that my first thought was of welcome.  

The sun had now gotten much higher, and through all the gaps of the hills  it cast long bars of gold across that white ocean. An eagle, or some other  very great bird of the mountain, came wheeling over the nearer pinetops,  and hung, poised and something sideways, as if to look abroad on that  unwonted desolation, spying, perhaps with terror, for the eyries of her  comrades. Then, with a long cry, she disappeared again toward Lake County  and the clearer air. At length it seemed to me as if the flood were  beginning to subside. The old landmarks, by whose disappearance I had  measured its advance, here a crag, there a brave pine tree, now began, in  the inverse order, to make their reappearance into daylight. I judged all  danger of the fog was over. This was not Noah's flood; it was but a  morning spring, and would now drift out seaward whence it came. So,  mightily relieved, and a good deal exhilarated by the sight, I went into  the house to light the fire.  

I suppose it was nearly seven when I once more mounted the platform to  look abroad. The fog ocean had swelled up enormously since last I saw it;  and a few hundred feet below me, in the deep gap where the Toll House  stands and the road runs through into Lake County, it had already topped  the slope, and was pouring over and down the other side like driving  smoke. The wind had climbed along with it; and though I was still in calm  air, I could see the trees tossing below me, and their long, strident  sighing mounted to me where I stood.  

Half an hour later, the fog had surmounted all the ridge on the opposite  side of the gap, though a shoulder of the mountain still warded it out of  our canyon. Napa Valley and its bounding hills were now utterly blotted  out. The fog, sunny white in the sunshine, was pouring over into Lake  County in a huge, ragged cataract, tossing treetops appearing and  disappearing in the spray. The air struck with a little chill, and set me  coughing. It smelt strong of the fog, like the smell of a washing-house,  but with a shrewd tang of the sea-salt.  

Had it not been for two thingsthe sheltering spur which answered as  a dyke, and the great valley on the other side which rapidly engulfed  whatever mountedour own little platform in the canyon must have  been already buried a hundred feet in salt and poisonous air. As it was,  the interest of the scene entirely occupied our minds. We were set just  out of the wind, and but just above the fog; we could listen to the voice  of the one as to music on the stage; we could plunge our eyes down into  the other, as into some flowing stream from over the parapet of a bridge;  thus we looked on upon a strange, impetuous, silent, shifting exhibition  of the powers of nature, and saw the familiar landscape changing from  moment to moment like figures in a dream.  

The imagination loves to trifle with what is not. Had this been indeed the  deluge, I should have felt more strongly, but the emotion would have been  similar in kind. I played with the idea as the child flees in delighted  terror from the creations of his fancy. The look of the thing helped me.  And when at last I began to flee up the mountain, it was indeed partly to  escape from the raw air that kept me coughing, but it was also part in  play.  

As I ascended the mountainside, I came once more to overlook the upper  surface of the fog; but it wore a different appearance from what I had  beheld at daybreak. For, first, the sun now fell on it from high overhead,  and its surface shone and undulated like a great nor'land moor country,  sheeted with untrodden morning snow. And, next, the new level must have  been a thousand or fifteen hundred feet higher than the old, so that only  five or six points of all the broken country below me still stood out.  Napa Valley was now one with Sonoma on the west. On the hither side, only  a thin scattered fringe of bluffs was unsubmerged; and through all the  gaps the fog was pouring over, like an ocean into the blue clear sunny  country on the east. There it was soon lost; for it fell instantly into  the bottom of the valleys, following the watershed; and the hilltops in  that quarter were still clear cut upon the eastern sky.  

Through the Toll House gap and over the near ridges on the other side, the  deluge was immense. A spray of thin vapour was thrown high above it,  rising and falling, and blown into fantastic shapes. The speed of its  course was like a mountain torrent. Here and there a few treetops were  discovered and then whelmed again; and for one second, the bough of a dead  pine beckoned out of the spray like the arm of a drowning man. But still  the imagination was dissatisfied, still the ear waited for something more.  Had this indeed been water (as it seemed so, to the eye), with what a  plunge of reverberating thunder would it have rolled upon its course,  disembowelling mountains and deracinating pines And yet water it was and  sea-water at thattrue Pacific billows, only somewhat rarefied,  rolling in mid-air among the hilltops.  

I climbed still higher, among the red rattling gravel and dwarf underwood  of Mount Saint Helena, until I could look right down upon Silverado, and  admire the favoured nook in which it lay. The sunny plain of fog was  several hundred feet higher; behind the protecting spur a gigantic  accumulation of cottony vapour threatened, with every second to blow over  and submerge our homestead; but the vortex setting past the Toll House was  too strong; and there lay our little platform, in the arms of the deluge,  but still enjoying its unbroken sunshine. About eleven, however, thin  spray came flying over the friendly buttress, and I began to think the fog  had hunted out its Jonah after all. But it was the last effort. The wind  veered while we were at dinner, and began to blow squally from the  mountain summit and by half-past one all that world of sea fogs was  utterly routed and flying here and there into the south in little rags of  cloud. And instead of a lone sea-beach, we found ourselves once more  inhabiting a high mountainside, with the clear green country far below us,  and the light smoke of Calistoga blowing in the air.  

This was the great Russian campaign for that season. Now and then, in the  early morning, a little white lakelet of fog would be seen far down in  Napa Valley but the heights were not again assailed, nor was the  surrounding world again shut off from Silverado.  
  Here Ends No. One the Western Classics Being The Sea Fogs by Robert
  Louis Stevenson With an Introduction by Thomas Rutherford Bacon & A
  Photogravure Frontispiece After A Painting by Albertine Randall Wheelan
  of this First Edition One Thousand Copies Have Been Issued Printed Upon
  Fabriano Handmade Paper the Typography Designed by J. H. Nash Published
  by Paul Elder and Company & Done Into A Book for Them at the Tomoye
  Press in the City of New York MCMVII














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