On
my recent trip to the UK, I took a train to Edinburgh, Scotland, much
anticipating the red and green plaid skirts and a few old tales about Mary,
Queen of Scots. I expected to find a charming old city, but I didn’t expect to
visit one of my favorite writers of all times: Robert Louis Stevenson. More so,
when I was reading his books in Russian translation, in my ignorance, I thought
him an Englishman. Not only was he a Scot, but Edinburgh was his hometown.
The
Royal Mile – Edinburgh’s main street – leads down from the Edinburgh Castle,
the former residence of legendary Mary Stuart, to the Scottish Parliament and
the Holyrood Palace, which King James converted from a medieval monastery into
a royal residence. Packed with little museums that feature everything from
weaving to childhood toys, the Royal Mile can easily monopolize your attention,
but it’s the little narrow side streets that lead to the off-the-beaten paths
and undiscovered treasures.
Edinburgh’s
Writers’ Museum is one of them. You can’t even quite see it from the main drag;
you have to be a wanderer at heart to find it. And perhaps, a writer too – to
notice the hanging sign in the shape of a scribe, jotting down those precious
words with an ink feather as fast as he can. A writer’s words are always
fleeting, by quill or by keyboard.
The
entire first floor of the Edinburgh’s Writers’ Museum was all about Stevenson.
I've
always loved Stevenson’s books and admired his poems. As a child, I liked his
work so much, I even read the preface for The Treasure Island – and,
surprisingly, found out we had something in common! We were both sickly kids
who spent days in bed, watching others play outside while our own caretakers
wouldn’t open our windows even a crack. He seemed to be susceptible to the cold
and damp Edinburgh weather, I suffered from tonsillitis and pneumonia in the
icy Russian winters. So we let ourselves get lost in books, invented our own
little worlds and created imaginary friends, with whom we embarked on the most
incredible adventures. I wrote mine down sometimes. I’m pretty sure he did the
same. “When I suffer, stories are my salvation,” he wrote. “I take them like
opium.”
The
son of Thomas Stevenson and Isabelle Balfour, Stevenson was born to a family of
engineers. So was I. Only his engineering dynasty specialized in lighthouses
while my kinfolk built planes, trains, and automobiles. He didn’t do well in
technical sciences in school, and I spaced out in my math classes. He became a
writer, and so did I. I even learned to write with a fountain pen in
school.
And
now, we’ve met at last.
Originally
built in 1622 as a private home for one of the city's wealthiest families, the
museum also hosts exhibitions to two more of Scotland's great literary figures:
Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott, whose books I also love. The dining room of
Scott's North Castle Street home has been reconstructed, complete with the his
own chessboard and dining table.
Yet
I kept going back to the Stevenson’s exhibit, with its collection of
photographs, many of which came from the Island of Samoa where he used to live
later in life. I spent the majority of my time at the museum there, in fact. It
was as if I'd been able to travel 150 years back in time. As I read his letters
and eavesdropped in on his thoughts, I learned something else he and I had in
common: he was an explorer too. “I travel not to go somewhere – but to go,”
one of his scribbles said.
You
never know what you may find and who you may meet when you travel foreign
lands. I met Robert Louis Stevenson. I even told him his books had once been my
opioid salvation.
I love Edinburgh. I've never been to the writers' museum, though. Guess that means I'll have to go back ;)
ReplyDeleteI love Edinburgh too, got one of my favorite sweaters along the Royal Mile, would love to go back! Definitely want to visit that museum as I love those writers too.
ReplyDeleteStevenson is one of my favorite writers, too. He spent some time Monterey (in pursuit of love, according to local lore), where I went to graduate school. I used to take my lunch and sit in his garden between classes, but I never felt like I met the man. Maybe I need to go to Edinburgh for that.
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