"The Plymouth Brother" by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1878
"His behaviour touched me deeply at the time, and even now moves me in recollection.... and he seemed never weary of shaking me by the hand."
With his donkey Modestine, Robert Louis Stevenson hikes in the Cevennes Mountains of south-central France in 1878.
I was overtaken by an old man in a brown nightcap, clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with a faint excited smile. A little girl followed him, driving two sheep and a goat; but she kept in our wake, while the old man walked beside me and talked about the morning and the valley. It was not much past six; and for healthy people who have slept enough, that is an hour of expansion and of open and trustful talk.
“Do you know the Lord?” he said at length.
I asked him what lord he meant; but he only repeated the question with more emphasis and a look in his eyes denoting hope and interest.
“Ah,” said I, pointing upwards, “I understand you now. Yes, I know Him; He is the best of acquaintances.”
The old man said he was delighted. “Hold,” he added, striking his bosom; “it makes me happy here.” There were a few who knew the Lord in these valleys, he went on to tell me; not many, but a few. “Many are called,” he quoted, “and few chosen.”
“My father,” said I, “it is not easy to say who know the Lord; and it is none of our business. Protestants and Catholics, and even those who worship stones, may know Him and be known by Him; for He has made all.”
I did not know I was so good a preacher.
The old man assured me he thought as I did, and repeated his expressions of pleasure at meeting me. “We are so few,” he said. “They call us Moravians here; but down in the Department of Gard, where there are also a good number, they are called Derbists, after an English pastor.”
I began to understand that I was figuring, in questionable taste, as a member of some sect to me unknown; but I was more pleased with the pleasure of my companion than embarrassed by my own equivocal position. Indeed, I can see no dishonesty in not avowing a difference; and especially in these high matters, where we have all a sufficient assurance that, whoever may be in the wrong, we ourselves are not completely in the right. The truth is much talked about; but this old man in a brown nightcap showed himself so simple, sweet, and friendly, that I am not unwilling to profess myself his convert. He was, as a matter of fact, a Plymouth Brother. Of what that involves in the way of doctrine I have no idea nor the time to inform myself; but I know right well that we are all embarked upon a troublesome world, the children of one Father, striving in many essential points to do and to become the same. And although it was somewhat in a mistake that he shook hands with me so often and showed himself so ready to receive my words, that was a mistake of the truth-finding sort. For charity begins blindfold; and only through a series of similar misapprehensions rises at length into a settled principle of love and patience, and a firm belief in all our fellow-men. If I deceived this good old man, in the like manner I would willingly go on to deceive others. And if ever at length, out of our separate and sad ways, we should all come together into one common house, I have a hope, to which I cling dearly, that my mountain Plymouth Brother will hasten to shake hands with me again.
Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful by the way, he and I came down upon a hamlet by the Tarn. It was but a humble place, called La Vernède, with less than a dozen houses, and a Protestant chapel on a knoll. Here he dwelt; and here, at the inn, I ordered my breakfast. The inn was kept by an agreeable young man, a stone-breaker on the road, and his sister, a pretty and engaging girl. The village schoolmaster dropped in to speak with the stranger. And these were all Protestants—a fact which pleased me more than I should have expected; and, what pleased me still more, they seemed all upright and simple people. The Plymouth Brother hung round me with a sort of yearning interest, and returned at least thrice to make sure I was enjoying my meal. His behaviour touched me deeply at the time, and even now moves me in recollection. He feared to intrude, but he would not willingly forego one moment of my society; and he seemed never weary of shaking me by the hand.
From Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1879, available on Amazon*
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Image: Illustration by Ch. Bidard from Voyage à Travers les Cévennes avec un Ane by Robert Louis Stevenson, Cahors: Imprimerie Typographique A. Coueslant, 1901, public domain.