Magnetism—Past life—Impulsive nature—First impressions—Perfumed airs—A gentle spirit—Haunted groves—Blue waters of the Levant—Great devotion—A rose-blossom—Back to the angels—Special providence—Fair Provence—Charmed days—Excursions—Isles of Greece—Ossa and Pelion—City of the violet crown—Spinning-jennies have something to answer for—Olympus—Ægina—Groves of the Sacred Plain—Narrow escapes—Pleasures of home-coming—Rainbow atmosphere—Orange and lemon groves—The nightingales—Impressionable childhood—Fresh plans—The Abbé Rivière—Rare faculty—Domestic chaplain—Debt of gratitude—Treasure-house of strength—Given to hospitality—First great sorrow—Passing away—Resolve to travel—"I can no more"—The old Adam dies hard—Chance decides.
Magnetism—Past life—Impulsive nature—First impressions—Perfumed airs—A gentle spirit—Haunted groves—Blue waters of the Levant—Great devotion—A rose-blossom—Back to the angels—Special providence—Fair Provence—Charmed days—Excursions—Isles of Greece—Ossa and Pelion—City of the violet crown—Spinning-jennies have something to answer for—Olympus—Ægina—Groves of the Sacred Plain—Narrow escapes—Pleasures of home-coming—Rainbow atmosphere—Orange and lemon groves—The nightingales—Impressionable childhood—Fresh plans—The Abbé Rivière—Rare faculty—Domestic chaplain—Debt of gratitude—Treasure-house of strength—Given to hospitality—First great sorrow—Passing away—Resolve to travel—"I can no more"—The old Adam dies hard—Chance decides.
DELORMAISroused himself to the present as one who awakes from a dream. Those large dark eyes seemed capable of every expression; could flash with intellect, melt with fervent love or grow earnest with condemnation; sparkle with wit, or suffuse with sympathy and pathos. In Delormais susceptibilities and intellect seemed equally balanced.
"I have been reviewing my life," he began. "And I am asking myself why we are here seated together as old familiar friends. How it is that to you, a comparative stranger, I have promised to speak of the past, open my heart, disclose secrets unknown to the world? It must be that you deal in magnetism. Or that we were born in the same mystic sphere, or under the same conjunction of stars; and that for the third time in my life I discover one who is altogether sympathetic to me; to whom I feel I can speak as to my other self. Nor is it necessary that this feeling should be shared by you in an equal degree. Enough that you are not antagonistic; even approach me with a friendly liking. I, many years your senior, am the dominant power. You follow where I lead. But a truce tometaphysics; searchings into spiritual conditions we cannot altogether fathom; wandering into realms withholden from mortal vision. Let us leave the unseen and uncertain, and turn altogether to the present world."
We made no reply. Our sympathy was strongly awakened in this singular man. Here was a nature rare as it was powerful; distinguished by all the finest and noblest qualities vouchsafed to mankind. But we wished him to take his own way, utter his own thoughts, not disturbed by remark or turned aside by suggestion.
He rose for a moment, replenished the cups, and went on with his narrative.
"I have not asked you to join me to-night to read you a lesson," he continued. "In reviewing my past life, I find it full of incident and action. But it has none of those startling dramas and strange coincidences, none of those high achievements or fatal mistakes, which occasionally make biographies a solemn warning to some or a pillar of fire to others. I have brought you here simply for the pleasure of spending an evening with you. If I beguiled you at this late hour under any other impression I am guilty of false pretences. But late though it be it is still evening to me, to whom all hours are alike. For a whole week at a time I have slept an hour in the twenty-four in my arm-chair, and found this sufficient rest. We give too much time to sleep. Like everything else it is a habit. The day will come soon enough for the folding of the hands. At any time I can turn night into day, and feel no sense of fatigue or loss of power. Nature never takes her revenge by turning day into night. I cannot remember the time when the daylight hours caught me napping.
"So then, for the pleasure of your company, and that we may become better acquainted, I have persuaded you to join me; not that I have much to tell you that can be useful or instructive. And yet it is said that the record of every life is a lesson. But all this you do not require. I was presumptuous enough at mid-day to read you a homily of which black coffee was the text and strong waters were the application. It was done partly from the impulsiveness of my nature which has carried me into a thousand-and-one unpremeditated scenes andcircumstances; partly that my heart warmed towards you and I thought it a surer introduction to a better acquaintance than the usual topic of the weather. Throughout my life of more than sixty years, from the day I was able to observe and reflect I have been a student of human nature. You see even my rashness did not mislead me. I was not rebuked. On the contrary, your heart immediately responded to the singular and presuming old man."
He called himself old, but in reality, though six decades had rolled over his head, he was still in full force and vigour of life.
He paused a moment. The deep musical voice echoed through the room in subdued cadences. There was nothing harsh or loud in its tones. Delormais was too well-bred, too much a man of the world and student of human nature, as he had said, not to know the charm and value of modulation.
He paused, but we the patient listener: Saul sitting at the feet of Gamaliel: made no reply.
"Nevertheless, if I cannot instruct, I think I can interest you," continued Delormais, breaking the momentary silence. "My life has been singular and eventful. I will rapidly sketch some of its passages: a mere outline. To go through it circumstantially, in detail, would prolong the narrative to days and weeks. To write the life chapter by chapter, incident by incident, would fill many volumes.
"I have a good memory and it carries me back to the earliest scenes of childhood: scenes full of fairy visions and sweet remembrances. Orange-groves and lemon-groves, olive-yards and vineyards, orchards where grew all the luscious fruits of the earth, gardens filled with its choicest flowers, these are my first impressions. I breathed an air for ever perfumed.
"These realms were inhabited by beings fitted for paradise. My mother's lovely and gentle face haunted the groves; my father's voice filled the house with music and energy. He was a man born to command, but ruled by charm, not by power: expressed a wish rather than gave an order. Most lovable of husbands and most indulgent of fathers, we, who were to him as the breath of his nostrils, worshipped him. I was his constant companion. Day after day, when just old enough to run by his side, he would sail about with me in his white-wingedboat, on the blue waters of the Levant. On the terrace in front of the château my mother would sit and watch us, an open book before her to which only half her thoughts were given and nothing of her heart. That followed the little craft skimming to and fro in the sunshine.
"Or in a larger yacht, we would take longer voyages; but if my mother were not with us these absences were rare, three days their limit. I was the idol of the sailors, just as my father was their king, who could do no wrong.
"All my days and surroundings were coloured by this gentle, dark-eyed mother of exquisite loveliness and delicate refinement, whose only failing was too great a devotion to her husband and boy. I was an only surviving child, and for that reason doubly precious to my parents. A little daughter had first been born to them; a child, I have heard, the very counterpart of her mother—frail, delicate, and too good for earth; her soul too pure and her face too fair. At the age of three, when she was budding into loveliest rose-blossom, she went back to the angels.
"There never was any fear of that sort for me. From the first I was strong and sturdy, escaping even the ordinary ailments of childhood. So far I saved my parents all anxiety. Their only care was to check my high and venturesome spirit, which now would cause me to be fished up from the bottom of shallow waters; and now would bring me down to earth with a broken olive-bough that possibly had borne fruit for centuries and might have done so for ages yet to come. I never came to harm. A special providence watched over me—I record it with all reverence.
"As the bird flies my home was not so very far from here, though it was in France, not Spain. We lived in one of the loveliest spots of fair Provence, where indeed the earth brought forth abundantly all her fruits and flowers.
"My mother had offended her family by her marriage, yet in no sense of the word was my father her inferior. But she was of noble birth and he was not, though a patrician. He was a gentleman in all his thoughts and deeds, a great landed proprietor, a man of vast intellectual culture and refinement. Themésallianceher people chose to see in the matter existedonly in their worldly minds and wicked ambitions. For to marry my father she had refused the Duke of G., an empty-headedbon vivant, with nothing but his title and wealth to recommend him. For fifteen years my mother's life was happy as life on earth can be. The day came when her people acknowledged the wisdom of her choice, the hollowness of theirs. But one circumstance in her father I have always thought condoned all his obstinacy. He finally yielded to her wishes. Without this the marriage would have been impossible. When he saw that her very existence depended upon it, he at length dismissed the duke and gave his consent—reluctantly, with a bad grace it must be admitted, but it was done. The duke married elsewhere. Wild, unprincipled, unstable as water, he entangled himself in all sorts of intrigues, gambled, and finally fell into embarrassment. Not until then was my father really and truly received without reservation as a son of the family—a position to which he was in every possible way entitled.
"Those were charmed and charming days of childhood and youth. It has been said that when the early years are specially happy, the after-life is the opposite. I cannot say that this has been my experience, though, as you will see, the hand of sorrow has sometimes been heavy upon me.
"My father was wealthy. He spent much time in his library, where my mother might almost always be found, her seat near to him. By stretching forth his hand he could occasionally clasp hers, as though to assure her that his heart still beat for her alone. In all my father's intellectual pursuits she was thoroughly at home—no study was too deep or abstruse for her comprehension.
"Now and then she would accompany us in our yacht, and it was delightful to witness the reverence and devotion of the crew on those occasions—men who remained with us year after year, nor ever thought of change. I believe that every one of them would have laid down his life for her. She never liked the sea; the least rising of wind or ruffling of water alarmed her. When she accompanied us our excursions would be lengthened. We explored the islands of the Mediterranean, visited friends in some of the more distant towns on the seaboard.How well I remember a longer absence than usual, when we made acquaintance with all the Greek isles, and explored the fair city of the violet crown. Who that has approached those classic shores can forget the first sight of Ossa and Pelion—scene of the battle between the gods and Titans—though Homer reverses possibilities in placing Pelion upon Ossa! Who can forget his first impression of the rocky gorge and valley between Ossa and Olympus! All is now in a state of sad but picturesque ruin and poverty, but in days gone by industries flourished here—a happy and contented people. The spinning-jennies of England have a little to answer for in this.
"To my mother's classic mind, all ancient history appealed with a special charm. The shores of Greece, like our own, were washed by the blue waters of the Mediterranean. There too the hills, in all their exquisite form, stood out in a bright clear atmosphere. We journeyed leisurely from the frontier to the Piræus; visited the islands of the Peloponnesus, with all their ancient and romantic interest; rested ourselves at the Monastery of Daphne, and from the summit of the pass gazed upon that wonderful view of Athens. Together we ascended Mount Olympus and pictured ourselves amongst the gods of the ancient mythology. We admired its richly-wooded slopes, where the endless mulberry trees put forth their spreading foliage, and visited the Monastery of St. Dionysius, which lies in that wonderful Olympian amphitheatre—one of the grandest scenes in nature.
"All Athens opened its doors to us. They could not greet too warmly orfêtetoo highly my mother's beauty and grace, my father's rare gifts of heart and mind.
"But our happiest hours were spent alone. Together we studied the wonders of the capital, and grew familiar with the Byzantine churches. We passed days upon lovely Ægina where blow the purest of Heaven's pure winds. We stood almost in awe before the wonderful ruins of the Doric Temple of Zeus, Ægina's glory, whose columns have stood the test of 2,500 years. What can be lovelier than the view from the summit of that rugged hill crowned by its imperishable monument? I remember as though it were yesterday my first glimpse ofHelicon and Parnassus, as we sailed through the Gulf of Corinth; the walk through the olive-groves of the Sacred Plain, where, turn which way you will, the eye rests on historic ground. In the fair city we thought of Paul as he preached to the Athenians under the shadow of the Parthenon. We haunted the Acropolis with its barren rocks and fragments of past glories. From the charmed heights we gazed upon the sapphire sea ever flashing in brilliant sunshine. In the distance, faint and hazy and dreamlike, were ever the sleeping mountains, Ægina and Argolis protecting the magic ranges. Sometimes we penetrated too far inland, and more than once my father's adventurous spirit had nearly brought us within the grasp of the lawless, a condition of things that would have been the death of my mother, and for which he would never have forgiven himself.
"But all the pleasure of our wanderings never equalled the charm of our home-coming. There was our life and our delight. There we were truly happy. Looking back, I see that it was an ideal existence: a condition Heaven never permits to remain too long unbroken, or we might forget that this is not our abiding city.
"My father filled his leisure moments by cultivating vineyards, which in those days were very successful, and in the form of wine returned rich revenues. We lived in a rainbow atmosphere, and, if you know Provence—as doubtless you do—you will also know that this is no mere figure of speech. The airs of heaven were ever balmy. In those days one never heard of cold and snow and frost on the Riviera. We have since approached some degrees nearer to the North Pole. Little need for others to go off in search of it and bring it to us. At that time we lived in perpetual summer. The sapphire waters of the Mediterranean for ever flashed and flowed upon the white sands of the shores that belonged to us. It seems to me now that the skies were always blue and the sun ever shone. Olive-yards and vineyards, I have said, surrounded us. Orange and lemon-groves sent forth an exquisite perfume only known to those who live amongst them. An amphitheatre of hills rose about us; the lovely Maritime Alps with all their graceful undulations, all their rich foliage. Birds flashed in the sunshine.In the balmy nights of May the nightingales never ceased their song.
"I must have been an impressionable child, with all my strong, sturdy health, inheriting something of my mother's romantic nature. It is certain that the memory of those early days has never faded, but has been the background and colouring of all my after life. Even now in thought I often go back to them. There are times when I am a little undecided how to act. I ask myself how my father or mother would have acted under the circumstances, and in their clear, sensible tones seem to hear the reply.
"Up to the age of seven they were my sole instructors. Then fresh plans were formed. A precocious child, it was felt that I ought to enter upon more serious studies than they had leisure to direct.
"A tutor was found; the Abbé Rivière; a man of large mind and solid attainments; a profound thinker. To this he added the simple nature of a child. The marvel was that he condescended to become tutor and companion to a lad of seven. We soon found that his ambition was to have leisure for the writing of metaphysical works. His present appointment gave him his heart's desire. He had no parish or people to look after. With less singleness of purpose and more worldliness, he might have risen to any position in the church. No better companion for a boy could have been found, and he possessed the rare faculty of imparting knowledge. His mind could unbend, and he adapted his conversation to his hearers. No mere bookworm was he, dry, tedious and incomprehensible. My studies were a delight. I knew afterwards that one of the joys of his life was to watch day by day the unfolding of his pupil's mind. Thus he took the keenest interest in his work, and considered his days doubly blessed. I have heard him say that the offer of the triple crown could not have tempted him to change his life.
"He did not live in the château, but in a small house on the estate. It was supposed that here he would feel himself more his own master, free to order, to come and go as he would, whilst every comfort was secured to him. My father was the most generous of men, full of thoughtful consideration for allin any way dependent upon him. From the highest to the lowest, none were passed over. He soon discovered the Abbé's true character; the high purpose that actuated his life; and became devoted to him. My father's mind was quite equal to the Abbé's, though he had not spent his life in metaphysical studies. Still, he sympathised with his pursuits, and read his works in MS. Now he agreed with the writer and now differed. His clear, correct vision many a time won over the Abbé to his opinion.
"The Abbé became, so to say, our domestic chaplain. As often as he could be persuaded, he made a fourth at the dinner-table, and said grace in his quiet, refined tones. And he needed far less persuasion on these occasions than when the château was filled with guests. He was always an acquisition. A man of deep and varied thought, possessing the gift, not always given to great men, of putting his thoughts into words. An earnest, fluent talker, who could unstring his bow and throw a charm even over ordinary topics. This was far more apparent, far more exercised when we were alone and he was sure of the sympathy of his hearers, than when others were present. If he only spoke of the passing clouds, the ripening fruit, or the flashing sea, his rare mind would clothe his ideas in a form peculiarly his own, and especially attractive.
"I often think Providence helped my father in his selection. When indeed does Providencenotdirect the paths of its children? Without doubt I owe the Abbé a deep debt of gratitude. He did much to shape and consolidate my character. I was his pupil in all those important years when the seeds are being sown to bear fruit in the after life. From the age of seven to nineteen, I was seldom absent from him. Occasionally he would join in our yachting excursions. Then, unbending, throwing work to the winds, he became the most delightful of companions. In spite of his more than fifty years and his long white hair, he could be almost child-like in his ways. His was one of those simple and rare natures that never grow old.
"Rightly or wrongly, my parents elected to keep me at home. I was their all in life; they would have me under their own roof. And why not? My future was assured. I shouldbe wealthy. It was not necessary to go out into the world to learn to fight my way, as it is called. In the matter of education I certainly did not suffer. Experience of the world came soon enough.
"So our quiet and charming life went on. Looking back, I would not change one single circumstance of those early days. They are a treasure-house on which I still draw for strength and guidance.
"We were by no means isolated. My father was given to hospitality and delighted in receiving his friends. We mixed freely with the few families of our own rank in the neighbourhood. Nevertheless these were exceptional times. He was happiest—we all were—when the house was free from guests and we were all in all to each other. It was a paradise of four people; for the Abbé in time became as one of ourselves. If good influence were wanted, he gave it. He was a deeply religious man in the wide acceptance of the term; not thinking of saints and fasts and penances, but of the higher life which looks Above for strength and consolation. I much fear me he would have passed but a poor examination before the Consistory of Rome. I doubt if he would have escaped excommunication. Holy, upright man!" cried Delormais with emotion. "He was as much above ordinary human nature, with all its petty ways and narrowing limits, as the stars are above the earth."
Again he paused, and for a moment seemed plunged in profound sadness. He had evidently reached a painful crisis in his life. A deep sigh escaped him which seemed weighted with the burden of years. Then with an effort, still turning upon us that kindly, penetrating eye, he went on with his narrative.
"At the age of fifteen came my first great sorrow—the greatest sorrow of my life. I could not have conceived that our cloudless sky would so suddenly become overcast with the blackness of night.
"My mother died. A man loses his wife, and however much he loved her, he may get him another. But he can have but one mother in his life, one father.
"For long she had been gradually failing. Much as I loved her, my boyish eyes did not perceive the change that was coming. I did not see that this earthly angel was quietly passing away to heaven. She herself was conscious of it. There were times—how well I remembered it afterwards—when I would find her eyes fixed upon me with a yearning ineffable sadness. Her whole soul and spirit seemed to be speaking to me without words. She was about to leave me to the temptations and tender mercies of the world—how would it fare with me in the years to come? But she never spoke or gave me word or sign of warning.
"My father also saw the change coming, but would not admit it; could not believe or realise it. The loss would be his death-blow. For him there could be no second wife, no other companion. When the blow fell, it crushed him. He was never the same again. I never again heard him laugh, scarcely saw him smile. His body was still on earth, thought and spirit seemed to have followed his wife into the unseen world. His affection for me, the kindly remonstrances of the good Abbé, even these were not powerful enough to restore his desire for life. He went on quietly, patiently for four years, then followed the wife without whom it seemed he could not remain on earth.
"I told you just now their life was too happy to remain long without interruption. Fifteen years of perfect companionship had passed as a flash, the dream of a long day, and then vanished.
"I was now nineteen, but mentally and physically more like five-and-twenty. A restlessness seized me. My home was haunted by the spirits of my parents; by the remembrance of days whose perfect happiness made that remembrance for the moment intolerable. I had passionately, tenderly loved both father and mother. If I went into the groves, her face seemed ever gazing at me amidst the fruit and foliage. Her accustomed place in the terrace was filled with her presence. In every room in the house I heard my father's voice, felt the clasp of his hand.
"The good Abbé was my frequent companion, but the blow had told upon him also. He had aged wonderfully. Though he tried to be cheerful for my sake, it was clearly forced. Mylife grew impossible. I felt that I must change the scene if I would recover mental tone and vigour. For a time I must travel; see the world; wander from place to place, country to country, until rest and calm returned to my soul. Even the Abbé, sorry as he was to part from me, commended my resolution.
"I was my own master; wealthy; free to come and go as I would; everything favoured the idea. At home I would change nothing. The Abbé should remain in his little house, his days and leisure at his own disposal. The old servants were retained in the château. Only the living-rooms should be closed to the ghosts that haunted them. The able superintendent of all outdoor concerns, a domestic chargé-d'affaires, who had for years filled the position under my father, remained at the head of all things. The only change in his routine was that once a week he should have a morning with the Abbé. All matters were to pass under the scrutiny of that wise judgment. If any difficulty arose he was to be appealed to. It was the only service I asked at the hands of my old tutor in return for the home and stipend it was my privilege to afford him. He had long been white-haired, and was now venerable beyond his nearly seventy years. He gave me his solemn benediction at parting, and for the first time I saw him break down. He wept as he placed his hands upon my head. 'This third parting is too much for me,' he cried. 'I can no more.'
"So I turned my back upon my home, my face to the world. I was strong, energetic, full of life and spirit, though for the moment clouded and subdued. The Abbé had taken care that my mental powers should be thoroughly trained. For twelve years I had been his constant care. In many things he thought me his superior. Mathematics and classics, the sciences, these by his rare skill he had made my amusement. But my impulsive nature, quick sometimes to rashness, had not been conquered. He had only given me a certain amount of judgment and common-sense which must stand by me in moments of difficulty or danger. Altogether I was well-fitted to take care of myself, in spite of my love of adventure and quick temperament. You see that it clings to me still," added Delormais with a smile. "The old Adam dies hard within us. Whoelse would have treated you to a homily on black coffee and strong waters as I did this morning?
"I departed on my travels with no fixed purpose other than to see the world. To which point of the compass I turned, chance should decide."
Again Delormais paused as though absorbed in past recollections. For a moment his white, well-shaped hand shielded his eyes. Then returning to his former attitude, now gazing earnestly at us and now into space, he continued his narrative.
Rome—Count Albert—Happy months—Sweets of companionship—Egypt—Strange things—Quiet weeks—Sinai—Freedom of the desert—Crossing the Red Sea—Mount Serbal—Convent of St. Catherine—In the Valley of the Saint—Tomb of Sheikh Saleh—Pools of Solomon—Jerusalem the Golden—Bethel—Lebanon—Home again—Fresh scenes—Algeria—Hanging gardens of the Sahel—Mount Bubor and its glories—Rash act—At the twilight hour—Earthly paradise—Fair Eve—Fervent love—Arouya—Nature's revenge—Not to last—Eternal requiem of the sea—In the backwoods—Hunting wolves—Prairies of California—Honolulu—Active volcanoes—Lake of fire—Rare birds and wild flowers—Worship of Peleus—An eruption—Mighty upheaval—Coast of Labrador—Shooting bears.
Rome—Count Albert—Happy months—Sweets of companionship—Egypt—Strange things—Quiet weeks—Sinai—Freedom of the desert—Crossing the Red Sea—Mount Serbal—Convent of St. Catherine—In the Valley of the Saint—Tomb of Sheikh Saleh—Pools of Solomon—Jerusalem the Golden—Bethel—Lebanon—Home again—Fresh scenes—Algeria—Hanging gardens of the Sahel—Mount Bubor and its glories—Rash act—At the twilight hour—Earthly paradise—Fair Eve—Fervent love—Arouya—Nature's revenge—Not to last—Eternal requiem of the sea—In the backwoods—Hunting wolves—Prairies of California—Honolulu—Active volcanoes—Lake of fire—Rare birds and wild flowers—Worship of Peleus—An eruption—Mighty upheaval—Coast of Labrador—Shooting bears.
"THEfirst morning that I wakened up away from home I found myself in the Eternal City. I had always loved Rome. Here I thought I might lose myself in ancient history. In imagination I trod the palace of the Cæsars, and in the Coliseum beheld the martyred Christians. I pictured the gilded pageantries of the Tiber, the splendours of the pleasure-lost citizens. I saw the vast Campagna clothed with its armies, listened to the clash of arms and shouts of warriors ascending heavenwards. I walked the Appian Way with St. Paul and at the Three Taverns seemed to hear his voice in sorrowful farewell. At the shrine of Cecilia Metella I lingered in sympathetic communion; and from the Pincio Hill watched the sunsets of those matchless skies. Why are the skies of Rome more beautiful than any other? The Vatican opened its doors to me and the Pope gave me his most intimate and friendly benediction. I fear that I thought too lightly of the latter.
"What just then was more to my purpose, in Rome I found a great friend. He, Count Albert, was the nephew of the duke my mother had refused to marry. We had been intimate fromchildhood, but he was five years my senior. I need not say that he was a very different man from his uncle: high-minded, earnest, a cultivated citizen of the world. About to visit Egypt and Palestine, he begged me to join him. His happiness he declared would then be complete.
"Thus chance, or an over-ruling Providence, decided for me. I willingly acquiesced, and the many months we spent together remain as some of the happiest of my life. Though never ceasing to mourn my loss, I quickly threw off depression in the excitement of ever-changing scenes. Only in the still darkness of the night hours would the beloved faces and voices come to me with an ever-recurring sense of loneliness, and, man though I was, my pillow was frequently wet with tears. But our friendship for each other was sincere and has remained so. For the Duke of G.—he has now by the decrees of fate become the head of his family—is still living, though we have seldom met of late years.
"We travelled together, enjoying those sweet pleasures of companionship only given us in youth. With Egypt and Palestine we became intimate and familiar. Cairo delighted us. It was less modern in those days than in these. We were never tired of visiting the mosques with all their sacred and historic charm. We made the acquaintance of the sheikhs, saw them perform impossible magic, heard strange things revealed in a drop of ink. To me these mysteries have remained unsolved to this day. We spent hours and days amongst the tombs of the Caliphs, revelling in their wonderful refinement. We visited all the ancient cities of the Nile: Thebes with its hills and ruins, Memphis with its palm forests and Pyramids—those monuments the most ancient in the world. We contemplated the great Pyramids of Ghizeh by moonlight and felt steeped in mystery. In the same weird light I have stood before the Sphinx and asked the reason and origin of its existence, but only profound silence has answered me. At Dendera, that perfect temple begun by Cleopatra and finished by Tiberius, I gazed upon the features of the famous queen and compared them with those of Hermonthis. I found they resembled each other and confess that I wondered in what consisted the beauty of the woman who changed the fate of theworld—but beautiful she must have been. We chartered our dahabeah and travelled up to the Second Cataract. Never shall I forget the soothing repose of those quiet weeks, the delight of our uninterrupted companionship, the books we read together, the daily thoughts we exchanged, the ruined cities we explored. It was an experience that comes only once in a lifetime.
"We both felt strongly the connection between Sacred Geography and Sacred History: how the one would be better understood if the other were visited. So together we became acquainted with the Peninsula of Sinai, its mountains, plains, and sea. The charm and freedom of the desert I had often dreamed about, but how far greater was the reality! Here we revelled day after day in the wonderful isolation: sky and sand and nothing else. A mingling of gorgeous tones: a vast expanse of blue and yellow; a molten sun burning down upon all by day, at night the infinite repose of darkness and star-lit skies. How endless were those sandy wastes, broken only by the wild broom and acacia yielding its gum arabic, the wild palm and manna-giving tamarisk!
"We traversed the desert in which the Israelites wandered for forty years, and crossed the Red Sea over the very spot where Pharaoh and his host were drowned. We ascended Mount Serbal and the cluster of Jebel Mûsa, and therefore must have trod the very Sinai of Israel. We stayed for days at the wonderful convent of St. Catherine, a strange building to exist in the very centre of the desert, with its massive walls, gorgeous church and galleries, monkish cells and guest chambers, its wonderful gardens. We spent much time in the Library, examining its ancient and singularly interesting MSS. We conversed frequently with the monks, and wondered why they should be Greek and not Arabian; and whether, so far removed from the world, temptation and sin and sorrow still assailed them.
"In the Valley of the Saint we visited the tomb of Sheikh Saleh, the 'great unknown,' where the tribes of the Desert assemble once a year and hold their races and dances and offer up burnt sacrifices. We looked upon Hebron, that wonderful sepulchre of the Patriarchs, and passed through the Valley ofEschol, once so abundant in the fruits of the earth. We visited the three Pools of Solomon on our way to Bethlehem. Never can I forget the gorgeous splendour of the scene, the wonderful undulations of those vine-clad hills. In the vast depression lie the sleeping pools, square and regular, and sky and atmosphere seem full of flaming colours, and one realises the true meaning of the glories of the East. Beyond lies Rachel's tomb, and from the top of a neighbouring hill one looks down upon Jerusalem the Golden. We feel that we are treading the holiest ground on earth.
"We went up the Passage of Michmash to Bethel; that dreary and barren spot where Jacob made him a pillar of stones and dreamed his dream. You remember his words: 'Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not.... This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.' The spot is very desolate; no wonder Jacob feared as he gazed around.
"We visited Lebanon, and in its grove reposed under the few remaining cedars, listened to the cry of the cicale, and watched the birds of brilliant plumage flitting from branch to branch. Though in the midst of the desert there was no silence. A wonderful spot, with its rushing streams, its vineyards and corn-fields, the magnificent sea flashing in the sunshine. What a forest life it must have been before Sennacherib laid it low!
"So we became thoroughly acquainted with Sinai and Palestine. I can never understand those who leave this magic land with a sense of disappointment. It is true that we were young, full of life and vigour, ready to extract all the honey from our sweets; but to me no after experience ever equalled this first lengthened journey of my manhood. With what sorrow and regret I brought it to an end and parted from my friend, you will easily imagine.
"But it had to be. I had been long absent from home. The Abbé wrote to me regularly; all had gone well and quietly, but I began to feel anxious to gaze once more upon the beloved groves and familiar shores; to hear once more the voice of the good old man who I knew hungered and thirsted for my return.
"One morning when the sun was shining and everything looked bright and happy, I suddenly appeared before the Abbé.He was absorbed upon a MS., putting the finishing touches to a chapter of peculiar merit, when he looked up and saw the desire of his eyes. For a moment I thought he was about to lose consciousness. Then the blood rushed to his pale, refined face, and I found myself clasped in his arms.
"We spent a quiet happy month together. I took up my abode in his house, not in the château. Everything was pursuing the calm and even tenor of its way. Every one was happy, and the return of the master made that happiness complete. They all hoped I had come to remain; but I found that could not be. I was unable to settle down to a quiet domestic life. This home-coming had brought back all my loss, the happiness of days gone for ever. I felt I must seek fresh scenes, and soon departed again on my wanderings. This time they were not very distant.
"I crossed over to Algeria, and from the bright green slopes of the Sahel learned to love the white terraces and hanging gardens that contrasted so well with the matchless blue of the Mediterranean. That was not all that I learned to love.
"I mixed freely with the Arabs and the French of all classes. Fate took me to Djidjelly. I wished to ascend Mount Bubor, and from its summit gaze as it were upon all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. Here I committed the most rash, most impulsive act of my life. You will say it was impossible in one brought up as I had been. I have learned that nothing is impossible. Remember also my youth; that I was in a sense alone in the world; had never loved, never even thought of love. I will now tell you a secret hitherto locked within my own breast. In a word, I married. Djidjelly has been considered almost impregnable, but no fortress can keep out the arrows of Cupid.
"I had been in the town for about a week, exploring the rocks and heights, picturing that terrible expedition two centuries ago, when the Kabyles brought Beaufort and his men to utter defeat. One day I had walked some ten miles into the interior. I was revelling in the perfume of one of the lovely groves that abound, when suddenly I came upon a vision of grace and beauty that absolutely dazzled and astounded me. It was that witching hour of evening when the sun nears thehorizon and all nature seems sinking to repose. A perfect paradise of orange and almond trees, olives and pomegranates interspersed with the wild laurel, surrounded me. Never did paradise boast a fairer Eve. The declining sun threw deep shadows athwart the paths; branches and foliage traced fairy pictures of sunlight and shade.
"In this enchanting scene stood a young Kabyle woman, lovelier than anything I had ever seen before or have ever dreamed of since. She was about seventeen, but here, as you know, women develop early. Her form was perfect as her face. If she walked, her step was light and majestic. If she ran, it was with the grace of the gazelle. Everything about her was harmonious. Her abundant dark hair crowned a small and shapely head. Her eyes, large, dark and soft, flashed with sensibility and intelligence beneath pencilled eyebrows and long drooping eyelashes that almost swept her cheek. Her expression was one of singular purity and guilelessness. All the passionate temperament of the East seemed to have passed her by. Yet how purely, how fervently she could love. Over a silken robe she wore a haick or burnous of fine gossamer that fell about her in graceful folds. When her small coral lips parted they revealed the most exquisite of pearly teeth. Her voice was music. You will say that I am making her too perfect. This would indeed be impossible. I have never met any one to approach her either in grace of mind or beauty of feature.
"But Nature had been cruel. She had bestowed those matchless charms only to withdraw them too soon. I saw her and from that moment loved her: loved her for ever. There was no doubt or wavering in my mind. I approached her. She met me fearlessly, naturally, without thought of guile. To my delight she spoke perfect French, was evidently refined and educated. Her father was the proprietor of this little paradise. This meant that he was probably at ease in the world without being exactly rich. I quickly got to know him. Wooing in this part of the world is not a matter of months or years. Within a week of our first meeting, I was engaged to Arouya. Her father was only too willing to give her to one who was young, good-looking, above all had wealth at hiscommand. Almost immediately, without counting the cost or reflecting upon the mistake of a union with one of another race and religion, we were married. But all the reflection in the world would have made no difference. I was borne on by a mighty torrent against which there was no struggling.
"For six months I lived a charmed, enraptured, secluded life with Arouya, my wife. We were intensely happy in each other's love: bliss that is rarely given to mortals. It was not a mere life of the senses; her mind was wonderfully pure, bright and expansive. From the very first I laboured to convert her to Christianity, and with singular clearness she grasped and embraced all its profound yet simple truths: became deeply, devotedly religious. This only seemed to strengthen her affection for me.
"But it was not to last. Almost from the day of our marriage I felt the shadow of the sword. Our happiness was to be as fleeting as it was perfect. Arouya was already stricken with mortal illness. Consumption had set its seal upon her. Before we had been married three months she began to droop; at the end of six months she died. Died in my arms, blessing the hour in which we had first met. I laid her in her far-off grave, within sound of the sea, which chants her eternal requiem.
"I will draw a veil over my grief. For the third time in my young life I was heavily stricken. But I have learned to see the hand of mercy in the blow, and in time I lived it down. It was an episode in my life so romantic, so sacred, that I never spoke of it even to the good Abbé. You are the first to whom I have confided it. The secret is locked in my own breast—and in yours.
"I left Algeria and sought distraction from my grief by going farther abroad. I visited America, where I saw Nature on a gigantic scale. There I went through endless experiences and adventures. In the backwoods of the North I have spent whole nights watching for wolves, and heard their howlings on all sides. Often I have been sore beset. Many a tree have I climbed to save my life; from its branches shot many a tiger whose glaring eyes and deep growls told me one or other must conquer. But as in childhood, so in later years I seem to have carried about with me a charmed life. Many a timehas my thirst been assuaged by the monkeys, who in return for stones pelted me with cocoanuts. In the Indian jungle I have hunted lions, and once was surprised and sprung upon by a tiger that at that very moment was providentially shot by my servant. Otherwise I should not now be here to tell you the tale. It was a narrow escape.
"In the vast prairies of California I delighted. Here I saw vegetation as I had never conceived it. Even the cedars of Lebanon paled before these gigantic monarchs of the forest. Loveliest flowers of gorgeous hues, wonderful tree-ferns, abounded. There was no limit to their wealth. Once, whilst here, the desire seized me to visit Hawaii—the Sandwich Islands as they are called: those wonderful volcanic isles of the Pacific. Beside them, everything else of a like nature fades into insignificance. Vesuvius, Ætna, Hecla, these are child's play in comparison. The eight islands form a rich and productive chain.
"I embarked from San Francisco for Honolulu, and reached it after a run of sixteen days before the wind. Here I found much to repay me. The island is full of rocky spurs which form so great a contrast to the green plains of the interior with their clear flowing streams and endless forests. Vast craters are ever in a state of eruption: the largest volcanoes in the world: some extinct, others in a state of activity. One of these days I believe that a tremendous upheaval will take place and the islands will disappear. The mountain peaks of Hawaii, Mauna Kia and Mauna Loa, 14,000 feet high, with their eternal snows, would alone repay a visit. Perpendicular precipices 3000 feet high present a bold savage front to the sea, and looking at them you think that never before have you gazed upon rock scenery. The sandy shores have the loveliest, most perfect of coral reefs. The waters surrounding the islands are clear and brilliant with every rainbow colour. Here the world is a paradise; but its people, though harmless enough, are not angels.
"Kilanea on Mauna Loa is the largest of the active volcanoes. Its oval-shaped crater is nine miles in circumference and 6000 feet above the level of the sea. Within this a lake of fire is for ever burning and seething, moving and heaving to and fro in liquid waves of molten lava. Imagine the tremendous, the awful sight. I was there in 1856 when it was in a very activestate and continued so for some years. At night the spectacle was sublime beyond description. Herds of wild horses roam the islands. There is a curious bat that flies by day. Many of the trees are productive. The sugar-cane flourishes; the palm, banana, cocoanut andti. The natives bake and eat the roots of the latter and thatch their huts with its leaves. The snow-clad hills are the most distinctive feature, here and there rising in overpowering masses wreathed in fantastic vapours. Above these the clear blue sky rises in brilliant contrast and unbroken serenity. At sundown the white snow-tops flush a rosy red. Wonderful creepers interlace the trees of the forest, so that you walk under an endless magic roof of green, through which the sun at mid-day penetrates only in delicate gleams and patches. Gorgeous wild-flowers grow everywhere through the pathless woods. Birds of rare plumage flash from bough to bough, chattering and calling, but soulless in point of song. Everywhere one meets the pungent odour of wild fruit. Here too I found orange and lemon-groves that almost rivalled those of my Mediterranean home. You have heard of those wonderful trees with their wealth of blossoms that live one day, changing colour three times in the daylight hours: white in the morning, yellow at noon, red at sundown—blushing their life away.
"The heat of the days was intense, but at sunset a cool breeze would spring up, laden with the perfume of orange and lemon-groves. I mixed freely with the natives, a curious, superstitious race.
"It was here that I first experienced the sensation of earthquakes. They are common enough in these volcanic islands, and unless violent, excite little attention. I had been travelling for two days. Suddenly I felt the ground as it were slipping under my feet. The trees about us swayed, the leaves rustled as though moved by a strong wind. In the air was a brooding stillness. We were not far from a tremendous volcano. An eruption was evidently about to take place. I had two or three native servants with me, and an acquaintance who was half a Frenchman and had settled in the island. The former were frightened and superstitious, given up to the worship of Peleus, goddess of the volcano.
"With difficulty we made our way to the mouth of the craterthrough the pathless forests surrounding it. Never can I forget the beauty of the immense tree-ferns that abounded. It was no doubt a rash proceeding, but at last we stood at the edge of the crater. We looked upon a vast lake of liquid fire. The sight was terrific, and made me think of Dante's most graphic passages.
"All this soon changed. Presently the surface of the lake of fire had turned black, sure sign of an approaching eruption. Not a breath of air stirred. All nature was steeped in a profound hush. The very birds ceased to fly and flutter. Our horses trembled and manifested every symptom of fear. There was no time to be lost if we wished to save our lives. After a sharp ride we gained the slopes of a snow mountain. Here we waited for what soon came; shock after shock of earthquake. Rocks and stones detached themselves around us and rolled into the valley. Trees were uprooted. Then came a mighty, rushing, hissing sound, as a sea of molten lava rolled down in many directions and spread over the plain. Never shall I forget the grandeur, the awful majesty of the sight. We knew not how far it would reach or to what extent our lives were in danger. Dense volumes of smoke rose in the air, obscuring the sky. Torrents of ashes fell far and wide. I thought of the fate of Herculaneum and Pompeii, scenes I had visited with my parents only a few years before. Was such a fate to be ours? We were almost choked with the smell of sulphur. Vegetation was scorched and burnt up under the terrible influence. It was a monster devouring all that came within its path. The poor monkeys in the cocoa-nut trees no longer thought of pelting us with fruit. They crouched and hid themselves in the branches, and understood the peril of their lives. I will not weary you with further description. Suffice it that we escaped, and when I again found myself in Honolulu, it was to bid the islands a long farewell.
"For a time there was no end to my wanderings. From Honolulu I went off in an American whaler to the coast of Labrador and shot bears as they drifted southward on icebergs coming from that mysterious and hitherto inaccessible North Pole. Once I spent a week with that curious little people, the Esquimaux, who inhabit the creeks of Labrador and live chieflyon the excellent fish abounding in those waters: waters so wonderfully tempered by the Florida stream. In my travels I have experienced the extremes of refinement on the one hand, of hardship on the other. But the latter has been my own choice, and this makes all things bearable. I once had a friend who went out to break stones on the road; work we give to our convicts; but he did it for pleasure and thought it delightful."
Once more Delormais paused as though in deep reflection. The silence in the room was only broken by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Outside not a sound disturbed the sleeping world. Not a breath stirred in all the corridors of the old palace that had seen better days. We waited until the spirit should move him again.