I had not forgotten the hunting of the lotus, but it was now more
clearly defined as a search for the _jujubier_, which is identified
with the ancient plant. Persistent inquiry revealed the probability
of a lonely specimen some five miles off in the country. We set off
by a new route to the southeast, and away from the more travelled
roads. The track was rough, and the horses toiled through heavy
sands. The farm we were seeking was not on the road, and we left
the carriage standing and tramped for about a mile or more across
ploughed fields, little ditches, and stretches of white sand
more than ankle-deep, till, asking our way of the rare people in
the fields, we finally found the house we sought. It was a simple
building of one story, with white walls about it, and the little dome
at one end; a rustic garden of humble cottage flowers was before
it, bright with spring blossoms, and here my guide introduced me
to the proprietor, a thin old man with a boyish figure, keen blue
eyes, and great alacrity in his motions. He led me in through
the courtyard, which was of considerable size, to the house,
which consisted of one very large room, with smaller apartments
at the further end under the dome. The room was a surprise to me;
it was a marine room, all the walls being loosely covered with
sailor objects. The old man had followed the sea all his life,
and served many years in the French navy; now, with his pension,
he had found his snug harbor in this remote peaceful island as
a colonist. It was an ideal place for a sailor’s retirement,
with its flowers at the door, its profound country peace, and its
relics of the sea. It had a Crusoe look, and so did the old man;
and I gathered heart, thinking that here at least was a mariner,
like the companions of Ulysses, who had found the port and elected
to remain in the land. There were bones of fishes on the walls,
implements from the South Sea islands, colored prints tacked all
about, the curious things that sailors make, African oddities,
a gun hung over the mantel, barbaric spears in corners; and the
little collection was displayed and arranged with that neatness
and order, almost pattern-like, which is a sailor instinct.
Yes, there was a _jujubier_ in the neighborhood. The old man, who
had an alert, breezy way about him and was full of vigor, seemed to
wonder that I had come to see it, but said nothing; he was for the
time more intent on rites of hospitality, and I went about examining
the curiosities. His wife and a little girl came in with a great
pitcher and tall glasses and set them down before us, and the old
man poured out generous draughts of bright-brown cider. I smiled to
think into what a vintage my dreamed-of juice of the “enchanted
stem” had resolved itself—a glass of russet cider! But I took
the blow of fortune, as I have taken others, and tried to find
its soft side, which is a good rule. It was excellent cider, and I
took a second tall tumbler. On inquiry I found it was not even of
the fruit of Djerba, but brewed from a preparation made at Paris,
somewhat as root beer is with us. Meanwhile we had tales of the
sea and old adventures on “the climbing wave,” pleasant talk,
till I brought the conversation round to the _jujubier_. It bore a
hard, brown fruit, I learned, sweetish, and a drink was made of it,
like lemonade; and, yes, it had a sleepy effect. My hopes sprang
up anew. No, it was not bottled. So, talking incidentally of many
things, my host showed me the rest of the house, the little bedroom
with his photograph of other days, and with a last health we went
out into the garden, where the little girl was waiting with a bunch
of the spring flowers, and we walked off to see the _jujubier_.
It was at the end wall of a small, shut-up Arab house near by,
against which it was trained. It was shoulder-high, and grew in
stout, hardy stocks. The blithe old man told me it must be more than
two hundred years old. I said it was very small for its age; but he
added that its growth was very slow, almost imperceptible. It was
just showing signs of leaving out; a naked, rough, shrub-like tree,
with neither leaf, nor flower, nor fruit; but it was alive, and I
still have hopes that in the case of a tree so long-lived I shall
some time find it in its season, and eat of it, and perhaps drink its
sleepy soul. I went back to the garden and said good-by to my kind
and gentle host, and I was really almost as glad to have had this
tranquil hospitality and Crusoe memory as if I had met with better
luck in my search. I walked back over the rough fields content;
and as we drove slowly through the sand in the wide prospect of
scattered palm and olive, with the little white domes, quiet in
the universal sun, I thought the lotus land was very good as it was.
V
The marvellous boy was waiting at the pier; the sail was set; the
steamer, a distant film of gray smoke on the horizon, was sighted;
and we cast off. It was a pleasant sail but without the romance
of the landing. The boy, almost in my arms, sat steering the boat,
and conversed with me with glances of his brown eyes; the sad-faced
father amidships gazed vacantly over the sea. We laid a straight
course, and it was too soon finished. The embarkation was easy. The
old man gave me his benediction with humble eagerness and dignity,
and the boy followed me aboard with my things. In the saloon he
put his little hand in mine, then to his lips with head bowed, and
touched his heart, looked up, smiled, and ran off. I went on deck
in time to catch the last wave of his brown hand, and, leaning on
the rail, watched them sailing homeward to the palm-set strip of
pale orange sky on the long horizon rim.