My brother had arrived at the Delightful Island. His first letter dated
from there was a very long one, it was written on thin paper that had
been stained a light yellow by the sea, for it had been upon its way
four months.
It was a great event in our family, and I still recall that as my father
and mother broke its seal, I sprang joyously up the stairs, two steps
at a time, in my haste to reach the second floor and call my grandmother
and aunts from their rooms.
Inside the plump-feeling envelope, which was covered over with South
American stamps, there was a note for me, and enclosed in this I found
a pressed flower, a sort of five-petalled star which, though somewhat
faded, was still pink. The flower, my brother wrote, was from a shrub
that had taken root and blossomed beside his window, almost within his
Tahitian hut, which was actually invaded by the luxuriant vegetation
of the region. Oh! with what deep emotion;--with what avidity, if I may
express it thus, did I gaze at and touch the periwinkle which was
almost a fresh and living part of that unknown and distant land, of that
voluptuous nature.
Then I pressed it again with so much care that I possess it intact to
this day.
And after many years, when I made a pilgrimage to the humble dwelling in
which my brother lived during his stay in Tahiti, I saw that the shady
garden surrounding it was rosy with these periwinkles; they had even
pushed their way over the threshold of the door to blossom within the
deserted cabin.