DELORMAIS.
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--AEgina--Groves of the Sacred
Plain--Narrow escapes--Pleasures of home-coming--Rainbow
atmosphere--Orange and lemon groves--The
nightingales--Impressionable childhood--Fresh plans--The Abbe
Riviere--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.
Delormais roused 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
to metaphysics; 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 and circumstances; 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-winged boat, on the blue waters
of the Levant. On the terrace in front of the chateau 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. The _mesalliance_ her people chose to see in the matter
existed only in their worldly minds and wicked ambitions. For to marry
my father she had refused the Duke of G., an empty-headed _bon 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 Piraeus; 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 or
_fete_ too 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 AEgina where blow the purest of Heaven's pure
winds. We stood almost in awe before the wonderful ruins of the Doric
Temple of Zeus, AEgina'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 of Helicon 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, AEgina 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 Abbe Riviere; 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 chateau, 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 all in any way dependent upon him. From the highest
to the lowest, none were passed over. He soon discovered the Abbe's true
character; the high purpose that actuated his life; and became devoted
to him. My father's mind was quite equal to the Abbe'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
Abbe to his opinion.
"The Abbe 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 chateau 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 Providence _not_ direct the paths of its children? Without doubt I
owe the Abbe 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 should be 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 Abbe 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 Abbe, 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 Abbe 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. My life 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 Abbe,
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 Abbe
should remain in his little house, his days and leisure at his own
disposal. The old servants were retained in the chateau. Only the
living-rooms should be closed to the ghosts that haunted them. The able
superintendent of all outdoor concerns, a domestic charge-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 Abbe. 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 Abbe 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. Who else 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.