Aleriel

Front matter

ALERIEL;

OR,

A VOYAGE TO OTHER WORLDS.

Part I, Chapter I

A VOYAGE TO OTHER WORLDS.

PART I.— CHAPTER I.

THE HUNCHBACK OF MONT ST. GABRIEL.

IT was a lovely morning in the June of 1870, when I left the little town of B2, in Brittany, for a walk to the neighbouring hill of Mont St. Gabriel, where there was a celebrated old chapel, commonly counted as one of the sights of the neighbourhood. I had just left Oxford for the vacation, and was refreshing myself, after a term's hard work, by a walking tour in France. My companion, Galton, had sprained his foot, and was staying at the hotel resting himself for the day, but I was unwilling to miss this opportunity of seeing Mont St. Gabriel; so I started on the morning's walk of some four kilometres alone.

It was a quiet and somewhat desolate route, and many thoughts about the past and future and eternity came unbidden before my mind. But I need not trouble my readers with them, for they have little directly to do with my story; they were, however, afterwards indelibly fixed on my memory.

I at length reached the little promontory running into the sea, on which Mont St. Gabriel stands. I climbed over some rocks which bounded the path and made my way up to the picturesque and antique chapel, now ruined. The view was splendid. The blue sea adorned here and there by little ridges of silver foam, the wild rocky coast, the crying of the sea-gulls, and the low roar of the ocean, all tended to awe me, and then to quiet my mind into a calm reverie.

"How beautiful is this world!" I thought. "I wonder if there is anything that can exceed in loveliness such scenes as these, or the glorious Alps, or the splendid rough Cornish coast in a storm, or the lake districts of the north. This world is very beautiful."

I am afraid I must have been giving way to the bad habit I sometimes have when quite alone of talking to myself, for suddenly I was aroused by a slight rustling behind me. I turned, and a very singular-looking person met my gaze. He was a very short fair young man, greatly deformed about the shoulders. He was dressed in a common ouvrier's costume, with a large Breton hat and a cloak thrown over his blouse. His face, however, in spite of his coarse costume and manifest deformity, was of exquisite refinement and even beauty. His complexion was fair as a girl's, but pale even to bloodlessness. His eyes, though somewhat obscured by the hat, were most strange and brilliant. His features small and delicate. He had neither moustache nor beard, and scarcely looked above twenty. He was gazing at the sea, and though near me appeared not to notice my presence.

For several minutes I remained silently looking at the waters, with, I must own, an occasional glance at my companion. "Poor fellow," I said to myself; "what a singular malformation about the shoulders. I never saw anything like it before. And, then, how deadly pale he is, and so refined, in spite of that peasant's dress. Perhaps he is some gentleman in distress; some unfortunate student who has failed in life's battle." And then a dreadful thought seized me. "I hope he is not meditating suicide, or he is not mad. In either case I am in an awkward position in this lonely spot, in a strange country, with a madman or one in utter despair."

But when I looked again at that strange meditating face the thought was dispelled. He was thoughtful, but not at all sad; nor was there either the excited or the sullen look of mania about those intellectual eyes. But still he looked on, silently watching the sea.

I was immensely puzzled, and was getting quite uncomfortable, for Galton had been entertaining me the evening before with a whole series of horrid Breton legends about the "White Lady," and the ghosts and the signs of death; and really here was a personage who, if he had been met at night, might have been easily taken for a revenant. But it was not night, and the sun was shining brightly, and the shadow of this stranger's curious figure was clearly defined on the chapel wall.

At last I thought it was useless and uncourteous to thus pretend not to heed him, and that it would be better to speak. So I broke the silence with a polite bow and a "Bonjour, monsieur."

"Good morning, sir; you are English, are you not?" he said, in a very sweet and clear contralto voice, and a singular but pleasing foreign accent.

"Yes," I said, "and am very glad you can talk with me in my native language. May I ask also if you are French, or a stranger to this country?"

"Un étranger, monsieur," he said in French, and then relapsed into silence.

So it was evident that he knew both French and English, and was neither French nor English. What countryman was he? The voice, the accent, and the manner were as strange as the appearance of my new acquaintance, and gave me no clue.

My question seemed to have silenced him, and, for several minutes again, he appeared to have no wish to renew our conversation. At length I broke the silence.

"You speak English well for a foreigner. Have you ever been in our country?"

"Never, sir, but I much wish to visit it. I have been told it is a land of liberty and progress, that there is much that is noble and good in your country. There is a great deal that is sad to see in other parts of Europe—misery, oppression, and sorrow. I should like to see a happier land in this world. Perhaps England is such—perhaps it is," he added, after a pause. "They say your country is rich. I hope that the many have the benefit of that wealth, and not the few"

"I am afraid we cannot say that. There are great disparities in England as in other lands. How do you like France? I may ask you; for you say you are not a Frenchman."

"A gay, pleasure-loving nation, wanting in gravity, in stability, in religious sentiment. France lives too much for the present and not enough for the future—not enough in the past. It is selfish and proud, and pride oftentimes precedes a fall. The Latin races seem growing effete. They have had their day. The Teutonic races may have the present and the immediate future. However, I cannot tell. The state of Germany is sad, though not as sad as France."

The intelligence of his remarks touched me. I looked down at his worn and almost ragged trousers. It seemed to me sad that one so intelligent and educated should be a mere peasant and in want. After some momentary misgivings, as I rose to return to B2, I resolved to do something to aid him. I put my hand in my pocket, and, blushing, offered him a five-franc piece. "My dear sir, perhaps you want this more than I—pardon me in offering it." He took it, smiled, and simply said: "Thank you, sir; if I can return your kindness I will. We may meet again."

"Adieu," I said, "I hope we may meet again."

I bowed, and left him still standing gazing on the sea.

Part I, Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

BESIEGED IN PARIS.

I WENT up to Paris by the next morning's train, Galton, whose foot was much better, accompanying me. His walking tour was necessarily terminated by his accident, and so, as I did not wish to lionise Brittany alone, we resolved to stay a little while in Paris together. The gay city looked gay as ever—bright, cheerful, and frivolous. How few in those two millions dreamt of the catastrophe hanging over them, an unseen Damocles' sword suspended by a hair in the midst of all that gaiety and splendour. I am sure I as little foresaw the peril to Paris as any one, nor, still worse, the catastrophe hanging over myself.

One morning, just as the papers were getting excited about the Spanish succession question, I thought it would be a pleasant change to have a trip to Versailles. Galton had gone off to Brussels that morning, so I was left alone. I little dreamt of what that little trip would cost me. We had just got to near Sevres station, when, in a moment, I heard a tremendous crash, the panels and roof of my carriage fell in masses about me, and amidst the screams of the passengers, the wounded and the frightened, I felt a sudden blow and then an intense agony in my leg, and then 2

I will not dwell on that painful time at the Hôpital de S. Clotilde. I was put in the accident ward, and must say that I shall ever feel grateful to the careful and kind nurses and doctors who attended me. My injuries were tedious and painful rather than dangerous; my leg was fractured, and the shock of the accident had shaken my nervous system.

While in the hospital I heard the patients one day talking of a remarkably able young doctor, whose wonderful cures were attracting great attention in medical circles. I listened with avidity to these stories, and resolved directly I was able to consult him.

In a few days I was well enough to be removed to my hotel in the Rue Pelletière. Here, directly I was ensconced in my own chamber, I wrote a note to Dr. Posela (the young doctor of whom I had heard so much in the hospital) asking him to come and see me.

In about a couple of hours after my note was sent, the garçon announced Dr. Posela. He entered, and, to my astonishment, I beheld again my deformed little friend of Mont St. Gabriel. He was now somewhat better dressed, but, though the day was warm, was wrapped up in a cloak. There was the same soft, strange expression on his face—a peaceful repose—and yet a je ne sais quoi of mystery and solemnity about him. He was surprised as well as I was.

"I am glad to meet you," he said, "and yet sorry to see you thus. You suffer, I fear. Oh! frail humanity. What man has to go through in his earth-life I I wish I could make you well at once, but what you say in the report of your case you have enclosed in your letter shows me it is just a case where I can do least. A broken limb! Only nature can cure that. But I can relieve your pain."

He then questioned me on my symptoms, and, on leaving me, gave me a potion which marvellously relieved my nervous depression.

Day by day news became more anxious in the political world. The war had broken out. The march à Berlin had commenced, and the shouting had even reached us when I was in the hospital. Now the papers formed an occupation for my thoughts even in my sick-bed. Posela's treatment gave me wonderful relief; but the broken bone needed rest for cure, and I had to stay in my room a prisoner while the busy and memorable scenes of the war—Gravelotte, Mezières, Sedan—were exciting the minds of every one around me.

I saw nothing of Posela after that visit. I learnt that next day he had started with an ambulance in connexion with the army of Marshal MacMahon.

I was really beginning to get very anxious. I at length quite recovered from my illness and was able to get about; but the line of "blood and iron" bound me, like every one else, within the besieged city. There was no lack of excitement indeed. The news of every day was thrilling, and one often saw terrible scenes of war. It was like being a spectator of a vast tragedy, and the Parisians viewed it as such. Their strong dramatic sentiment was excited and almost amused, at first, by the spectacle of war at their very gates. I could not resist the contagion; but still I had a good deal to be anxious about, as they had. My autumn term was hopelessly lost at Oxford, of course, and possibly my Lent term would be also, for it looked as if this siege would go on for a long time; indeed, the Parisians declared they would hold out to the last. If so, my prospects of getting away were bad indeed, and I was in danger of this wretched Franco-Prussian War doing a permanent injury to my career.

I remember one evening walking along the Tuileries gardens watching the flashes of the Prussian artillery, and seeing the French troops marching up to the ramparts, with their drums beating before them. The cannon were roaring as a thunderstorm, and yet the Parisian crowd was looking on calmly, as if merely witnessing a tragedy, instead of themselves being in a beleaguered city. Suddenly I noticed Dr. Posela passing close by me.

"Where are you going?" I said.

"To the ramparts. I must do my best for the wounded. Oh, it is a terrible war! How can men ever carry on and systematise this horrid mode of settling national differences? Hark! how the cannon are roaring! Many a soul is being launched into eternity. How terrible! How unfit are some to go!"

"You take it more to heart than most around you. But you are in danger in the front."

"Do not trouble yourself about me; think of yourself and of the poor soldiers; I am in no danger," and he smiled.

"Yes; but you are in the front. The cannon kill doctors as well as combatants. It is really a dreadful system of war—this long range. It is almost worse than the hand-to-hand strife of the days of chivalry. Every one suffers. I heard only yesterday of a shell bursting in a bedroom of a school where nine little boys were sleeping, and killing three. I only wish I could get out of the city, for I have nothing to do with this quarrel."

"Perhaps not. However, let us have a talk again to-morrow. Au revoir!"

I went home to my hotel, and as I woke in the night and heard the distant roar of the cannon, and saw the flashes through my window-blind, I thought once or twice of brave, kind Posela, and his errand of mercy in the ramparts.

Part I, Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

THE ESCAPE.

NEXT morning, just after my late déjeuner (of a rather limited and not luxurious character, for food was getting terribly dear in Paris, and the horses were beginning to be doomed to the slaughter-house), I was starting for a lounge in the Rue Rivoli to hear the news, for which every one was almost as eager as for dinner, when I met my eccentric friend.

"How have you fared last night? Will you come in and take some refreshment?"

"I cannot take anything; but I should like to speak with you."

We went upstairs to my bedroom. Posela sat down and looked at me fixedly, in a way that somehow made me very nervous, for he had a wonderful fascination about the eye. I never felt any one's eye like his.

"Do you really wish very much to get out of this terrible place; to go home to your peaceful country from these horrid scenes of war?"

"Indeed, I do; I would pay almost any price, short of doing a wrong action, to get out of it. What is it to me? I am not a Frenchman; this is not my country. I have no interest in this quarrel, and, if I had, I hate war; I always have hated it, and now more than ever. It may develope manly qualities, but still it is an evil thing at the best."

"You really wish to get out of Paris?" he asked.

"Why ask? Is it not clear that I must wish to get home? My whole future may depend on it. If I lose another term my chances of honours are gone. Do, in God's name" (for I was getting excited), "tell me how I can get out."

"I cannot do that; but I can get you out."

"How?"

"I must not say how. But by to-morrow morning, if you wish it, you may be on your way to England. Only, you must promise me never to ask how I have freed you."

"I promise you. I give you my word—I will give you my word of honour as a Christian, and as an English gentleman—I will never ask you, if only you engage that it is by no wrong or dishonourable act that I am passed out."

"I can assure you of that. There is no harm in my mode of liberating you and myself. For I must go with you to England; that is, if you like my company."

"My friend, my liberator, how shall I ever be able to show you how grateful I am? Perhaps, if you come with me to England, I may strive to show you a tithe of my gratitude. But how can we get out?"

"Hush! you have promised."

"Pardon me; it was so natural an exclamation. When will you come to take me away?"

"At eight. Be ready; but I can only take you, not your property; that must be left. Adieu!"

I can scarcely say how delighted I was at the prospect of deliverance. The condition seemed curious; but I was too glad at the hope of escape to trouble myself about it.

I packed up my things and locked my portmanteau, and asked my host to take great care of it when I paid my bill, and to let me have it when the siege was over.

"But, monsieur, you cannot possibly pass the Prussian lines. They will not let any one through, I assure you, not even an Englishman. You will be shot, monsieur."

"I cannot tell you how I can get out; but a friend says he will manage it, and, as he is a very clever fellow, I am too glad to believe him."

"Perhaps it may be by a balloon; but there will not be any balloon going for three days."

"Well, I must be off. So please take care of my portmanteau, and I trust you will be spared in this terrible siege."

"Ah, monsieur, c'est vraiment terrible," said mine host.

I went off, bidding good-bye, with a light purse,—hardly enough left for my journey to England.

I hurried on to 17, Rue Soubise, in Montmartre, where I knew Posela lived. In answer to the concierge, I was directed to the fourth étage, where I knocked at a humble-looking door just as the clocks were striking eight.

Entrez, said Posela's soft, sweet voice.

I opened the door and entered. It was a quiet, unpretending little room, but with a fine view over the city, most of the lights of which were clearly visible from the window. There was hardly any furniture, and what there was seemed poor. It looked a mere ouvrier's room. In front of the open window was a sofa.

"Are you sure you wish to leave Paris?"

"I am quite sure, believe me. My money is nearly gone, and my patience also. My life may soon be in danger. I assure you I shall be deeply indebted to you if you set me free."

"Then, sleep!" As he said that, he made a sort of mesmeric pass over me with his hand. I felt my senses dulled, an oppressive drowsiness overcame me, I sank upon the sofa, and was soon buried in a heavy sleep.

How long I slept I know not; I think it must have been three or four hours. When I awoke I at once saw that I was in a totally strange place. It was a large field near a chaussée, with a wood close by. Not a human being was to be seen. Everything was still and calm, and the air was fresh and chilly. It was the repose of the country. I got up and stared about me, but the light was insufficient to make anything visible, except the indistinct outline of the trees and the greyish-white stones of the chaussée. I turned. In the distance behind me was the haze as of the lights of a distant city. I paused and listened. Yes! far, far away was the dull roar of distant artillery. I was out of Paris.

The thought of my sudden release quite overcame me. I fell on my knees and thanked God for my deliverance, which was so sudden and inexplicable as to seem almost supernatural. How could I ever have passed that line of "blood and iron"? What means could have been used. At any rate, Posela had kept his word. I was out of Paris and beyond the Prussian lines at last, and nothing remained between me and England but a train and steamer journey of a few hours.

As I was walking along the chaussée, still uncertain where I was, or where I ought to turn my footsteps, I suddenly noticed a man seated on one of the white stones that marked the border of the road. He was crouched down; but, even in the darkness, I thought I recognised Posela.

"Is it you, Posela?" I said.

"Yes."

"Well, I am greatly obliged to you for your successful fulfilment of your promise. But where are we? We are out of Paris, that is clear; but where are we?"

"At Pontoise. Do you not see the lights of the city? Hark! there is the boom of the cannon!"

"At Pontoise? Let me see; that is a station on the line to Amiens. Let us get to the railway, and proceed to England by the first train."

Posela assented, and we walked down the hill. In a quarter of an hour we were entering the town and passing down its silent streets, quite deserted, save by the Prussian sentries, whose helmets glistened in the gaslight. I now beheld them for the first time. It was evident we were out of the lines of Paris.

We found the railway-station lighted up, and half full of people waiting for the early train. A Prussian sentry was walking up and down, and a corporal's guard were lounging in the salle d' attente. At length the train came up, and I can hardly describe my feelings when at last I was on my way to England.

My strange travelling companion was rather sad. He spoke again and again of the miseries he had seen, caused by this terrible war; of the folly of nations in not abolishing such a mode of settling disputes; of its waste and sinfulness. I listened to him, and accepted his arguments, which were eloquently put. Then he changed the subject, and asked me a host of questions, many of which. I could not answer, about England; about its history, government, population, natural products, climate, &c. As we talked, he took out a note-book, and seemed to be taking down what I said. I was rude enough, I fear, once to look over his shoulder; but, though a fair proficient at shorthand, and a student not only of the phonographic but other systems, I could not detect what it was he was writing.

At length we came to Dieppe, which I found in possession of the Prussians. In a few hours I once more trod on British soil.

"How delighted I am," I said, "and how grateful to you for bringing me home to dear old England!"

"One loves one's country. I suppose I should love mine, even if it were less lovable."

"But what is your country?"

He was silent, and seemed not to hear my query.

Part I, Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.

LONDON.

IN a couple of hours we were at London Bridge. It was already morning—a cold wintry morn, but not so foggy as usual. We had no luggage to carry, and my purse was nearly empty; and, really, Posela seemed to have nothing, for I had paid his fare and my own, and he seemed utterly to ignore the fact, a point of eccentricity which at another time I should not have quite liked; but which, under the circumstances of my deep debt of gratitude, I could not complain about, so I suggested we should walk to my home in Kensington. As we crossed the bridge he seemed much struck at what he saw; at the crowds and the shipping. He leant over the parapet looking at the Thames.

"This, then, is the greatest city upon earth?"

"Not merely the largest that is, but that ever has been. Not even Imperial Rome was ever as great as London is. It has nearly four millions of population."

"That is truly great. Four millions! That is more than Sweden, or than Denmark, or than Greece!"

"Much more," I replied.

"Do you think it is for the happiness of such a number of people to be living altogether in one city? Have they enough light and air? Is it always smoky here like this?"

We talked on thus as we walked through the City. He showed keen interest in everything, and often varied his questions by sage and thoughtful remarks. His character throughout was very strange; he seemed full of sympathy for human sorrow, and yet he was not dazzled by anything. He seemed curious, and yet when he saw a thing was disappointed, and spoke in a tone of sadness and pity of everything, showing how it might have been better, and ought to have been better than it was. It was, in a sense, disappointing to show our great metropolis to so severe, though, at the same time, so kindly, a critic. He evidently sincerely pitied us, pitied London, pitied England, pitied everything and everybody, and yet, strange to say, he was not conceited, not self-opinionated, not misan . He appeared, however, to look on everything from an exalted standpoint, saw every imperfection, and yet did not rejoice at seeing it. I tried with patriotic zeal to set everything in the best light before my kindly, though mysterious, benefactor, but it was useless. He evidently thought us in England a very unfortunate race of beings, and London a very large, but by no means a grand, city. I remembered his remarks at our first interview, and was sorry to find his expectations of England were disappointed.

We thus came to my home. My father was, I need not say, delighted to see me. I had written from Pontoise, and posted my letter just before leaving; but I had come faster than the post. The family had only heard of me by balloon post some weeks before, and now I was come, most unexpectedly.

"How did you ever get out, my boy? I understood the Prussians would not let any one pass their lines. I suppose you were favoured as an Englishman?"

"By no means. How I got out must remain a secret; in fact, I do not understand it myself. However, all I can say is, that I owe my safety entirely to Dr. Posela, whom I must now present you as my best friend and deliverer."

"Well, sir, I am happy to make your acquaintance, and am too glad to see my son in safety to be too curious to know how you evaded Prussian vigilance. Are you a stranger to England?"

"I was never here," said Posela, "till this morning; and yet I have often looked on England from afar, and wished to be there."

"From Calais, I suppose. One can see the white cliffs of Albion in fine weather there."

Posela made no reply.

The conversation changed. A flood of queries gathered round me. The breakfast-bell sounded, for it was still early, and we went into the breakfast-room. When he had finished his questions to me, my father naturally turned his conversation to our guest, and I noticed at once how much he was impressed with him. On the war he had very little to say, all questions on it appeared disagreeable; but on every other topic he talked well. Still, he was by no means one who wished to lay down the law, or to show his talent. He rather excelled in question than in reply; but his questions showed a naïveté, a thoughtfulness, that was striking. He asked upon almost every topic connected with England—its history, government, politics, statistics, religion, commerce— everything. My father was a man fond of giving his opinion on things, and so he was delighted with his intelligent and thoughtful guest. Some things Posela seemed to have a difficulty in comprehending, especially how there could possibly exist so much misery in such a wealthy land, and how people could differ so on religious topics. The government by parties confused him, as well as the existence of unchecked immorality in our great metropolis. After breakfast we went out to see London, my father accompanying us. We saw as much as we could in that day. Posela took an interest in everything, but was a rapid sightseer. In most things he took in what he saw very quickly, and I thought was rather inclined to hurry. The sight which struck him most was the British Museum, where we stopped some hours, and he here especially took interest in the ornithological department.

In the evening, after our long sight-seeing was done, and I was thoroughly tired (although I had accompanied them to scarcely half the sights), Posela inquired how he could get to America, as he wanted to visit Niagara, and then to proceed to San Francisco. We found that one of the Cunard steamers was to sail in a couple of days, so it was resolved that he should proceed with me to Oxford after another day in London, and thence go to Liverpool to embark.