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    Green Mansions
    Green Mansions
    Green Mansions
    Ebook295 pages7 hours

    Green Mansions

    By W. H. Hudson

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    A young wealthy Venezuelan named Abel flees Caracas, after a failed attempt at revolution, into the uncharted forests of the Guyana jungle. There he meets the mysterious Rima the Bird Girl. William Henry Hudson's "Green Mansion" is a romantic tale set in the exotic jungles of Venezuela.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2010
    ISBN9781596741263
    Green Mansions
    Author

    W. H. Hudson

    William Henry Hudson (1841–1922) was an author and naturalist. Hudson was born in Argentina, the son of English and American parents. There, he studied local plants and animals as a young man, publishing his findings in Proceedings of the Royal Zoological Society, in a mixture of English and Spanish. Hudson’s familiarity with nature was readily evident in later novels such as A Crystal Age and Green Mansions. He later aided the founding of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

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    Reviews for Green Mansions

    3.5/5

    173 ratings11 reviews

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    • 3/5
      While I believe that most modern readers would appreciate the nature observations to be found in this novel or find the philosophical and historical perspective interesting, only a very small (I presume or hope) audience consisting of racist vegetarians would really love it.
    • 3/5
      I feel ambivalent about this book. I did finish it, and on the whole I'm glad I read it, but I'm not sure I'd say I liked it--it holds on to three stars by its toe nails. It's considered a minor classic, and it was a favorite book of someone I knew in high school. How many classics are loved and read (unassigned) by teenagers? It was a favorite of novelist John Galsworthy as well, who provided the introduction in the Project Gutenberg edition I downloaded--he ranks Hudson with Tolstoy and called him his favorite living author (the book was published in 1904).The "green mansions" of the title is the Venezuelan Amazon rainforest. And Hudson was not only a respected novelist in his day, but a naturalist--and it shows. His descriptions of the rainforest, his depiction of his heroine Rima, who embodies nature, was the most appealing side of the book. I wouldn't particularly call myself a nature lover--and certainly no environmentalist, but even I wasn't immune to how he painted everything from the canopy of trees to a moth or spider. Lyrical--vivid--it was all that. So was Rima--one of the most original and memorable heroines I've read in literature. She's described as "bird-like" and so mystically in tune with nature she gains her raiment from a spider's silk and can cuddle up to a coral snake with impunity. The area's tribe won't hunt in her domain, which is under her protection--they fear her as something supernatural. That's the good part of the book, and a big reason I kept turning the pages was to read more of Rima and find out what happened to her.Then there's Abel. Abel is our narrator and hero--and boy, did I ever despise him. I'm far from politically correct--and I can make allowances for the times--remember, this was published in 1904. The problematic racial aspects of Gone With the Wind don't keep me from loving the book and film--ditto Kipling. So when I say Abel continually annoyed and repelled me with his attitude toward the indigenous inhabitants (which he called "savages") that says a lot. I'm not sure in the end if this really reflects Hudson's own attitudes or just how he depicted a character--because in the end I found Abel so despicable, so arrogant, I'm not so sure I am supposed to be on this side--although I think yes. In the end this is the first person narrator through which all the events are filtered, and he's framed as telling all this to his friend, who is flattering about his character. I can only tell you that if Rima is the reason I kept reading, Abel was the reason I was tempted to stop reading. If you can tolerate the character though, and some admittedly florid writing (1904 remember) as Abel goes into raptures about Rima's beauty--well, especially if you love nature, you might find yourself happy you took the journey.
    • 1/5
      I read this ages ago (it was published even more ages ago}, I enjoyed the fantasy story line but when the author decided that the heroine must be of European decent to be beautiful it totally turned my stomach. His portrayal of the indigenous women was quite... forgive me but I cannot find the right word.

      A side note: I picked this up because I'm a fan of Van Morrison and I read somewhere that he based his song "Green Mansions" on this book. I sure hope not. I have never quite enjoyed the song again.
    • 4/5
      Great story, wonderfully told. Simply a classic. Action, adventure, romance - it has it all.
    • 4/5
      A hunting tale about the complications of peoples' first contacts. I read this when I was a teenager, so the details are a bit foggy now, but I still find the story haunting and the ending shocking.
    • 4/5
      This is a classic, beautifully written, ultimately tragic story of love, and then revenge, in the South American jungle. Does Abel represent civilized man, who, when his ultimate desire - a higher level of consciousness - is taken from him, reverts to the savages with whom he originally consorts? The story is described as a "romance" but it's not the heaving bosom/throbbing manhood type, and the ending is rather shocking.
    • 4/5
      This book reads well on many different levels. Many are the references to other literature and the prose is very lyrical and deep. Highly recommend.
    • 5/5
      When I began to reread Green Mansions recently I instantly remembered why it impressed me so much. More than most other authors Hudson is able to instill the sense of wonder through his protagonist Abel who, while living by the Orinoco river in Venezuela, is drawn to the forest lands by strange bird-like singing. There he discovers a young girl named Rima and it is her story that takes up much of the remainder of the novel. Hudson based Rima and her lost tribe on persistent rumors about a tribe of white people who lived in the mountains. Temple paintings often showed light-skinned people, and Spanish Conquistadors were at first thought to be gods. I first read this novel when I was in high school and the memory of its' evocative and lyrical prose has lingered over the intervening decades. The story is one of people who are almost in an original state of nature, a romantic, if flawed, view that suggests their world may be better than civilization.Green Mansions is one of the few novels ever to become an undisputed classic during the author's lifetime. It is a book I found to be truly enthralling and full of romantic magic making it a great read.
    • 5/5
      On Jan 6, 1946, I said: "Read "Green Mansions" a queer and poetic book : romance. I liked it quite well." As the years went by I seemed to like it better and better, though I have never re-read it.
    • 5/5
      I read this book when I was sixteen. I have been wanting to reread it for the past few months and now I have. It is one of those rare books which you remember almost perfectly. I did not, however, remember the love story. Must have been my age. And I did not remember how sad the ending was.Green Mansions is the story of Abel and his love affair with Rima the bird girl. Leaving political chaos behind in Caracas, Abel travels into the savage interior of Guayana province. He eventually comes to spend some little time with a village of natives. There is a nearby wood which they warn him against. They will not hunt there nor even enter, believing it to be under the protection of an evil spirit they call 'the daughter of the Didi'. Such ignorant superstitions hold no water with Abel, an educated man, and he begins exploring the wood. Once inside his 'green mansions' he is enchanted by the song of no bird he can name. Over the course of weeks the songstress leads him on merry chases, shows him some of the wonders of the woods, and ultimately saves his life. They fall in love, of course, but Rima does not understand her feelings. She lives with her 'grandfather' and wants to find her mother's people so they can explain what is happening to her.The three undertake a trip to find Rima's lost people with no success. She returns alone to her wood. I won't finish the tale in case you want to read it.Green Mansions was originally published in 1916. The author is W. H. Hudson. I have never seen another book of his but this one has always stuck with me. I have a 1944 edition which includes charming, primitive illustrations. This is the kind of book you cannot help but love - it is so well written and the tale is very compelling. If you can, look it up.
    • 5/5
      The tale of GREEN MANSIONS is set within the frame of memoir narration. The narrator and purported "author" of the "Prologue" claims to be publishing the story, told to him by Mr.Abel, in order to illuminate the mystery of Mr. Abel's identity and the discovery, on his death, of a closed room in his house containing a decorated funerary urn.As a young man, Mr. Abel had participated in an failed coup d'etat in Venezuela. Fleeing into the wilderness of Western Guayana, he takes up residence in a remote Indian village where he hopes to find peace in communing with nature. The Indians warn Abel that the pristine woodland area he has discovered is a dangerous place haunted by a daughter of theDidi. Scoffing at their superstitions, Abel continues to frequent the forest and becomes intrigued by a warbling sound which follows him and seems almost to communicate with him. One day he chances upon a young girl playing with a bird. Her iridescent other-world like appearance enchants him.When one of the Indians discovers that Abel has seen the girl, he is delighted and offers his sister as a wife in return for thedeath of the dread daughter of the Didi who has thwarted the Indians' hunting in the forest. Abel is appalled at the suggestion of any violence touching the pristine apparition he has seen. He continues to haunt the forest and is teased by the warbling voice, but he does not catch sight of the girl again until she stops him from killing a deadly coral snake.Abel is so enthralled with her presence that he forgets about the snake, which bites him when he treads upon it. While trying toreturn to the Indian village for help, Abel loses consciousness. When he awakes, he is in the hut of an old man named Nuflo, who says that he and his granddaughter, Rima, had brought Abel to the hut. Abel finds it hard to believe that the demure girl speaking Spanish is the same creature who warbled him through the forest. But as he recovers, she joins him in his rambles in the forest, where she again becomes the elusive warbler. Nuflofinally reveals to Abel that Rima is not actually his granddaughter but was given into his care by her dying mother.Although Rima appears and disappears at whim, she spends more time with Abel, and a bond between them begins to grow. Finally she asks him what is beyond the land that is visiblefrom the top of the mountain, Ytaioa. In an improvised geography lesson, Abel mentions the Riolama mountain range on the borderof Guayana. The name brings immediate recognition to Rima: "Riolama! Riolama!...That is the place I am seeking! There wasmy mother found--there are her people and mine! Therefore I was called Riolama--that is my name!" She is determined to go toRiolama and convinces Abel and Nuflo to accompany her on the long and difficult journey.When they reach the spot where Nuflo had found Rima's mother, it becomes apparent to Abel that she must have been the lone survivor of a disaster. He convinces Rima to return to theforest and live with him. She agrees, but insists on going ahead of the slow-journeying men to ready a place for them. When Abel and Nuflo finally return, they find that his hut has been destroyed. Searching for Rima in the forest, Abel findsan Indian hunting and returns with him to the Indian village to find out what has happened to Rima. Kua-ko' tells him that the daughter of the Didi had returned to the forest and found them hunting there. When she climbed to the top of a tree to frighten them, Runi ordered the tribe to set fire to the tree and Rima was killed.Bent on revenge, Abel flees to Managa's village and subsequently leads the enemy tribe in a raid on Runi's village.All in the village are killed. His revulsion and horror at whathe has done leaves Abel half-mad and scrabbling in the forest for mere survival. Among the ashes of the burnt tree, he findsRima's charred bones and gathers them together. His last act of devotion to Rima is to make a pot, decorated with forestmotifs, in which to carry her remains back to civilization. After a delirious journey, he finally reaches the coastal Georgetown; there Abel finally reaches some peace with himself and with the spirit of Rima.As an allegory, GREEN MANSIONS explores humanity's search for meaning in relationship with the natural world. Abel, aseveryman, flees from civilization into the wilderness where he encounters both the idealized and brutal aspects of the naturallife. Rima, who communicates with the animals and will allow none to be harmed, represents an Edenic harmony between humankindand nature. The Indians, on the other hand, exist in a fallen nature from which they must violently wrest the means for survival. Abel yearns to join with the golden-age visionrepresented by Rima, but he cannot communicate on her level, and the relationship is doomed. When he loses his vision, Abel regresses to the brutal level of the Indians and further to the level of an animal hunting for grubs to eat. It is only when he gathers up Rima's ashes and remains, that he begins his long roadback to a human consciousness. He must absolve and forgive himself in order to regain the grace offered by Rima.Beyond the allegorical aspects of GREEN MANSIONS, Hudson's strong naturalism and evocative descriptions of the landscapesand wildlife of the South American forests underline a contrast between the pristine wildernesses encountered by Abel and theEuropeanized civilization from which he originally fled. The Indians seem to fall somewhere in the middle -- they are by nomeans idealized savages, and the civilized Abel finds them brutal and degraded. The only human connection he makes in the Indian village is with the old woman, Clacla, whom he patronizes and humors. But these Indians too have been touched by the intrusion of the Europeans. There is a subtle warning implicit in Abel's rhapsodizings on the scenery; he senses the ongoing and impending destruction of the wilderness. That which is about to be lost is most precious.W.H. Hudson considered himself not a novelist but a "field naturalist who writes down what he sees." Born in Argentina of American parents, he was from his earliest days fascinated by nature. His expertise in the local flora and fauna led to a contract with the Smithsonian Institution to collect bird skins and to correspondence with Zoological Society of London which published his letters on the birds of Argentina in the Society's”Proceedings." In 1874 he moved to England hoping to support himself by writing about nature. Finding it difficult to obtain work as a naturalist in England, he turned to writing novels. His first, THE PURPLE LAND THAT ENGLAND LOST(1885, relates the adventures of a ”gaucho" on the Argentine pampas. A CRYSTAL AGE(1887) chronicles the difficulties of a modern man coming into contact with a utopian society which lives in harmony withnature. Although both novels were unfavorably received initially,each anticipates some of the themes of GREEN MANSIONS. Turning back to naturalistic writing, Hudson successfully published a number of essay collections including: ”The Naturalistin La Plata" (1892), ”Birds in a Village" (1893), ”Idle Days in Patagonia" (1893), ”Argentine Ornithology" ( 2 volumes, 1888-89) and ”Birds and Man" (1901). GREEN MANSIONS was published in England in1904 to critical acclaim but no popular success. Not until its publication in 1916 in the United States did Hudson achievefinancial success. Hudson transports the reader into the great South American forests that even in his lifetime were fast disappearing before the inroads of civilization. Undoubtedly the exoticlocale is one of the enduring attractions of the novel. The elusive character of Rima, while reminiscent of European woodlandsprites, also evokes the fragile purity of nature untouched by human incursions. The romantic appeal a lure to earlier generations of readers, is, however, underpinned by a strong ecological consciousness in the novel. Hudson's adventure story is a tale prophetic of the ongoing dangerous incursions into the South American wildernesses. Rima's fiery death anticipates the fiery clearing of the South American forest land for development. The elegiac tone of the novel underlines not only Abel's failure to attain union with the pure animistic spirit of Rima, but also the failure of modern humanity to comprehend the crucial role that nature plays in the survival of humankind itself.

    Book preview

    Green Mansions - W. H. Hudson

    GREEN MANSIONS

    BY WILLIAM HENRY HUDSON

    A Digireads.com Book

    Digireads.com Publishing

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-2901-0

    Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-59674-126-3

    This edition copyright © 2012

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    FOREWORD

    PROLOGUE

    CHAPTER I

    CHAPTER II

    CHAPTER III

    CHAPTER IV

    CHAPTER V

    CHAPTER VI

    CHAPTER VII

    CHAPTER VIII

    CHAPTER IX

    CHAPTER X

    CHAPTER XI

    CHAPTER XII

    CHAPTER XIII

    CHAPTER XIV

    CHAPTER XV

    CHAPTER XVI

    CHAPTER XVII

    CHAPTER XVIII

    CHAPTER XIX

    CHAPTER XX

    CHAPTER XXI

    CHAPTER XXII

    FOREWORD

    I take up pen for this foreword with the fear of one who knows that he cannot do justice to his subject, and the trembling of one who would not, for a good deal, set down words unpleasing to the eye of him who wrote Green Mansions, The Purple Land, and all those other books which have meant so much to me. For of all living authors—now that Tolstoi has gone I could least dispense with W. H. Hudson. Why do I love his writing so? I think because he is, of living writers that I read, the rarest spirit, and has the clearest gift of conveying to me the nature of that spirit. Writers are to their readers little new worlds to be explored; and each traveller in the realms of literature must needs have a favourite hunting-ground, which, in his good will—or perhaps merely in his egoism—he would wish others to share with him.

    The great and abiding misfortunes of most of us writers are twofold: We are, as worlds, rather common tramping-ground for our readers, rather tame territory; and as guides and dragomans thereto we are too superficial, lacking clear intimacy of expression; in fact—like guide or dragoman—we cannot let folk into the real secrets, or show them the spirit, of the land.

    Now, Hudson, whether in a pure romance like this Green Mansions, or in that romantic piece of realism The Purple Land, or in books like Idle Days in Patagonia, Afoot in England, The Land's End, Adventures among Birds, A Shepherd's Life, and all his other nomadic records of communings with men, birds, beasts, and Nature, has a supreme gift of disclosing not only the thing he sees but the spirit of his vision. Without apparent effort he takes you with him into a rare, free, natural world, and always you are refreshed, stimulated, enlarged, by going there.

    He is of course a distinguished naturalist, probably the most acute, broad-minded, and understanding observer of Nature living. And this, in an age of specialism, which loves to put men into pigeonholes and label them, has been a misfortune to the reading public, who seeing the label Naturalist, pass on, and take down the nearest novel. Hudson has indeed the gifts and knowledge of a Naturalist, but that is a mere fraction of his value and interest. A really great writer such as this is no more to be circumscribed by a single word than America by the part of it called New York. The expert knowledge which Hudson has of Nature gives to all his work backbone and surety of fibre, and to his sense of beauty an intimate actuality. But his real eminence and extraordinary attraction lie in his spirit and philosophy. We feel from his writings that he is nearer to Nature than other men, and yet more truly civilized. The competitive, towny culture, the queer up-to-date commercial knowingness with which we are so busy coating ourselves simply will not stick to him. A passage in his Hampshire Days describes him better than I can: The blue sky, the brown soil beneath, the grass, the trees, the animals, the wind, and rain, and stars are never strange to me; for I am in and of and am one with them; and my flesh and the soil are one, and the heat in my blood and in the sunshine are one, and the winds and the tempests and my passions are one. I feel the 'strangeness' only with regard to my fellow men, especially in towns, where they exist in conditions unnatural to me, but congenial to them.... In such moments we sometimes feel a kinship with, and are strangely drawn to, the dead, who were not as these; the long, long dead, the men who knew not life in towns, and felt no strangeness in sun and wind and rain. This unspoiled unity with Nature pervades all his writings; they are remote from the fret and dust and pettiness of town life; they are large, direct, free. It is not quite simplicity, for the mind of this writer is subtle and fastidious, sensitive to each motion of natural and human life; but his sensitiveness is somehow different from, almost inimical to, that of us others, who sit indoors and dip our pens in shades of feeling. Hudson's fancy is akin to the flight of the birds that are his special loves—it never seems to have entered a house, but since birth to have been roaming the air, in rain and sun, or visiting the trees and the grass. I not only disbelieve utterly, but intensely dislike, the doctrine of metempsychosis, which, if I understand it aright, seems the negation of the creative impulse, an apotheosis of staleness—nothing quite new in the world, never anything quite new—not even the soul of a baby; and so I am not prepared to entertain the whim that a bird was one of his remote incarnations; still, in sweep of wing, quickness of eye, and natural sweet strength of song he is not unlike a super-bird—which is a horrid image. And that reminds me: This, after all, is a foreword to Green Mansions—the romance of the bird-girl Rima—a story actual yet fantastic, which immortalizes, I think, as passionate a love of all beautiful things as ever was in the heart of man. Somewhere Hudson says: The sense of the beautiful is God's best gift to the human soul. So it is: and to pass that gift on to others, in such measure as herein is expressed, must surely have been happiness to him who wrote Green Mansions. In form and spirit the book is unique, a simple romantic narrative transmuted by sheer glow of beauty into a prose poem. Without ever departing from its quality of a tale, it symbolizes the yearning of the human soul for the attainment of perfect love and beauty in this life—that impossible perfection which we must all learn to see fall from its high tree and be consumed in the flames, as was Rima the bird-girl, but whose fine white ashes we gather that they may be mingled at last with our own, when we too have been refined by the fire of death's resignation. The book is soaked through and through with a strange beauty. I will not go on singing its praises, or trying to make it understood, because I have other words to say of its author.

    Do we realize how far our town life and culture have got away from things that really matter; how instead of making civilization our handmaid to freedom we have set her heel on our necks, and under it bite dust all the time? Hudson, whether he knows it or not, is now the chief standard-bearer of another faith. Thus he spake in The Purple Land: Ah, yes, we are all vainly seeking after happiness in the wrong way. It was with us once and ours, but we despised it, for it was only the old common happiness which Nature gives to all her children, and we went away from it in search of another grander kind of happiness which some dreamer—Bacon or another—assured us we should find. We had only to conquer Nature, find out her secrets, make her our obedient slave, then the Earth would be Eden, and every man Adam and every woman Eve. We are still marching bravely on, conquering Nature, but how weary and sad we are getting! The old joy in life and gaiety of heart have vanished, though we do sometimes pause for a few moments in our long forced march to watch the labours of some pale mechanician, seeking after perpetual motion, and indulge in a little, dry, cackling laugh at his expense. And again: "For here the religion that languishes in crowded cities or steals shamefaced to hide itself in dim churches flourishes greatly, filling the soul with a solemn joy. Face to face with Nature on the vast hills at eventide, who does not feel himself near to the Unseen?

      Out of his heart God shall not pass   His image stamped is on every grass.

    All Hudson's books breathe this spirit of revolt against our new enslavement by towns and machinery, and are true oases in an age so dreadfully resigned to the pale mechanician.

    But Hudson is not, as Tolstoi was, a conscious prophet; his spirit is freer, more willful, whimsical—almost perverse—and far more steeped in love of beauty. If you called him a prophet he would stamp his foot at you—as he will at me if he reads these words; but his voice is prophetic, for all that, crying in a wilderness, out of which, at the call, will spring up roses here and there, and the sweet-smelling grass. I would that every man, woman, and child in England were made to read him; and I would that you in America would take him to heart. He is a tonic, a deep refreshing drink, with a strange and wonderful flavour; he is a mine of new interests, and ways of thought instinctively right. As a simple narrator he is well-nigh unsurpassed; as a stylist he has few, if any, living equals. And in all his work there is an indefinable freedom from any thought of after-benefit—even from the desire that we should read him. He puts down what he sees and feels, out of sheer love of the thing seen, and the emotion felt; the smell of the lamp has not touched a single page that he ever wrote. That alone is a marvel to us who know that to write well, even to write clearly, is a wound business, long to learn, hard to learn, and no gift of the angels. Style should not obtrude between a writer and his reader; it should be servant, not master. To use words so true and simple that they oppose no obstacle to the flow of thought and feeling from mind to mind, and yet by juxtaposition of word-sounds set up in the recipient continuing emotion or gratification—this is the essence of style; and Hudson's writing has pre-eminently this double quality. From almost any page of his books an example might be taken. Here is one no better than a thousand others, a description of two little girls on a beach: They were dressed in black frocks and scarlet blouses, which set off their beautiful small dark faces; their eyes sparkled like black diamonds, and their loose hair was a wonder to see, a black mist or cloud about their heads and necks composed of threads fine as gossamer, blacker than jet and shining like spun glass—hair that looked as if no comb or brush could ever tame its beautiful wildness. And in spirit they were what they seemed: such a wild, joyous, frolicsome spirit, with such grace and fleetness, one does not look for in human beings, but only in birds or in some small bird-like volatile mammal—a squirrel or a spider-monkey of the tropical forest, or the chinchilla of the desolate mountain slopes; the swiftest, wildest, loveliest, most airy, and most vocal of small beauties. Or this, as the quintessence of a sly remark: After that Mantel got on to his horse and rode away. It was black and rainy, but he had never needed moon or lantern to find what he sought by night, whether his own house, or a fat cow—also his own, perhaps. So one might go on quoting felicity for ever from this writer. He seems to touch every string with fresh and uninked fingers; and the secret of his power lies, I suspect, in the fact that his words: Life being more than all else to me . . . are so utterly true.

    I do not descant on his love for simple folk and simple things, his championship of the weak, and the revolt against the cagings and cruelties of life, whether to men or birds or beasts, that springs out of him as if against his will; because, having spoken of him as one with a vital philosophy or faith, I don't wish to draw red herrings across the main trail of his worth to the world. His work is a vision of natural beauty and of human life as it might be, quickened and sweetened by the sun and the wind and the rain, and by fellowship with all the other forms of life— the truest vision now being given to us, who are more in want of it than any generation has ever been. A very great writer; and—to my thinking—the most valuable our age possesses.

    JOHN GALSWORTHY

    September 1915 Manaton: Devon

    PROLOGUE

    It is a cause of very great regret to me that this task has taken so much longer a time than I had expected for its completion. It is now many months—over a year, in fact—since I wrote to Georgetown announcing my intention of publishing, in a very few months, the whole truth about Mr. Abel. Hardly less could have been looked for from his nearest friend, and I had hoped that the discussion in the newspapers would have ceased, at all events, until the appearance of the promised book. It has not been so; and at this distance from Guiana I was not aware of how much conjectural matter was being printed week by week in the local press, some of which must have been painful reading to Mr. Abel's friends. A darkened chamber, the existence of which had never been suspected in that familiar house in Main Street, furnished only with an ebony stand on which stood a cinerary urn, its surface ornamented with flower and leaf and thorn, and winding through it all the figure of a serpent; an inscription, too, of seven short words which no one could understand or rightly interpret; and finally the disposal of the mysterious ashes—that was all there was relating to an untold chapter in a man's life for imagination to work on. Let us hope that now, at last, the romance-weaving will come to an end. It was, however, but natural that the keenest curiosity should have been excited; not only because of that peculiar and indescribable charm of the man, which all recognized and which won all hearts, but also because of that hidden chapter—that sojourn in the desert, about which he preserved silence. It was felt in a vague way by his intimates that he had met with unusual experiences which had profoundly affected him and changed the course of his life. To me alone was the truth known, and I must now tell, briefly as possible, how my great friendship and close intimacy with him came about.

    When, in 1887, I arrived in Georgetown to take up an appointment in a public office, I found Mr. Abel an old resident there, a man of means and a favourite in society. Yet he was an alien, a Venezuelan, one of that turbulent people on our border whom the colonists have always looked on as their natural enemies. The story told to me was that about twelve years before that time he had arrived at Georgetown from some remote district in the interior; that he had journeyed alone on foot across half the continent to the coast, and had first appeared among them, a young stranger, penniless, in rags, wasted almost to a skeleton by fever and misery of all kinds, his face blackened by long exposure to sun and wind. Friendless, with but little English, it was a hard struggle for him to live; but he managed somehow, and eventually letters from Caracas informed him that a considerable property of which he had been deprived was once more his own, and he was also invited to return to his country to take his part in the government of the Republic. But Mr. Abel, though young, had already outlived political passions and aspirations, and, apparently, even the love of his country; at all events, he elected to stay where he was—his enemies, he would say smilingly, were his best friends—and one of the first uses he made of his fortune was to buy that house in Main Street which was afterwards like a home to me.

    I must state here that my friend's full name was Abel Guevez de Argensola, but in his early days in Georgetown he was called by his Christian name only, and later he wished to be known simply as Mr. Abel.

    I had no sooner made his acquaintance than I ceased to wonder at the esteem and even affection with which he, a Venezuelan, was regarded in this British colony. All knew and liked him, and the reason of it was the personal charm of the man, his kindly disposition, his manner with women, which pleased them and excited no man's jealousy—not even the old hot-tempered planter's, with a very young and pretty and light-headed wife—his love of little children, of all wild creatures, of nature, and of whatsoever was furthest removed from the common material interests and concerns of a purely commercial community. The things which excited other men—politics, sport, and the price of crystals—were outside of his thoughts; and when men had done with them for a season, when like the tempest they had blown their fill in office and club-room and house and wanted a change, it was a relief to turn to Mr. Abel and get him to discourse of his world—the world of nature and of the spirit.

    It was, all felt, a good thing to have a Mr. Abel in Georgetown. That it was indeed good for me I quickly discovered. I had certainly not expected to meet in such a place with any person to share my tastes—that love of poetry which has been the chief passion and delight of my life; but such a one I had found in Mr. Abel. It surprised me that he, suckled on the literature of Spain, and a reader of only ten or twelve years of English literature, possessed a knowledge of our modern poetry as intimate as my own, and a love of it equally great. This feeling brought us together and made us two—the nervous olive-skinned Hispano-American of the tropics and the phlegmatic blue-eyed Saxon of the cold north—one in spirit and more than brothers. Many were the daylight hours we spent together and tired the sun with talking; many, past counting, the precious evenings in that restful house of his where I was an almost daily guest. I had not looked for such happiness; nor, he often said, had he. A result of this intimacy was that the vague idea concerning his hidden past, that some unusual experience had profoundly affected him and perhaps changed the whole course of his life, did not diminish, but, on the contrary, became accentuated, and was often in my mind. The change in him was almost painful to witness whenever our wandering talk touched on the subject of the aborigines, and of the knowledge he had acquired of their character and languages when living or travelling among them; all that made his conversation most engaging—the lively, curious mind, the wit, the gaiety of spirit tinged with a tender melancholy—appeared to fade out of it; even the expression of his face would change, becoming hard and set, and he would deal you out facts in a dry mechanical way as if reading them in a book. It grieved me to note this, but I dropped no hint of such a feeling, and would never have spoken about it but for a quarrel which came at last to make the one brief solitary break in that close friendship of years. I got into a bad state of health, and Abel was not only much concerned about it, but annoyed, as if I had not treated him well by being ill, and he would even say that I could get well if I wished to. I did not take this seriously, but one morning, when calling to see me at the office, he attacked me in a way that made me downright angry with him. He told me that indolence and the use of stimulants was the cause of my bad health. He spoke in a mocking way, with a presence of not quite meaning it, but the feeling could not be wholly disguised. Stung by his reproaches, I blurted out that he had no right to talk to me, even in fun, in such a way. Yes, he said, getting serious, he had the best right—that of our friendship. He would be no true friend if he kept his peace about such a matter. Then, in my haste, I retorted that to me the friendship between us did not seem so perfect and complete as it did to him. One condition of friendship is that the partners in it should be known to each other. He had had my whole life and mind open to him, to read it as in a book. His life was a closed and clasped volume to me.

    His face darkened, and after a few moments' silent reflection he got up and left me with a cold good-bye, and without that hand-grasp which had been customary between us.

    After his departure I had the feeling that a great loss, a great calamity, had befallen me, but I was still smarting at his too candid criticism, all the more because in my heart I acknowledged its truth. And that night, lying awake, I repented of the cruel retort I had made, and resolved to ask his forgiveness and leave it to him to determine the question of our future relations. But he was beforehand with me, and with the morning came a letter begging my forgiveness and asking me to go that evening to dine with him.

    We were alone, and during dinner and afterwards, when we sat smoking and sipping black coffee in the veranda, we were unusually quiet, even to gravity, which caused the two white-clad servants that waited on us—the brown-faced subtle-eyed old Hindu butler and an almost blue-black young Guiana Negro—to direct many furtive glances at their master's face. They were accustomed to see him in a more genial mood when he had a friend to dine. To me the change in his manner was not surprising: from the moment of seeing him I had divined that he had determined to open the shut and clasped volume of which I had spoken—that the time had now come for him to speak.

    CHAPTER I

    Now that we are cool, he said, and regret that we hurt each other, I am not sorry that it happened. I deserved your reproach: a hundred times I have wished to tell you the whole story of my travels and adventures among the savages, and one of the reasons which prevented me was the fear that it would have an unfortunate effect on our friendship. That was precious, and I desired above everything to keep it. But I must think no more about that now. I must think only of how I am to tell you my story. I will begin at a time when I was twenty-three. It was early in life to be in the thick of politics, and in trouble to the extent of having to fly my country to save my liberty, perhaps my life.

    Every nation, someone remarks, has the government it deserves, and Venezuela certainly has the one it deserves and that suits it best. We call it a republic, not only because it is not one, but also because a thing must have a name; and to have a good name, or a fine name, is very convenient—especially when you want to borrow money. If the Venezuelans, thinly distributed over an area of half a million square miles, mostly illiterate peasants, half-breeds, and indigenes, were educated, intelligent men, zealous only for the public weal, it would be possible for them to have a real republic. They have instead a government by cliques, tempered by revolution; and a very good government it is, in harmony with the physical conditions of the country and the national temperament. Now, it happens that the educated men, representing your higher classes, are so few that there are not many persons unconnected by ties of blood or marriage with prominent members of the political groups to which they belong. By this you will see how easy and almost inevitable it is that we should become accustomed to look on conspiracy and revolt against the regnant party—the men of another clique—as only in the natural order of things. In the event of failure such outbreaks are punished, but they are not regarded as immoral. On the contrary, men of the highest intelligence and virtue among us are seen taking a leading part in these adventures. Whether such a condition of things is intrinsically wrong or not, or would be wrong in some circumstances and is not wrong, because inevitable, in others, I cannot pretend to decide; and all this tiresome profusion is only to enable you to understand how I—a young man of unblemished character, not a soldier by profession, not ambitious of political distinction, wealthy for that country, popular in society, a lover of social pleasures, of books, of nature actuated, as I believed, by the highest motives, allowed myself to be drawn very readily by friends and relations into a conspiracy to overthrow the government of the moment, with the object of replacing it by more worthy men ourselves, to wit.

    Our adventure failed because the authorities got wind of the affair and matters were precipitated. Our leaders at the moment happened to be scattered over the country—some were abroad; and a few hotheaded men of the party, who were in Caracas just then and probably feared arrest, struck a rash blow: the President was attacked in the street and wounded. But the attackers were seized, and some of them shot on the following day. When the news reached me I was at a distance from the capital, staying with a

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