June 30th.--I took a holiday this afternoon, and walked in the directionof Mount Pitt. The island lay at my feet like--as sings Mrs. Frere'sfavourite poet--"a summer isle of Eden lying in dark purple sphere ofsea". Sophocles has the same idea in the Philoctetes, but I can'tquote it. Note: I measured a pine twenty-three feet in circumference.I followed a little brook that runs from the hills, and winds throughthick undergrowths of creeper and blossom, until it reaches a lovelyvalley surrounded by lofty trees, whose branches, linked together by theluxurious grape-vine, form an arching bower of verdure. Here stands theruin of an old hut, formerly inhabited by the early settlers; lemons,figs, and guavas are thick; while amid the shrub and cane a largeconvolvulus is entwined, and stars the green with its purple and crimsonflowers. I sat down here, and had a smoke. It seems that the formeroccupant of my rooms at the settlement read French; for in searchingfor a book to bring with me--I never walk without a book--I found andpocketed a volume of Balzac. It proved to be a portion of the Vie Priveeseries, and I stumbled upon a story called La Fausse Maitresse.With calm belief in the Paris of his imagination--where Marcas was apolitician, Nucingen a banker, Gobseck a money-lender, and Vautrin acandidate for some such place as this--Balzac introduces me to a Pole byname Paz, who, loving the wife of his friend, devotes himself to watchover her happiness and her husband's interest. The husband gambles andis profligate. Paz informs the wife that the leanness which hazardand debauchery have caused to the domestic exchequer is due to hisextravagance, the husband having lent him money. She does not believe,and Paz feigns an intrigue with a circus-rider in order to lull allsuspicions. She says to her adored spouse, "Get rid of this extravagantfriend! Away with him! He is a profligate, a gambler! A drunkard!"Paz finally departs, and when he has gone, the lady finds out the poorPole's worth. The story does not end satisfactorily. Balzac was toogreat a master of his art for that. In real life the curtain never fallson a comfortably-finished drama. The play goes on eternally.
I have been thinking of the story all evening. A man who loves hisfriend's wife, and devotes his energies to increase her happiness byconcealing from her her husband's follies! Surely none but Balzacwould have hit upon such a notion. "A man who loves his friend'swife."--Asmodeus, I write no more! I have ceased to converse with theefor so long that I blush to confess all that I have in my heart.--I willnot confess it, so that shall suffice.
CHAPTER IV. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 72