De L'Ester—We now will proceed to the arbor where a learned Ento spirit, Zenesta̤ Ha̤o, will join us. He is a kinsman of Inidora̤ and Genessano, and once was a teacher of languages in this Galarēsa̤, but as we have requested him to relate to you some of his personal history I shall not further anticipate what, I doubt not, will interest you. Ah, he awaits us. Loha̤û loha̤û, Zenesta̤. You are most welcome and I most happy in making known to you one whom you have expressed a desire to meet.
Gentola—Sir, I trust that I may not be so unfortunate as to cause you to regret your desire.
Zenesta Hao—Long have we of our Spirit World heard of you as of one who, in the fullness of time, would aid in conveying to the Entoans an assurance of continuous existence. I offer to you the homage due to one who lovingly yields time, strength and an indulgence of personal aims for the welfare of others, and may the time quickly arrive when, through this mission, the darkness of certain conditions may be dispelled from the minds of the children of Ento. You have been informed of their pitiable despair which ever grows more unbearable; it is the logical, natural result of the advanced spirituality of the masses, in whom every sense and emotion have become exalted. In them the love element is so spiritualized that when death takes from them their dearest ones they do not mourn as do those of grosser natures. They reach after them with a longing, agonizing, persistent, hopeless grief, only conceivable by those whose Being is on an exalted Spiritual and intellectual plane.
I know not your language perfectly, but when I may find myself at a loss these dear friends will supply my needs. I am here, not only through my own desire, but at the request of this Band, who believe that I may serve a certain beneficent purpose. During many years of my mortal existence I was a Professor of Languages in this Galarēsa̤; thus I am as a link connecting the past with the present and, if I may add to the interest of your experiences and of this mission, I also will add to my own happiness. Friends, you will lead the way, and Gentola̤ and I will follow.
Ah, how memory recalls the years passed in this Galarēsa̤. Years so full of mingled joys and sorrows. Certainly, if my mortal experiences may seem of value to you, I shall be greatly pleased. In my early youth I came here as a student, my mind filled with eager, glowing anticipations, and here I remained until I was fitted to graduate with honor to myself and credit to those whose patient labors and excellent ability had won my loving reverence and lasting regard. Following my graduation I was offered the distinction of a professorship in the department of ancient and modern languages; I accepted the honor and entered upon a career which terminated only when mortal existence gave way to that which was a step higher on the ever ascending rounds of evolution. Four years elapsed and I had won some renown as an instructor and what, to me, was my heart's dearest desire—the love of the woman whom I adored and who was, through the years of our wedded life, the heart of my heart. Children as comely and as sweet as rodel buds came to us, but ever as their mother and I with fond solicitude watched these buds maturing and bursting into bloom, we looked into each other's eyes and saw sombre shadows lurking there. Intelligent, generous hearted, our children grew to maturity. Our sons were all that our fond hearts could desire. Our daughters were as lovable and as lovely as their mother. I could desire for them no greater excellence. I then was in the full vigor of manhood, my wife in the full maturity of comeliness and of many virtues. Our children were growing learned and accomplished in such directions as their abilities and inclinations led them. No perceptible danger threatened us or them. No cloud of evil portent rose above the horizon of our sky, yet ever in our minds and hearts the shadows lurked, for we knew, we well knew, that ever unseen an implacable foe drew nearer, nearer, and that inevitably, one by one, we must pass into the silence. We who shared each joy or sorrow, we who so loved that when apart time was robbed of half its value. Ah, me! Ere long a fatal hour arrived and now after the lapse of years and the inexpressible happiness that has come to us, I find myself shrinking from the memory of it.
One day a party of youths went pleasuring on Indoloisa̤'s treacherous water and our three sons were with them. With the heedlessness of youth they permitted the wind to waft their boat far out on its restless bosom. Suddenly the wind became violent, the boat was capsized, then engulfed in the tempestuous waves and ere assistance reached them nearly all of the party were drowned. Two of them were our sons Liefton and Clermond. A year later our remaining son, Faladon, lost his life in a vain endeavor to save the life of a comrade who, recklessly leaning far over the guard of a rising air transport, lost his balance and Faladon, who stood near at hand, attempted to seize him, but the sudden strain was greater than his strength, and both he and his friend were dashed to death. These repeated disasters were more than my dear wife could endure, and within a year her urned ashes were placed beside those of our three sons.
In my heart was desolation and anguish unspeakable, but, for the sake of our dear daughters, I strove to cheerfully bear my awful burthen of sorrow and to, as far as possible, brighten the darkness which overshadowed their young lives. They would not marry and we three bereft ones walked as in one pathway, and thus I reached a period of age equal to seventy of your years. Then, as though death again remembered us, our youngest daughter was stricken with a fatal illness and ere we reckoned it serious the breath of her life had ceased. Our eldest and last child survived until I had aged to ninety-two years; then, with scarcely more than a sigh, her worn heart ceased to beat and I was left alone—aged, sorrow stricken and without desire for a continuance of a life which no longer held for me either charm or hope. Mechanically I fulfilled the duties of a position which had brought me the consideration of many worthier than myself, but, alas, no power could bring back my dear dead or give me peace. Laden with a heavy burthen of sorrow, the years passed tardily, and among a youthful generation whose tastes, occupations and aims had quite outgrown my own, I walked almost alone. The friends of my youth and of later years had passed into the silence, or had sought other lands as dwelling places, and I no longer cared for new friends. In my home there were those who ever were kindly attentive to my simple wants, but my utter loneliness no one could alleviate. In the midst of a multitude I was as one lost, as one whom death had forgotten and at last I longed for oblivion.
Ninety-eight years brought me to a hot, languorous day, and the humid air was laden with the fragrance of flowers, glowing amid the surrounding greenery, or in riotous luxuriance, climbing over walls, trellises and windows. I had come from the Galarēsa̤, and ere entering my home I, for a little, gazed on the quiet, lovely scene. Presently a sense of drowsiness stole over me and I entered my residence and laid down to rest, perchance to sleep. For a moment I experienced a peculiar sensation; then suddenly I slept and as suddenly awakened to perceive standing near me with a smile on her lips, a wondrously beautiful woman, whose face and form seemed strangely familiar. In great surprise and unaccountable awe I gazed upon her; then, breathlessly, I cried, "Who art thou, oh vision of a dead past? Art thou a Goddess in the guise of my beloved, my lost Armēna̤? Speak, I implore thee, ere I die of anguish." Smilingly she drew nearer to me. Gently she stooped and clasped me in her arms. Tenderly she murmured, "Zenesta̤, knowest thou not Armēna̤, thy wife, the mother of our children, who wait nearby to greet and embrace thee? My beloved, thou didst but sleep a moment, to awaken and find thy dearest ones. Nay, shrink not from me; I am not dead and thou dost not dream," she said. "Here are our children who will bear thee hence to the world of living ones, where is neither death or sorrowful separations, but where, with us, thou shalt learn of the immortality of the life essence and of joys beyond aught thou hast conception of." The joy and wonder of this was so great that I seemed to swoon, and, when again consciousness came to my senses I found myself in a beautiful home, surrounded by many dear ones and friends of my youth and later years, who welcomed me to the world of living ones. And wonder of marvellous wonders, my aged body had fallen away from me and I stood amid our three stately sons as young as were they. As I looked into the faces of those whom I had thought dead and forever gone into the Silence, I could not utter one word. My wife and our beauteous daughters, all with their dear arms about me, whispered words of explanation and of assurance that I did not dream. Then our dear girls, Armēna̤ and Irmian, gathered loveliest flowers and showered them over me and their mother. They led me through the beautiful white structure they said was our home and still, while countless questions surged through my mind, I was so overwhelmed by contending emotions that I only could mutely turn from one to another. Finally I was made to comprehend the wondrous, unlooked for change which had come to me while I slept. Birth, not death, having opened the gateway of the new phase of life, gladly, reverently, I took up the threads of the tangled web and woof of a past condition, and gladly, reverently, in an existence of illimitable opportunities, I have striven to weave a fabric adorned with loving thoughts, loving words, and loving service.
I beg your indulgence for this lengthy reminiscence of a bygone time.