Pharos the Egyptian | Page 5

why I should make my confession,
though God knows I am coward enough to shrink from the task. And, if
you consider for a moment, I think you will understand why. In the first
place, the telling of the story can only have the effect of depriving me
of the affection of those I love, the respect of those whose good opinion
I have hitherto prized so highly, the sympathy of my most faithful
friends, and, what is an equal sacrifice as far as I am personally
concerned--though it is, perhaps, of less importance to others--the fame
I have won for myself after so hard a struggle. All this is swept away
like driftwood before a rising tide, and as a result I retire into voluntary
exile, a man burdened with a lifelong sorrow. How I have suffered,
both 'in body and mind, none will ever understand. That I have been
punished is also certain, how heavily you, my two old friends, will be
able to guess when you have read my story. With the writing of it I
have severed the last link that binds me to the civilized world.
Henceforth I shall be a wanderer and an outcast, and but for one reason
could wish myself dead. But that is enough of regret--let me commence

my story.
Two years ago, as you both have terrible reason to remember, there
occurred in Europe what may, perhaps, be justly termed the most
calamitous period in its history, a time so heart-breaking that scarcely a
man or woman can look back upon it without experiencing the keenest
sorrow. Needless to say I refer to the outbreak of the plague among us,
that terrible pestilence which swept Europe from end to end,
depopulated its greatest cities, filled every burial place to overflowing,
and caused such misery and desolation in all ranks of life as has never
before been known among us. Few homes were there, even in this fair
England of ours, but suffered some bereavement; few families but
mourn a loss the wound of which has even now barely healed. And it is
my part in this dreadful business that I have forced myself with so
much bitter humiliation to relate. Let me begin at the very beginning,
tell everything plainly and straightforwardly, offer nothing in
extenuation of my conduct, and trust only to the world to judge me, if
such a thing be possible, with an unbiassed mind.
I date my misery from a wet, miserable night in the last week of
March--a night without a glimpse of the moon, which, on that
particular evening, was almost at its full. There had been but one
solitary hour of painting-light all day; short as it was, however, it was
sufficient for my purpose. My picture for the Academy was finished,
and now all that remained was to pack it up and send it in. It was, as
you remember, my eighth, and in every way my most successful effort.
The subject I had chosen had enthralled me, from the moment it had
first entered my head, and the hours of thought and preparation it had
entailed will always rank amongst the happiest of my life. It
represented Merenptah, the Pharaoh of the Exodus, learning from the
magicians the effect of his obstinacy in the death of his first-born son.
The canvas showed him seated on his throne, clad in his robes of state.
His head was pushed a little forward, his chin rested in his hand, while
his eyes looked straight before him as though he were endeavouring to
peer into the future in the hope of reading there the answer to the
troubled thoughts inside his brain. Behind him stood the sorcerers, one
of whom had found courage to announce the baneful tidings.

The land of Egypt has always possessed a singular attraction for me--a
taste which, doubtless, I inherit from my poor father, who, as you are
aware, was one of the greatest authorities upon the subject the world
has ever known.
As I have said, it was a miserable night, dark as the pit of Tophet. A
biting wind whistled through the streets, the pavements were dotted
with umbrella-laden figures, the kennels ran like mill-sluices, while the
roads were only a succession of lamp-lit puddles through which the
wheeled traffic splashed continuously. For some reason--perhaps
because the work upon which I had been so long and happily engaged
was finished, and I felt lonely without it to occupy my mind--I was
stricken with a fit of the blues. Convinced that my own company would
not take me out of it, I left my studio in search of more congenial
society. This was soon forthcoming; and you will remember, Betford
and Trevelyan, that we dined together at a little restaurant in