All his criticisms of the present,all his regrets for the past,struck me as temperate and sensible.The short term of office of the Resident he thought the chief defect of the administration;that officer having scarce begun to be efficient ere he was recalled.I thought I gathered,too,that he regarded with some fear the coming change from a naval to a civil governor.I am sure at least that I regard it so myself;for the civil servants of France have never appeared to any foreigner as at all the flower of their country,while her naval officers may challenge competition with the world.In all his talk,Stanislao was particular to speak of his own country as a land of savages;and when he stated an opinion of his own,it was with some apologetic preface,alleging that he was 'a savage who had travelled.'There was a deal,in this elaborate modesty,of honest pride.Yet there was something in the precaution that saddened me;and I could not but fear he was only forestalling a taunt that he had heard too often.
I recall with interest two interviews with Stanislao.The first was a certain afternoon of tropic rain,which we passed together in the verandah of the club;talking at times with heightened voices as the showers redoubled overhead,passing at times into the billiard-room,to consult,in the dim,cloudy daylight,that map of the world which forms its chief adornment.He was naturally ignorant of English history,so that I had much of news to communicate.The story of Gordon I told him in full,and many episodes of the Indian Mutiny,Lucknow,the second battle of Cawn-pore,the relief of Arrah,the death of poor Spottis-woode,and Sir Hugh Rose's hotspur,midland campaign.He was intent to hear;his brown face,strongly marked with small-pox,kindled and changed with each vicissitude.His eyes glowed with the reflected light of battle;his questions were many and intelligent,and it was chiefly these that sent us so often to the map.But it is of our parting that I keep the strongest sense.We were to sail on the morrow,and the night had fallen,dark,gusty,and rainy,when we stumbled up the hill to bid farewell to Stanislao.He had already loaded us with gifts;but more were waiting.We sat about the table over cigars and green cocoa-nuts;claps of wind blew through the house and extinguished the lamp,which was always instantly relighted with a single match;and these recurrent intervals of darkness were felt as a relief.For there was something painful and embarrassing in the kindness of that separation.'AH,VOUS DEVRIEZ RESTER ICI,MON CHER AMI!'cried Stanislao.'VOUS ETES LES GENS QU'IL FAUTPOUR LES KANAQUES;VOUS ETES DOUX,VOUS ET VOTRE FAMILLE;VOUSSERIEZ OBEIS DANS TOUTES LES ILES.'We had been civil;not always that,my conscience told me,and never anything beyond;and all this to-do is a measure,not of our considerateness,but of the want of it in others.The rest of the evening,on to Vaekehu's and back as far as to the pier,Stanislao walked with my arm and sheltered me with his umbrella;and after the boat had put off,we could still distinguish,in the murky darkness,his gestures of farewell.His words,if there were any,were drowned by the rain and the loud surf.
