Chapter I: Introduction

In giving to the world the record of what, looked at as an
adventure only, is I suppose one of the most wonderful and
mysterious experiences ever undergone by mortal men, I feel it
incumbent on me to explain what my exact connection with it is.
And so I may as well say at once that I am not the narrator but
only the editor of this extraordinary history, and then go on to
tell how it found its way into my hands.

Some years ago I, the editor, was stopping with a friend, “_vir
doctissimus et amicus meus_,” at a certain University, which for
the purposes of this history we will call Cambridge, and was one
day much struck with the appearance of two persons whom I saw
going arm-in-arm down the street. One of these gentlemen was I
think, without exception, the handsomest young fellow I have ever
seen. He was very tall, very broad, and had a look of power and a
grace of bearing that seemed as native to him as it is to a wild
stag. In addition his face was almost without flaw—a good face as
well as a beautiful one, and when he lifted his hat, which he did
just then to a passing lady, I saw that his head was covered with
little golden curls growing close to the scalp.

“Good gracious!” I said to my friend, with whom I was walking,
“why, that fellow looks like a statue of Apollo come to life.
What a splendid man he is!”

“Yes,” he answered, “he is the handsomest man in the University,
and one of the nicest too. They call him ‘the Greek god’; but
look at the other one, he’s Vincey’s (that’s the god’s name)
guardian, and supposed to be full of every kind of information.
They call him ‘Charon.’” I looked, and found the older man quite
as interesting in his way as the glorified specimen of humanity
at his side. He appeared to be about forty years of age, and was
I think as ugly as his companion was handsome. To begin with, he
was shortish, rather bow-legged, very deep chested, and with
unusually long arms. He had dark hair and small eyes, and the
hair grew right down on his forehead, and his whiskers grew right
up to his hair, so that there was uncommonly little of his
countenance to be seen. Altogether he reminded me forcibly of a
gorilla, and yet there was something very pleasing and genial
about the man’s eye. I remember saying that I should like to know
him.

“All right,” answered my friend, “nothing easier. I know Vincey;
I’ll introduce you,” and he did, and for some minutes we stood
chatting—about the Zulu people, I think, for I had just returned
from the Cape at the time. Presently, however, a stoutish lady,
whose name I do not remember, came along the pavement,
accompanied by a pretty fair-haired girl, and these two Mr.
Vincey, who clearly knew them well, at once joined, walking off
in their company. I remember being rather amused because of the
change in the expression of the elder man, whose name I
discovered was Holly, when he saw the ladies advancing. He
suddenly stopped short in his talk, cast a reproachful look at
his companion, and, with an abrupt nod to myself, turned and
marched off alone across the street. I heard afterwards that he
was popularly supposed to be as much afraid of a woman as most
people are of a mad dog, which accounted for his precipitate
retreat. I cannot say, however, that young Vincey showed much
aversion to feminine society on this occasion. Indeed I remember
laughing, and remarking to my friend at the time that he was not
the sort of man whom it would be desirable to introduce to the
lady one was going to marry, since it was exceedingly probable
that the acquaintance would end in a transfer of her affections.
He was altogether too good-looking, and, what is more, he had
none of that consciousness and conceit about him which usually
afflicts handsome men, and makes them deservedly disliked by
their fellows.

That same evening my visit came to an end, and this was the last
I saw or heard of “Charon” and “the Greek god” for many a long
day. Indeed, I have never seen either of them from that hour to
this, and do not think it probable that I shall. But a month ago
I received a letter and two packets, one of manuscript, and on
opening the first found that it was signed by “Horace Holly,” a
name that at the moment was not familiar to me. It ran as
follows:—

“—— College, Cambridge, May 1, 18—

“My dear Sir,—You will be surprised, considering the very slight
nature of our acquaintance, to get a letter from me. Indeed, I
think I had better begin by reminding you that we once met, now
some five years ago, when I and my ward Leo Vincey were
introduced to you in the street at Cambridge. To be brief and
come to my business. I have recently read with much interest a
book of yours describing a Central African adventure. I take it
that this book is partly true, and partly an effort of the
imagination. However this may be, it has given me an idea. It
happens, how you will see in the accompanying manuscript (which
together with the Scarab, the ‘Royal Son of the Sun,’ and the
original sherd, I am sending to you by hand), that my ward, or
rather my adopted son Leo Vincey and myself have recently passed
through a real African adventure, of a nature so much more
marvellous than the one which you describe, that to tell the
truth I am almost ashamed to submit it to you lest you should
disbelieve my tale. You will see it stated in this manuscript
that I, or rather we, had made up our minds not to make this
history public during our joint lives. Nor should we alter our
determination were it not for a circumstance which has recently
arisen. We are for reasons that, after perusing this manuscript,
you may be able to guess, going away again this time to Central
Asia where, if anywhere upon this earth, wisdom is to be found,
and we anticipate that our sojourn there will be a long one.
Possibly we shall not return. Under these altered conditions it
has become a question whether we are justified in withholding
from the world an account of a phenomenon which we believe to be
of unparalleled interest, merely because our private life is
involved, or because we are afraid of ridicule and doubt being
cast upon our statements. I hold one view about this matter, and
Leo holds another, and finally, after much discussion, we have
come to a compromise, namely, to send the history to you, giving
you full leave to publish it if you think fit, the only
stipulation being that you shall disguise our real names, and as
much concerning our personal identity as is consistent with the
maintenance of the _bona fides_ of the narrative.

“And now what am I to say further? I really do not know beyond
once more repeating that everything is described in the
accompanying manuscript exactly as it happened. As regards _She_
herself I have nothing to add. Day by day we gave greater
occasion to regret that we did not better avail ourselves of our
opportunities to obtain more information from that marvellous
woman. Who was she? How did she first come to the Caves of Kôr,
and what was her real religion? We never ascertained, and now,
alas! we never shall, at least not yet. These and many other
questions arise in my mind, but what is the good of asking them
now?

“Will you undertake the task? We give you complete freedom, and
as a reward you will, we believe, have the credit of presenting
to the world the most wonderful history, as distinguished from
romance, that its records can show. Read the manuscript (which I
have copied out fairly for your benefit), and let me know.

“Believe me, very truly yours, “L. Horace Holly.[1]

“P.S.—Of course, if any profit results from the sale of the
writing should you care to undertake its publication, you can do
what you like with it, but if there is a loss I will leave
instructions with my lawyers, Messrs. Geoffrey and Jordan, to
meet it. We entrust the sherd, the scarab, and the parchments to
your keeping, till such time as we demand them back again. —L. H.
H.”

[1] This name is varied throughout in accordance with the writer’s request.—Editor.

This letter, as may be imagined, astonished me considerably, but
when I came to look at the MS., which the pressure of other work
prevented me from doing for a fortnight, I was still more
astonished, as I think the reader will be also, and at once made
up my mind to press on with the matter. I wrote to this effect to
Mr. Holly, but a week afterwards received a letter from that
gentleman’s lawyers, returning my own, with the information that
their client and Mr. Leo Vincey had already left this country for
Thibet, and they did not at present know their address.

Well, that is all I have to say. Of the history itself the reader
must judge. I give it him, with the exception of a very few
alterations, made with the object of concealing the identity of
the actors from the general public, exactly as it came to me.
Personally I have made up my mind to refrain from comments. At
first I was inclined to believe that this history of a woman on
whom, clothed in the majesty of her almost endless years, the
shadow of Eternity itself lay like the dark wing of Night, was
some gigantic allegory of which I could not catch the meaning.
Then I thought that it might be a bold attempt to portray the
possible results of practical immortality, informing the
substance of a mortal who yet drew her strength from Earth, and
in whose human bosom passions yet rose and fell and beat as in
the undying world around her the winds and the tides rise and
fall and beat unceasingly. But as I went on I abandoned that idea
also. To me the story seems to bear the stamp of truth upon its
face. Its explanation I must leave to others, and with this
slight preface, which circumstances make necessary, I introduce
the world to Ayesha and the Caves of Kôr.—The Editor.

P.S.—There is on consideration one circumstance that, after a
reperusal of this history, struck me with so much force that I
cannot resist calling the attention of the reader to it. He will
observe that so far as we are made acquainted with him there
appears to be nothing in the character of Leo Vincey which in the
opinion of most people would have been likely to attract an
intellect so powerful as that of Ayesha. He is not even, at any
rate to my view, particularly interesting. Indeed, one might
imagine that Mr. Holly would under ordinary circumstances have
easily outstripped him in the favour of _She_. Can it be that
extremes meet, and that the very excess and splendour of her mind
led her by means of some strange physical reaction to worship at
the shrine of matter? Was that ancient Kallikrates nothing but a
splendid animal loved for his hereditary Greek beauty? Or is the
true explanation what I believe it to be—namely, that Ayesha,
seeing further than we can see, perceived the germ and
smouldering spark of greatness which lay hid within her lover’s
soul, and well knew that under the influence of her gift of life,
watered by her wisdom, and shone upon with the sunshine of her
presence, it would bloom like a flower and flash out like a star,
filling the world with light and fragrance?

Here also I am not able to answer, but must leave the reader to
form his own judgment on the facts before him, as detailed by Mr.
Holly in the following pages.