The Emptiness of Existence by Arthur Schopenhauer 1881
[Schopenhauer needs little introduction to those with a pessimistic
philosophical outlook. Born in 1788 and died 1860, he was a well-known
German philosopher who is best known for his 1818 work The World as Will
and Representation.]
This emptiness finds its expression in the whole form of existence, in
the infiniteness of Time and Space as opposed to the finiteness of the
individual in both; in the flitting present as the only manner of real
existence; in the dependence and relativity of all things; in constantly
Becoming without Being; in continually wishing without being satisfied;
in an incessant thwarting of one's efforts, which go to make up life,
until victory is won. Time, and the transitoriness of all things, are
merely the form under which the will to live, which as the
thing-in-itself is imperishable, has revealed to Time the futility of
its efforts. Time is that by which at every moment all things become as
nothing in our hands, and thereby lose all their true value.
* * * * *
What has been exists no more; and exists just as little as that which
has never been. But everything that exists has been in the next moment.
Hence something belonging to the present, however unimportant it may be,
is superior to something important belonging to the past; this is
because the former is a reality and related to the latter as something
is to nothing.
A man to his astonishment all at once becomes conscious of existing
after having been in a state of non-existence for many thousands of
years, when, presently again, he returns to a state of non-existence for
an equally long time. This cannot possibly be true, says the heart; and
even the crude mind, after giving the matter its consideration, must
have some sort of presentiment of the ideality of time. This ideality of
time, together with that of space, is the key to every true system of
metaphysics, because it finds room for quite another order of things
than is to be found in nature. This is why Kant is so great.
Of every event in our life it is only for a moment that we can say that
it is; after that we must say for ever that it was. Every evening makes
us poorer by a day. It would probably make us angry to see this short
space of time slipping away, if we were not secretly conscious in the
furthest depths of our being that the spring of eternity belongs to us,
and that in it we are always able to have life renewed.
Reflections of the nature of those above may, indeed, establish the
belief that to enjoy the present, and to make this the purpose of one's
life, is the greatest wisdom; since it is the present alone that is
real, everything else being only the play of thought. But such a purpose
might just as well be called the greatest folly, for that which in the
next moment exists no more, and vanishes as completely as a dream, can
never be worth a serious effort.
Our existence is based solely on the ever-fleeting present. Essentially,
therefore, it has to take the form of continual motion without there
ever being any possibility of our finding the rest after which we are
always striving. It is the same as a man running downhill, who falls if
he tries to stop, and it is only by his continuing to run on that he
keeps on his legs; it is like a pole balanced on one's finger-tips, or
like a planet that would fall into its sun as soon as it stopped
hurrying onwards. Hence unrest is the type of existence.
In a world like this, where there is no kind of stability, no
possibility of anything lasting, but where everything is thrown into a
restless whirlpool of change, where everything hurries on, flies, and is
maintained in the balance by a continual advancing and moving, it is
impossible to imagine happiness. It cannot dwell where, as Plato says,
continual Becoming and never Being is all that takes place. First of
all, no man is happy; he strives his whole life long after imaginary
happiness, which he seldom attains, and if he does, then it is only to
be disillusioned; and as a rule he is shipwrecked in the end and enters
the harbour dismasted. Then it is all the same whether he has been happy
or unhappy in a life which was made up of a merely ever-changing
present and is now at an end.
Meanwhile it surprises one to find, both in the world of human beings
and in that of animals, that this great, manifold, and restless motion
is sustained and kept going by the medium of two simple impulses—hunger
and the instinct of sex, helped perhaps a little by boredom—and that
these have the power to form the primum mobile of so complex a
machinery, setting in motion the variegated show!
Looking at the matter a little closer, we see at the very outset that
the existence of inorganic matter is being constantly attacked by
chemical forces which eventually annihilates it. While organic existence
is only made possible by continual change of matter, to keep up a
perpetual supply of which it must consequently have help from without.
Therefore organic life is like balancing a pole on one's hand; it must
be kept in continual motion, and have a constant supply of matter of
which it is continually and endlessly in need. Nevertheless it is only
by means of this organic life that consciousness is possible.
Accordingly this is a finite existence, and its antithesis would be an
infinite, neither exposed to any attack from without nor in want of help
from without, and hence [Greek: aei hosautos on], in eternal rest;
[Greek: oute gignomenon, oute apollymenon], without change, without
time, and without diversity; the negative knowledge of which is the
fundamental note of Plato's philosophy. The denial of the will to live
reveals the way to such a state as this.
* * * * *
The scenes of our life are like pictures in rough mosaic, which have no
effect at close quarters, but must be looked at from a distance in order
to discern their beauty. So that to obtain something we have desired is
to find out that it is worthless; we are always living in expectation
of better things, while, at the same time, we often repent and long for
things that belong to the past. We accept the present as something that
is only temporary, and regard it only as a means to accomplish our aim.
So that most people will find if they look back when their life is at an
end, that they have lived their lifelong ad interim, and they will be
surprised to find that something they allowed to pass by unnoticed and
unenjoyed was just their life—that is to say, it was the very thing in
the expectation of which they lived. And so it may be said of man in
general that, befooled by hope, he dances into the arms of death.
Then again, there is the insatiability of each individual will; every
time it is satisfied a new wish is engendered, and there is no end to
its eternally insatiable desires.
This is because the Will, taken in itself, is the lord of worlds; since
everything belongs to it, it is not satisfied with a portion of
anything, but only with the whole, which, however, is endless. Meanwhile
it must excite our pity when we consider how extremely little this lord
of the world receives, when it makes its appearance as an individual;
for the most part only just enough to maintain the body. This is why man
is so very unhappy.
In the present age, which is intellectually impotent and remarkable for
its veneration of what is bad in every form—a condition of things which
is quite in keeping with the coined word "Jetztzeit" (present time), as
pretentious as it is cacophonic—the pantheists make bold to say that
life is, as they call it, "an end-in itself." If our existence in this
world were an end-in-itself, it would be the most absurd end that was
ever determined; even we ourselves or any one else might have imagined
it.
Life presents itself next as a task, the task, that is, of subsisting de
gagner sa vie. If this is solved, then that which has been won becomes a
burden, and involves the second task of its being got rid of in order
to ward off boredom, which, like a bird of prey, is ready to fall upon
any life that is secure from want.
So that the first task is to win something, and the second, after the
something has been won, to forget about it, otherwise it becomes a
burden.
That human life must be a kind of mistake is sufficiently clear from the
fact that man is a compound of needs, which are difficult to satisfy;
moreover, if they are satisfied, all he is granted is a state of
painlessness, in which he can only give himself up to boredom. This is a
precise proof that existence in itself has no value, since boredom is
merely the feeling of the emptiness of life. If, for instance, life, the
longing for which constitutes our very being, had in itself any
positive and real value, boredom could not exist; mere existence in
itself would supply us with everything, and therefore satisfy us. But
our existence would not be a joyous thing unless we were striving after
something; distance and obstacles to be overcome then represent our aim
as something that would satisfy us—an illusion which vanishes when our
aim has been attained; or when we are engaged in something that is of a
purely intellectual nature, when, in reality, we have retired from the
world, so that we may observe it from the outside, like spectators at a
theatre. Even sensual pleasure itself is nothing but a continual
striving, which ceases directly its aim is attained. As soon as we are
not engaged in one of these two ways, but thrown back on existence
itself, we are convinced of the emptiness and worthlessness of it; and
this it is we call boredom. That innate and ineradicable craving for
what is out of the common proves how glad we are to have the natural and
tedious course of things interrupted. Even the pomp and splendour of
the rich in their stately castles is at bottom nothing but a futile
attempt to escape the very essence of existence, misery.
That the most perfect manifestation of the will to live, which presents
itself in the extremely subtle and complicated machinery of the human
organism, must fall to dust and finally deliver up its whole being to
dissolution, is the naïve way in which Nature, invariably true and
genuine, declares the whole striving of the will in its very essence to
be of no avail. If it were of any value in itself, something
unconditioned, its end would not be non-existence. This is the dominant
note of Goethe's beautiful song:
"Hoch auf dem alten Thurme steht
Des Helden edler Geist."
That man is nothing but a phenomenon, that he is
not-the-thing-in-itself—I mean that he is not [Greek: ontos on]-—is
proved by the fact that death is a necessity.
And how different the beginning of our life is to the end! The former is
made up of deluded hopes, sensual enjoyment, while the latter is
pursued by bodily decay and the odour of death.
The road dividing the two, as far as our well-being and enjoyment of
life are concerned, is downhill; the dreaminess of childhood, the
joyousness of youth, the troubles of middle age, the infirmity and
frequent misery of old age, the agonies of our last illness, and finally
the struggle with death—do all these not make one feel that existence
is nothing but a mistake, the consequences of which are becoming
gradually more and more obvious?
It would be wisest to regard life as a desengaño, a delusion; that everything is intended to be so is sufficiently clear.
Our life is of a microscopical nature; it is an indivisible point which,
drawn out by the powerful lenses of Time and Space, becomes
considerably magnified.
Time is an element in our brain which by the means of duration gives a
semblance of reality to the absolutely empty existence of things and
ourselves.
How foolish it is for a man to regret and deplore his having made no use
of past opportunities, which might have secured him this or that
happiness or enjoyment! What is there left of them now? Only the ghost
of a remembrance! And it is the same with everything that really falls
to our lot. So that the form of time itself, and how much is reckoned on
it, is a definite way of proving to us the vanity of all earthly
enjoyment.
Our existence, as well as that of all animals, is not one that lasts, it
is only temporary, merely an existentia fluxa, which may be compared to
a water-mill in that it is constantly changing.
It is true that the form of the body lasts for a time, but only on
condition that the matter is constantly changing, that the old matter is
thrown off and new added. And it is the chief work of all living
creatures to secure a constant supply of suitable matter. At the same
time, they are conscious that their existence is so fashioned as to last
only for a certain time, as has been said. This is why they attempt,
when they are taking leave of life, to hand it over to some one else who
will take their place. This attempt takes the form of the sexual
instinct in self-consciousness, and in the consciousness of other things
presents itself objectively—that is, in the form of genital instinct.
This instinct may be compared to the threading of a string of pearls;
one individual succeeding another as rapidly as the pearls on the
thread. If we, in imagination, hasten on this succession, we shall see
that the matter is constantly changing in the whole row just as it is
changing in each pearl, while it retains the same form: we will then
realise that we have only a quasi-existence. That it is only Ideas which
exist, and the shadow-like nature of the thing corresponding to them,
is the basis of Plato's teachings.
That we are nothing but phenomena as opposed to the thing-in-itself is
confirmed, exemplified, and made clear by the fact that the conditio
sine qua non of our existence is a continual flowing off and flowing to
of matter which, as nourishment, is a constant need. So that we resemble
such phenomena as smoke, fire, or a jet of water, all of which die out
or stop directly there is no supply of matter. It may be said then that
the will to live presents itself in the form of pure phenomena which end
in nothing. This nothingness, however, together with the phenomena,
remain within the boundary of the will to live and are based on it. I
admit that this is somewhat obscure.
If we try to get a general view of humanity at a glance, we shall see
everywhere a constant fighting and mighty struggling for life and
existence; that mental and bodily strength is taxed to the utmost, and
opposed by threatening and actual dangers and woes of every kind.
And if we consider the price that is paid for all this, existence, and
life itself, it will be found that there has been an interval when
existence was free from pain, an interval, however, which was
immediately followed by boredom, and which in its turn was quickly
terminated by fresh cravings.
That boredom is immediately followed by fresh needs is a fact which is
also true of the cleverer order of animals, because life has no true and
genuine value in itself, but is kept in motion merely through the
medium of needs and illusion. As soon as there are no needs and illusion
we become conscious of the absolute barrenness and emptiness of
existence.
If one turns from contemplating the course of the world at large, and in
particular from the ephemeral and mock existence of men as they follow
each other in rapid succession, to the detail of life, how like a comedy
it seems!
It impresses us in the same way as a drop of water, crowded with
infusoria, seen through a microscope, or a little heap of cheese-mites
that would otherwise be invisible. Their activity and struggling with
each other in such little space amuse us greatly. And it is the same in
the little span of life—great and earnest activity produces a comic
effect.
No man has ever felt perfectly happy in the present; if he had it would have intoxicated him.
Men fear Death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly, the contemplation of death, as the wages of sin and passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the fear of it, as a tribute due unto nature, is weak. Yet in religious meditations there is sometimes mixture of vanity and of superstition. You shall read in some of the friars' books of mortification, that a man should think with himself what the pain is if he have but his finger's end pressed or tortured, and thereby imagine what the pains of death are, when the whole body is corrupted and dissolved; when many times death passeth with less pain than the torture of a limb: for the most vital parts are not the quickest of sense. And by him that spake only as a philosopher and natural man, it was well said, Pompa mortis magis terret, quam mors ipsa [Seneca:it is the accompaniments of death that are frightful rather than death itself]. Groans and convulsions, and a discoloured face, and friends weeping, and blacks, and obsequies, and the like, shew death terrible. It is worthy the observing, that there is no passion in the mind of man so weak, but it mates and masters the fear of death; and therefore death is no such terrible enemy when a man hath so many attendants about him that can win the combat of him. Revenge triumphs over death; Love slights it; Honour aspireth to it; Grief flieth to it; Fear pre-occupateth it; nay we read, after Otho the emperor had slain himself, Pity (which is the tenderest of affections) provoked many to die, out of mere compassion to their sovereign, and as the truest sort of followers. Nay, Seneca adds niceness and satiety: Cogita quamdiu eadon feceris; mori velle, non tantum fortis, aut miser, sed etiam fastidiosus potest. A man would die, though he were neither valiant nor miserable, only upon a weariness to do the same thing so oft over and over. It is no less worthy to observe, how little alteration in good spirits the approaches of death make; for they appear to be the same men till the last instant. Augustus Caesar died in a compliment: Livia, conjugii nostri memor, vive el vale [farewell, Livia; and forget not the days of our marriage]. Tiberius in dissimulation; as Tacitus saith of him, Jam Tiberium vires et corpus, non dissimulatio, deserebant: [his powers of body were gone, but his power of dissimulation still remained]. Vespasian in a jest; sitting upon the stool, Ut puto Deus fio [I think I am becoming a god]. Galba with a sentence; Feri, si ex re sit populi Romani [strike, if it be for the good of Rome]; holding forth his neck. Septimius Severus in despatch; Adeste si quid mihi restat agendum [make haste, if there is anything more for me to do]. And the like. Certainly the Stoics bestowed too much cost upon death, and by their great preparations made it appear more fearful. Better saith he, qui finem vitae extremum inter munera ponat naturae [who accounts the close of life as one of the benefits of nature]. It is as natural to die as to be born; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful as the other. He that dies in an earnest pursuit, is like one that is wounded in hot blood; who, for the time, scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind fixed and bent upon somewhat that is good doth avert the dolours of death. But above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is, Nunc dimittis; when a man hath obtained worthy ends and expectations. Death hath this also; that it openeth the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth envy. Extinctus amabitur idem [the same man that was envied while he lived, shall be loved when he is gone].
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The ban of excommunication has not been pronounced solely against persons who had made themselves obnoxious. Henry C. Lea, in his "Studies in Church History," relates how it has likewise been pronounced against animals, and even insects. With what effect the reader will glean from what ensues:
The earliest instance on record of excommunication being pronounced against insects occurred in 1120, when a Bishop of Laon excommunicated the caterpillars which were ravaging his diocese, with the same formula as that employed the previous year by the Council of Rheims in cursing the priests who persisted in marrying in spite of the canons. What success attended his efforts is not recorded, but soon afterward St. Bernard found the remedy effectual when, preaching in the monastery of Foigny, which he founded in 1121, he was interrupted by swarms of irreligious flies whose buzzing sorely tried the patience of the orator and the attention of the audience. Wearied beyond endurance, the saint at last exclaimed to his tormentors, "I excommunicate you;" and next morning they were found lying dead upon the floor of the chapel in such multitudes that they had to be swept out.
In all these cases it is observable how completely the original idea of excommunication — the depriving a sinner of participation in a sacrament of which he was unworthy —is lost in the secondary notion of a ban or curse inflicted on persons or things who had never enjoyed or could enjoy communion. The Church is no longer merely the custodian of the body and blood of the Redeemer, but has acquired the attributes of the Deity, the power to bless or to curse, and excommunication is only the traditional form through which to convey too curse that works woe in this world and in the next. In all ages the saints, peculiarly favored of God, were enabled by divine grace to work miracles, but the formula of excommunication embodied the collective authority of the Church, and it was effectual as an every-day operation of that authority, irrespective of the character of the minister who wielded it.
How thoroughly these excommunications of animals were assimilated to the regular use of the censures of the Church is manifested by the form which they subsequently took. Even as the canons, however constantly violated, forbade the expulsion of a Christian without a formal trial, so as civilization advanced, it began to be thought that an unfair advantage was taken of the dumb creatures of God by condemning them unheard, and the practice arose of affording them the opportunity of defense before the ecclesiastical Courts prior to pronouncing the dreadful sentence against them. Perhaps the best known of these curious proceedings was that by which the distinguished lawyer Bartholomew Chassanee. in 1510, made the reputation which subsequently elevated him to the post of Premier President of the Parliament of Aix. The country around Autun being intolerably infested with rats, whose numbers resisted all ordinary means of extermination, the inhabitants applied to the Bishop to have the vermin regularly excommunicated. The Episcopal Court nominated Chassanee to appear as counsel for the rats, in consequence of his having shortly before printed a consultation of vast erudition on trials of that kind. He accordingly undertook the defense and proved that the rats had not been properly summoned to appear, and the trial went over until a formal citation to the defendants was published by the priests of all the parishes in the infested district. He then moved for a longer delay, alleging that the time allowed the rats to put in an appearance was too short, in view of the danger incurred by them through reason of the cats, which rendered all access to the Court dangerous for them; and his learned argument on the point gained an additional postponement. De Thou, to whom we are indebted for these curious details, does not state the conclusion of the trial, but it is fair to presume that the rats were finally condemned and duly excommunicated, in spite of the learning and ability of their advocate, for that was the usual result in these cases, and Chassanee, in his consultation, had admitted its propriety. He argues, after various generalizing ideas, that religion permits us to lay snares for bird and other animals destructive of the fruits of the earth, and that anathema is the surest and most comprehensive of snares. That to preserve the harvests, incantations and other forbidden proceedings are tolerated by the law, and a fortiori it is permissible to use against destructive vermin the excommunication which is authorized and employed by the Church itself. In support of this opinion he cites a case in which the sparrows who soiled the Church of St. Vincent were excommunicated by the Bishop, and another where the rats and caterpillars who swarmed over a wide extent of country were jointly anathematized by the ecclesiastical authorities of Anton, Macon and Lyons.
Such cases, indeed, were by no means rare, In 1451 the fish of the Lake of Geneva were threatened with destruction by the abounding multitudes of leeches. By order of William of Saluces, Bishop of Lausanne, a regular trial was held. The leeches were ordered, under pain of excommunication, to confine themselves to a certain spot, and they duly obeyed, no longer venturing to wander beyond the limits prescribed, In 1480 the Spiritual Court of Autun, on complaint of the inhabitants of Mossy and Pernan, excommunicated the caterpillars, and ordered the priests to repeat the anathema from their pulpits, until it should produced the desired effect. In 1481 a similar sentence was rendered at Macon against the snails, which was repeated in 1487. Another was delivered in 1488, at Autun, against the caterpillars, and the same year at Beaujeau, against the snails. At Troves, in 1516, there were similar proceedings against grasshoppers at Milliere in Normandy. The progress of enlightenment, however, made itself apparent in 1587 at Valence, where a plague of caterpillars led to a former trial and sentence of banishment under pain of excommunication. The obstinate insects refusing obedience, the Grand tear of the Bishop of Valence was proceeding to fulminate the threatened anathema, when he was dissuaded by some discreet lawyers and theologians.
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The Transmutation of Base Metals into Gold, by John Phin 1906
The "accursed thirst for gold" has existed from the earliest ages and, as the apostle says, "is the root of all evil." Those who have a greed for power, a craving for luxury, or a fever for lust, all think that their wildest dreams might be realized if they could only command sufficient gold. Never was there a more lurid picture of a mind inflamed with all these evil passions than that set forth by Ben Jonson in the Second Act of "The Alchemist," and who can doubt but that such desires and dreams spurred on many, either to engage in an actual search for the philosopher's stone, or to become the dupes of what Van Helmont calls "a diabolical crew of gold and silver sucking flies and leeches."
As we might naturally expect, the early history of alchemy is shrouded in myths and fables. Zosimos the Panopolite tells us that the art of Alchemy was first taught to mankind by demons, who fell in love with the daughters of men, and, as a reward for their favors, taught them all the works and mysteries of nature. On this Boerhaave remarks:
"This ancient fiction took its rise from a mistaken interpretation of the words of Moses, 'That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair, and they took them wives of all which they chose.'[Genesis 6:2] From whence it was inferred that the sons of God were dæmons, consisting of a soul, and a visible but impalpable body, like the image in a looking-glass (to which notion we find several allusions in the evangelists); that they know all things, appeared to men and conversed with them, fell in love with women, had intrigues with them and revealed secrets. From the same fable probably arose that of the Sibyl, who is said to have obtained of Apollo the gift of prophecy, and revealing the will of heaven in return for a like favor. So prone is the roving mind of man to figments, which it can at first idly amuse itself with, and at length fall down and worship."
This idea of the supernatural origin of the arts permeates the ancient mythology which everywhere teaches that men were taught the sacred arts of medicine and chemistry by gods and demigods.
Modern science discards all these mythological accounts. Whatever knowledge the ancients acquired of medicine and chemistry was, no doubt, reached along two lines—pharmacy and metallurgy. That the pharmacist or apothecary exercised his calling at a very early period we have positive knowledge; thus in the Book of Ecclesiastes we are told that "dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor," and that men at a very early day found out the means of working iron, copper, gold, silver, etc., is evident from the accounts given of Vulcan and Tubalcain, as well as from the remains of old tools and weapons. And that Alchemy, as it is generally understood, is a comparatively modern outgrowth of these two arts, is pretty certain. No mention of the art of converting the baser metals into gold, and no account of a universal medicine or elixir of life is to be found in any of the authentic writings of the ancients. Homer, Aristotle, and even Pliny are all silent on the subject, and those writings which treat of the art, and which claim an ancient origin, such as the books of Hermes Trismegistus, are now regarded by the best authorities as spurious—the evidence that they were the work of a far later age being irrefragable.
Several writers have taken the ground that the alchemical treatises which have come down to us from the early writers on the subject, are purely allegorical and do not relate to material things, but to the principles of a higher religion which, in those days, it was dangerous to expound in plain language. One or two elaborate works and several articles supporting this view have been published, but the common-sense reader who will glance through the immense collection of alchemical tracts gathered together by Mangetus in two folio volumes of a thousand pages each, will rise from such examination, very thoroughly convinced that it was the actual metal gold, and the fabled universal medicine that these writers had in view.
There can be little doubt that Geber, Roger Bacon, Albertus Magnus, Raymond Lully, Helvetius, Van Helmont, Basil Valentine, and others, describe very substantial things with a minuteness of detail which leaves no room for doubt as to their materiality though we cannot always be sure of their identity.
Some confusion of thought has been caused by the difference which has been made between the terms alchemy and chemistry and their applications. The word alchemy is simply the word chemistry with the Arabic word al, which signifies the, prefixed, and the history of alchemy is really the history of chemistry—wild and erratic in its beginnings, and giving rise to strange hopes and still stranger theories, but ever working along the line of discovery and progress. And, although many of the professional chemists or alchemists of the middle ages were undoubted charlatans and quacks, yet did we not have many of the same kind in the nineteenth century? We may use the word alchemist as a term of reproach, and apply it to these early workers because their theories appear to us to be absurd, but how do we know that the chemists of the twenty-second century will not regard us in a similar light, and set at naught the theories we so fondly cherish?
Only seven out of the large number of metals now catalogued by us were known to the ancients; these were gold, silver, mercury, copper, tin, lead, and iron. And as it happened that the list of so-called planets also numbered exactly seven, it was thought that there must be a connection between the two, and, consequently, in the alchemical writings, each metal was called by the name of that one of the heavenly bodies which was supposed to be connected with it in influence and quality.
In the astronomy of the ancients, as is generally known, the earth occupied the center of the universe, and the list of planets included the sun and moon. After them came Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. To the metal gold was given the name of Sol, or the sun, on account of its brightness and its power of resisting corroding agents; hence the compounds of gold were known as solar compounds and solar medicines. As might have been expected, silver was assigned to Luna or the moon, and in the modern pharmacopœia such terms as lunar caustic and lunar salts still have a place. Mercury was, of course, appropriated to the planet of that name. Copper was named after Venus, and cupreous salts were known as venereal salts. Iron, probably from its being the metal chiefly used for making arms and armor, was dedicated to Mars, and we still speak of martial salts. Tin was named after Jupiter from his brilliancy, the compounds of tin being called jovial salts. The dull, leaden color of Saturn, with his apparently heavy and slow motion, seemed to fit him for association with lead, and we still have the saturnine ointment as a reminder of old alchemical times.
Of these metals gold was supposed to be the only one that was perfect, and the belief was general that if the others could be purified and perfected they would be changed to gold. Many of the old chemists worked faithfully and honestly to accomplish this, but the path to wealth seemed so direct and the means for deception were so ready and simple, that large numbers of quacks and charlatans entered the field and held out the most alluring inducements to dupes who furnished them liberally with money and other necessaries in the hope that when the discovery was made they would be put in possession of unbounded wealth. These dupes were easily deceived and led astray by simple frauds, which scarcely rose to the level of amateur legerdemain. In the "Memoirs of the Academy of Sciences" for 1772, M. Geoffroy gives an account of the various modes in which the frauds of these swindlers were carried on. The following are a few of their tricks: Instead of the mineral substances which they pretended to transmute they put a salt of gold or silver at the bottom of the crucible, the mixture being covered with some powdered crucible and gum water or wax so that it might look like the bottom of the crucible. Another method was to bore a hole in a piece of charcoal, fill the hole with fine filings of gold or silver, stopping it with powered charcoal, mixed with some agglutinant so that the whole might look natural. Then when the charcoal burned away, the silver or gold was found in the bottom of the crucible. Or they soaked charcoal in a solution of these metals and threw the charcoal, when powdered, upon the material to be transmuted. Sometimes they whitened gold with mercury and made it pass for silver or tin, and the gold when melted was exhibited as the result of transmutation. A common exhibition was to dip nails in a liquid and to take them out apparently half converted into gold; these nails consisted of one-half iron neatly soldered to the other half, which was gold, and covered with something to conceal the color. The paint or covering was removed by the liquid. A very common trick was the use of a hollow, iron stirring rod; the hollow was filled with gold or silver filings, and neatly stopped with wax. When used to stir the contents of the crucible the wax melted and allowed the gold or silver to fall out.
These frauds were rendered all the more easy because of certain statements which were current in regard to successful attempts to convert lead and other metals into gold. These accounts were vouched for by well-known chemists and others of high standing. Perhaps the most famous of these is that given by Helvetius in his "Brief of the Golden Calf; Discovering the Rarest Miracle in Nature; how by the smallest portion of the Philosopher's Stone, a great piece of common lead was totally transmuted into the purest transplendent gold, at the Hague in 1666." The following is Brande's abridgment of this singular account.
"The 27th day of December, 1666, in the afternoon, came a stranger to my house at the Hague, in a plebeick habit, of honest gravity and serious authority, of a mean stature and a little long face, black hair not at all curled, a beardless chin, and about forty-four years (as I guess) of age and born in North Holland. After salutation, he beseeched me with great reverence to pardon his rude accesses, for he was a lover of the Pyrotechnian art, and having read my treatise against the sympathetic powder of Sir Kenelm Digby, and observed my doubt about the philosophic mystery, induced him to ask me if I really was a disbeliever as to the existence of an universal medicine which would cure all diseases, unless the principal parts were perished, or the predestinated time of death come. I replied, I never met with an adept, or saw such a medicine, though I had fervently prayed for it. Then I said, 'Surely you are a learned physician.' 'No,' said he, 'I am a brass-founder, and a lover of chemistry.' He then took from his bosom-pouch a neat ivory box, and out of it three ponderous lumps of stone, each about the bigness of a walnut. I greedily saw and handled for a quarter of an hour this most noble substance, the value of which might be somewhere about twenty tons of gold; and having drawn from the owner many rare secrets of its admirable effects, I returned him this treasure of treasures with a most sorrowful mind, humbly beseeching him to bestow a fragment of it upon me in perpetual memory of him, though but the size of a coriander seed. 'No, no,' said he, 'that is not lawful, though thou wouldest give me as many golden ducats as would fill this room; for it would have particular consequences, and if fire could be burned of fire, I would at this instant rather cast it all into the fiercest flames.' He then asked if I had a private chamber whose prospect was from the public street; so I presently conducted him to my best furnished room backwards, which he entered, says Helvetius (in the true spirit of Dutch cleanliness), without wiping his shoes, which were full of snow and dirt. I now expected he would bestow some great secret upon me; but in vain. He asked for a piece of gold, and opening his doublet showed me five pieces of that precious metal which he wore upon a green riband, and which very much excelled mine in flexibility and color, each being the size of a small trencher. I now earnestly again craved a crumb of the stone, and at last, out of his philosophical commiseration, he gave me a morsel as large as a rapeseed; but I said, 'This scanty portion will scarcely transmute four grains of lead.' 'Then,' said he, 'Deliver it me back:' which I did, in hopes of a greater parcel; but he, cutting off half with his nail, said: 'Even this is sufficient for thee.' 'Sir,' said I, with a dejected countenance, 'what means this?' And he said, 'Even that will transmute half an ounce of lead.' So I gave him great thanks, and said I would try it, and reveal it to no one. He then took his leave, and said he would call again next morning at nine. I then confessed, that while the mass of his medicine was in my hand the day before, I had secretly scraped off a bit with my nail, which I projected on lead, but it caused no transmutation, for the whole flew away in fumes. 'Friend,' said he, 'thou art more dexterous in committing theft than in applying medicine; hadst thou wrapt up thy stolen prey in yellow wax, it would have penetrated and transmuted the lead into gold.' I then asked if the philosophic work cost much or required long time, for philosophers say that nine or ten months are required for it. He answered, 'Their writings are only to be understood by the adepts, without whom no student can prepare this magistery. Fling not away, therefore, thy money and goods in hunting out this art, for thou shalt never find it.' To which I replied, 'As thy master showed it thee so mayest thou perchance discover something thereof to me who know the rudiments, and therefore, it may be easier to add to a foundation than begin anew.' 'In this art,' said he, 'it is quite otherwise, for unless thou knowest the thing from head to heel, thou canst not break open the glassy seal of Hermes. But enough; tomorrow at the ninth hour I will show thee the manner of projection.' But Elias never came again; so my wife, who was curious in the art whereof the worthy man had discoursed, teazed me to make the experiment with the little spark of bounty the artist had left me; so I melted half an ounce of lead, upon which my wife put in the said medicine; it hissed and bubbled, and in a quarter of an hour the mass of lead was transmuted into fine gold, at which we were exceedingly amazed. I took it to the goldsmith, who judged it most excellent, and willingly offered fifty florins for each ounce."
Such is the celebrated history of Elias the artist and Dr. Helvetius.
Helvetius stood very high as a man and chemist, but in connection with this and some other narratives of the same kind, it may be well to remember that something over a hundred years before that time the celebrated Paracelsus had introduced laudanum.
The following is another history of transmutation, given by Mangetus, on the authority of M. Gros, a clergyman of Geneva, "of the most unexceptionable character, and at the same time a skilful physician and expert chemist."
"About the year 1650 an unknown Italian came to Geneva and took lodgings at the sign of the Green Cross. After remaining there a day or two, he requested De Luc, the landlord, to procure him a man acquainted with Italian, to accompany him through the town and point out those things which deserved to be examined. De Luc was acquainted with M. Gros, at that time about twenty years of age, and a student in Geneva, and knowing his proficiency in the Italian language, requested him to accompany the stranger. To this proposition he willingly acceded, and attended the Italian everywhere for the space of a fortnight. The stranger now began to complain of want of money, which alarmed M. Gros not a little, for at that time he was very poor, and he became apprehensive, from the tenor of the stranger's conversation, that he intended to ask the loan of money from him. But instead of this, the Italian asked him if he was acquainted with any goldsmith, whose bellows and other utensils they might be permitted to use, and who would not refuse to supply them with the different articles requisite for a particular process which he wanted to perform. M. Gros named a M. Bureau, to whom the Italian immediately repaired. He readily furnished crucibles, pure tin, quicksilver, and the other things required by the Italian. The goldsmith left his workshop, that the Italian might be under the less restraint, leaving M. Gros, with one of his own workmen as an attendant. The Italian put a quantity of tin into one crucible, and a quantity of quicksilver into another. The tin was melted in the fire and the mercury heated. It was then poured into the melted tin, and at the same time a red powder enclosed in wax was projected into the amalgam. An agitation took place and a great deal of smoke was exhaled from the crucible; but this speedily subsided, and the whole being poured out, formed six heavy ingots, having the color of gold. The goldsmith was called in by the Italian and requested to make a rigid examination of the smallest of these ingots. The goldsmith not content with the touch-stone and the application of aquafortis, exposed the metal on the cupel with lead and fused it with antimony, but it sustained no loss. He found it possessed of the ductility and specific gravity of gold; and full of admiration, he exclaimed that he had never worked before upon gold so perfectly pure. The Italian made him a present of the smallest ingot as a recompense and then, accompanied by M. Gros, he repaired to the mint, where he received from M. Bacuet, the mint-master, a quantity of Spanish gold coin, equal in weight to the ingots which he had brought. To M. Gros he made a present of twenty pieces on account of the attention that he had paid to him and after paying his bill at the inn, he added fifteen pieces more, to serve to entertain M. Gros and M. Bureau for some days, and in the meantime he ordered a supper, that he might, on his return, have the pleasure of supping with these two gentlemen. He went out, but never returned, leaving behind him the greatest regret and admiration. It is needless to add that M. Gros and M. Bureau continued to enjoy themselves at the inn till the fifteen pieces which the stranger had left, were exhausted."
Narratives such as these led even Bergman, a very able chemist of the period, to take the ground that "although most of these relations are deceptive and many uncertain, some bear such character and testimony that, unless we reject all historical evidence, we must allow them entitled to confidence."
A much more probable explanation is that the relators were either dreaming or deceived by clever legerdemain.
Of the possibility or impossibility of converting the more common metals into gold or silver, it would be rash to give a positive opinion. To say that gold, silver, lead, copper, etc., are elements and cannot be changed, is merely to say that we have not been able to decompose them. Water, potash, soda, and other substances, were at one time considered elements, and resisted all the efforts of the older chemists to resolve them into their components, but with the advent of more powerful means of analysis they were shown to be compounds, and it is not impossible that the so-called elements into which they were resolved may themselves be found to be compounds. This has happened in regard to some substances which were at one time announced as elements, and it is not impossible that it may happen in regard to others. The ablest chemists of the present day recognize this fully and are prepared for radical changes in our knowledge of the nature and constitution of matter. Amongst the new views is the hypothesis of Rutherford and Soddy, which, as given by Sir William Ramsay, in a recent article contributed by him to "Harper's Magazine," is that,
"atoms of elements of high atomic weight, such as radium, uranium, thorium, and the suspected elements polonium and actinium, are unstable; that they undergo spontaneous change into other forms of matter, themselves radioactive and themselves unstable; and that finally elements are produced, which, on account of their non-radioactivity, are as a rule, impossible to recognize, for their minute amount precludes the application of any ordinary test with success. The recognition of helium however, which is comparatively easy of detection, lends great support to this hypothesis."
At the same time we must not lose sight of the fact that the substances which we now recognize as elements have not only resisted the most powerful analytical agencies and dissociating forces, but have maintained their elemental character in spectrum analysis, and shown their presence as distinct elements in the sun and other heavenly bodies where they must have been subjected to the action of the most energetic decomposing forces. So that in the present state of our knowledge the near prospect of successful transmutation does not seem to be very bright, although we cannot regard it as impossible. In the article from which we have already quoted, Sir William Ramsay, after discussing the bearing of certain experiments in regard to the parting with and absorbing of energy by certain elements, says: "If these hypotheses are just, then the transmutation of the elements no longer appears an idle dream. The philosopher's stone will have been discovered, and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that it may lead to that other goal of the philosophers of the dark ages—the elixir vitæ. For the action of living cells is also dependent on the nature and direction of the energy which they contain; and who can say that it will be impossible to control their action, when the means of imparting and controlling energy shall have been investigated!"
In the event of the discovery of a cheap method of producing gold, the change which would certainly occur in our financial or currency system would be important, if not revolutionary. It has become the fashion at present with certain writers to scout the so-called "quantitative theory" of money as if it were an exposed fallacy. Now the quantitative theory of money rests on one of the most well-grounded and firmly established principles in political economy: the trouble is that the writers in question do not understand it or even know what it is. At present, the production of gold barely keeps pace with the increasing demand for the metal as currency and in the arts, but if that production were increased ten-fold, the value of gold would decline and prices would go up astonishingly.
One of the objects which the better class of alchemists had in view was the making of gold to such an extent that it might become quite common and cease to be sought after by mankind. One alchemical writer says: "Would to God that all men might become adepts in our art, for then gold, the common idol of mankind, would lose its value and we should prize it only for its scientific teaching."
It is hard luck on a young fellow to have expensive tastes, great expectations, aristocratic connections, but no actual money in his pocket, and no profession by which he may earn any. The fact was that my father, a good, sanguine, easy-going man, had such confidence in the wealth and benevolence of his bachelor elder brother, Lord Southerton, that he took it for granted that I, his only son, would never be called upon to earn a living for myself. He imagined that if there were not a vacancy for me on the great Southerton Estates, at least there would be found some post in that diplomatic service which still remains the special preserve of our privileged classes. He died too early to realize how false his calculations had been. Neither my uncle nor the State took the slightest notice of me, or showed any interest in my career. An occasional brace of pheasants, or basket of hares, was all that ever reached me to remind me that I was heir to Otwell House and one of the richest estates in the country. In the meantime, I found myself a bachelor and man about town, living in a suite of apartments in Grosvenor Mansions, with no occupation save that of pigeon-shooting and polo-playing at Hurlingham. Month by month I realized that it was more and more difficult to get the brokers to renew my bills, or to cash any further post-obits upon an unentailed property. Ruin lay right across my path, and every day I saw it clearer, nearer, and more absolutely unavoidable.
What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from the great wealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were fairly well-to-do. The nearest of these was Everard King, my father's nephew and my own first cousin, who had spent an adventurous life in Brazil, and had now returned to this country to settle down on his fortune. We never knew how he made his money, but he appeared to have plenty of it, for he bought the estate of Greylands, near Clipton-on-the-Marsh, in Suffolk. For the first year of his residence in England he took no more notice of me than my miserly uncle; but at last one summer morning, to my very great relief and joy, I received a letter asking me to come down that very day and spend a short visit at Greylands Court. I was expecting a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court at the time, and this interruption seemed almost providential. If I could only get on terms with this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through yet. For the family credit he could not let me go entirely to the wall. I ordered my valet to pack my valise, and I set off the same evening for Clipton-on-the-Marsh.
After changing at Ipswich, a little local train deposited me at a small, deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country, with a sluggish and winding river curving in and out amidst the valleys, between high, silted banks, which showed that we were within reach of the tide. No carriage was awaiting me (I found afterwards that my telegram had been delayed), so I hired a dogcart at the local inn. The driver, an excellent fellow, was full of my relative's praises, and I learned from him that Mr. Everard King was already a name to conjure with in that part of the county. He had entertained the school-children, he had thrown his grounds open to visitors, he had subscribed to charities—in short, his benevolence had been so universal that my driver could only account for it on the supposition that he had parliamentary ambitions.
My attention was drawn away from my driver's panegyric by the appearance of a very beautiful bird which settled on a telegraph-post beside the road. At first I thought that it was a jay, but it was larger, with a brighter plumage. The driver accounted for its presence at once by saying that it belonged to the very man whom we were about to visit. It seems that the acclimatization of foreign creatures was one of his hobbies, and that he had brought with him from Brazil a number of birds and beasts which he was endeavouring to rear in England. When once we had passed the gates of Greylands Park we had ample evidence of this taste of his. Some small spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, I believe, as a peccary, a gorgeously feathered oriole, some sort of armadillo, and a singular lumbering in-toed beast like a very fat badger, were among the creatures which I observed as we drove along the winding avenue.
Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person upon the steps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance, and guessed that it was I. His appearance was very homely and benevolent, short and stout, forty-five years old, perhaps, with a round, good-humoured face, burned brown with the tropical sun, and shot with a thousand wrinkles. He wore white linen clothes, in true planter style, with a cigar between his lips, and a large Panama hat upon the back of his head. It was such a figure as one associates with a verandahed bungalow, and it looked curiously out of place in front of this broad, stone English mansion, with its solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the doorway.
"My dear!" he cried, glancing over his shoulder; "my dear, here is our guest! Welcome, welcome to Greylands! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great compliment that you should honour this sleepy little country place with your presence."
Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at my ease in an instant. But it needed all his cordiality to atone for the frigidity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman, who came forward at his summons. She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction, though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on the score of her ignorance of our customs. She did not attempt to conceal, however, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitor at Greylands Court. Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but she was the possessor of a pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and I read in them very clearly from the first that she heartily wished me back in London once more.
However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my wealthy relative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by the ill-temper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and reciprocated the extreme cordiality of his welcome. No pains had been spared by him to make me comfortable. My room was a charming one. He implored me to tell him anything which could add to my happiness. It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that a blank cheque would materially help towards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the present state of our acquaintance. The dinner was excellent, and as we sat together afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which later he told me was specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that all my driver's eulogies were justified, and that I had never met a more large-hearted and hospitable man.
But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a strong will and a fiery temper of his own. Of this I had an example upon the following morning. The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King had conceived towards me was so strong, that her manner at breakfast was almost offensive. But her meaning became unmistakable when her husband had quitted the room.
"The best train in the day is at twelve-fifteen," said she.
"But I was not thinking of going today," I answered, frankly—perhaps even defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out by this woman.
"Oh, if it rests with you—" said she, and stopped with a most insolent expression in her eyes.
"I am sure," I answered, "that Mr. Everard King would tell me if I were outstaying my welcome."
"What's this? What's this?" said a voice, and there he was in the room. He had overheard my last words, and a glance at our faces had told him the rest. In an instant his chubby, cheery face set into an expression of absolute ferocity.
"Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshall?" said he. (I may mention that my own name is Marshall King.)
He closed the door behind me, and then, for an instant, I heard him talking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife. This gross breach of hospitality had evidently hit upon his tenderest point. I am no eavesdropper, so I walked out on to the lawn. Presently I heard a hurried step behind me, and there was the lady, her face pale with excitement, and her eyes red with tears.
"My husband has asked me to apologize to you, Mr. Marshall King," said she, standing with downcast eyes before me.
"Please do not say another word, Mrs. King."
Her dark eyes suddenly blazed out at me.
"You fool!" she hissed, with frantic vehemence, and turning on her heel swept back to the house.
The insult was so outrageous, so insufferable, that I could only stand staring after her in bewilderment. I was still there when my host joined me. He was his cheery, chubby self once more.
"I hope that my wife has apologized for her foolish remarks," said he.
"Oh, yes—yes, certainly!"
He put his hand through my arm and walked with me up and down the lawn.
"You must not take it seriously," said he. "It would grieve me inexpressibly if you curtailed your visit by one hour. The fact is—there is no reason why there should be any concealment between relatives—that my poor dear wife is incredibly jealous. She hates that anyone—male or female—should for an instant come between us. Her ideal is a desert island and an eternal tete-a-tete. That gives you the clue to her actions, which are, I confess, upon this particular point, not very far removed from mania. Tell me that you will think no more of it."
"No, no; certainly not."
"Then light this cigar and come round with me and see my little menagerie."
The whole afternoon was occupied by this inspection, which included all the birds, beasts, and even reptiles which he had imported. Some were free, some in cages, a few actually in the house. He spoke with enthusiasm of his successes and his failures, his births and his deaths, and he would cry out in his delight, like a schoolboy, when, as we walked, some gaudy bird would flutter up from the grass, or some curious beast slink into the cover. Finally he led me down a corridor which extended from one wing of the house. At the end of this there was a heavy door with a sliding shutter in it, and beside it there projected from the wall an iron handle attached to a wheel and a drum. A line of stout bars extended across the passage.
"I am about to show you the jewel of my collection," said he. "There is only one other specimen in Europe, now that the Rotterdam cub is dead. It is a Brazilian cat."
"You will soon see that," said he, laughing. "Will you kindly draw that shutter and look through?"
I did so, and found that I was gazing into a large, empty room, with stone flags, and small, barred windows upon the farther wall. In the centre of this room, lying in the middle of a golden patch of sunlight, there was stretched a huge creature, as large as a tiger, but as black and sleek as ebony. It was simply a very enormous and very well-kept black cat, and it cuddled up and basked in that yellow pool of light exactly as a cat would do. It was so graceful, so sinewy, and so gently and smoothly diabolical, that I could not take my eyes from the opening.
"Isn't he splendid?" said my host, enthusiastically.
"Glorious! I never saw such a noble creature."
"Some people call it a black puma, but really it is not a puma at all. That fellow is nearly eleven feet from tail to tip. Four years ago he was a little ball of black fluff, with two yellow eyes staring out of it. He was sold me as a new-born cub up in the wild country at the head-waters of the Rio Negro. They speared his mother to death after she had killed a dozen of them."
"They are ferocious, then?"
"The most absolutely treacherous and bloodthirsty creatures upon earth. You talk about a Brazilian cat to an up-country Indian, and see him get the jumps. They prefer humans to game. This fellow has never tasted living blood yet, but when he does he will be a terror. At present he won't stand anyone but me in his den. Even Baldwin, the groom, dare not go near him. As to me, I am his mother and father in one."
As he spoke he suddenly, to my astonishment, opened the door and slipped in, closing it instantly behind him. At the sound of his voice the huge, lithe creature rose, yawned and rubbed its round, black head affectionately against his side, while he patted and fondled it.
"Now, Tommy, into your cage!" said he.
The monstrous cat walked over to one side of the room and coiled itself up under a grating. Everard King came out, and taking the iron handle which I have mentioned, he began to turn it. As he did so the line of bars in the corridor began to pass through a slot in the wall and closed up the front of this grating, so as to make an effective cage. When it was in position he opened the door once more and invited me into the room, which was heavy with the pungent, musty smell peculiar to the great carnivora.
"That's how we work it," said he. "We give him the run of the room for exercise, and then at night we put him in his cage. You can let him out by turning the handle from the passage, or you can, as you have seen, coop him up in the same way. No, no, you should not do that!"
I had put my hand between the bars to pat the glossy, heaving flank. He pulled it back, with a serious face.
"I assure you that he is not safe. Don't imagine that because I can take liberties with him anyone else can. He is very exclusive in his friends—aren't you, Tommy? Ah, he hears his lunch coming to him! Don't you, boy?"
A step sounded in the stone-flagged passage, and the creature had sprung to his feet, and was pacing up and down the narrow cage, his yellow eyes gleaming, and his scarlet tongue rippling and quivering over the white line of his jagged teeth. A groom entered with a coarse joint upon a tray, and thrust it through the bars to him. He pounced lightly upon it, carried it off to the corner, and there, holding it between his paws, tore and wrenched at it, raising his bloody muzzle every now and then to look at us. It was a malignant and yet fascinating sight.
"You can't wonder that I am fond of him, can you?" said my host, as we left the room, "especially when you consider that I have had the rearing of him. It was no joke bringing him over from the centre of South America; but here he is safe and sound—and, as I have said, far the most perfect specimen in Europe. The people at the Zoo are dying to have him, but I really can't part with him. Now, I think that I have inflicted my hobby upon you long enough, so we cannot do better than follow Tommy's example, and go to our lunch."
My South American relative was so engrossed by his grounds and their curious occupants, that I hardly gave him credit at first for having any interests outside them. That he had some, and pressing ones, was soon borne in upon me by the number of telegrams which he received. They arrived at all hours, and were always opened by him with the utmost eagerness and anxiety upon his face. Sometimes I imagined that it must be the Turf, and sometimes the Stock Exchange, but certainly he had some very urgent business going forwards which was not transacted upon the Downs of Suffolk. During the six days of my visit he had never fewer than three or four telegrams a day, and sometimes as many as seven or eight.
I had occupied these six days so well, that by the end of them I had succeeded in getting upon the most cordial terms with my cousin. Every night we had sat up late in the billiard-room, he telling me the most extraordinary stories of his adventures in America—stories so desperate and reckless, that I could hardly associate them with the brown little, chubby man before me. In return, I ventured upon some of my own reminiscences of London life, which interested him so much, that he vowed he would come up to Grosvenor Mansions and stay with me. He was anxious to see the faster side of city life, and certainly, though I say it, he could not have chosen a more competent guide. It was not until the last day of my visit that I ventured to approach that which was on my mind. I told him frankly about my pecuniary difficulties and my impending ruin, and I asked his advice—though I hoped for something more solid. He listened attentively, puffing hard at his cigar.
"But surely," said he, "you are the heir of our relative, Lord Southerton?"
"I have every reason to believe so, but he would never make me any allowance."
"No, no, I have heard of his miserly ways. My poor Marshall, your position has been a very hard one. By the way, have you heard any news of Lord Southerton's health lately?"
"He has always been in a critical condition ever since my childhood."
"Exactly—a creaking hinge, if ever there was one. Your inheritance may be a long way off. Dear me, how awkwardly situated you are!"
"I had some hopes, sir, that you, knowing all the facts, might be inclined to advance——"
"Don't say another word, my dear boy," he cried, with the utmost cordiality; "we shall talk it over tonight, and I give you my word that whatever is in my power shall be done."
I was not sorry that my visit was drawing to a close, for it is unpleasant to feel that there is one person in the house who eagerly desires your departure. Mrs. King's sallow face and forbidding eyes had become more and more hateful to me. She was no longer actively rude—her fear of her husband prevented her—but she pushed her insane jealousy to the extent of ignoring me, never addressing me, and in every way making my stay at Greylands as uncomfortable as she could. So offensive was her manner during that last day, that I should certainly have left had it not been for that interview with my host in the evening which would, I hoped, retrieve my broken fortunes.
It was very late when it occurred, for my relative, who had been receiving even more telegrams than usual during the day, went off to his study after dinner, and only emerged when the household had retired to bed. I heard him go round locking the doors, as custom was of a night, and finally he joined me in the billiard-room. His stout figure was wrapped in a dressing-gown, and he wore a pair of red Turkish slippers without any heels. Settling down into an arm-chair, he brewed himself a glass of grog, in which I could not help noticing that the whisky considerably predominated over the water.
"My word!" said he, "what a night!"
It was, indeed. The wind was howling and screaming round the house, and the latticed windows rattled and shook as if they were coming in. The glow of the yellow lamps and the flavour of our cigars seemed the brighter and more fragrant for the contrast.
"Now, my boy," said my host, "we have the house and the night to ourselves. Let me have an idea of how your affairs stand, and I will see what can be done to set them in order. I wish to hear every detail."
Thus encouraged, I entered into a long exposition, in which all my tradesmen and creditors from my landlord to my valet, figured in turn. I had notes in my pocket-book, and I marshalled my facts, and gave, I flatter myself, a very businesslike statement of my own unbusinesslike ways and lamentable position. I was depressed, however, to notice that my companion's eyes were vacant and his attention elsewhere. When he did occasionally throw out a remark it was so entirely perfunctory and pointless, that I was sure he had not in the least followed my remarks. Every now and then he roused himself and put on some show of interest, asking me to repeat or to explain more fully, but it was always to sink once more into the same brown study. At last he rose and threw the end of his cigar into the grate.
"I'll tell you what, my boy," said he. "I never had a head for figures, so you will excuse me. You must jot it all down upon paper, and let me have a note of the amount. I'll understand it when I see it in black and white."
The proposal was encouraging. I promised to do so.
"And now it's time we were in bed. By Jove, there's one o'clock striking in the hall."
The tingling of the chiming clock broke through the deep roar of the gale. The wind was sweeping past with the rush of a great river.
"I must see my cat before I go to bed," said my host. "A high wind excites him. Will you come?"
"Certainly," said I.
"Then tread softly and don't speak, for everyone is asleep."
We passed quietly down the lamp-lit Persian-rugged hall, and through the door at the farther end. All was dark in the stone corridor, but a stable lantern hung on a hook, and my host took it down and lit it. There was no grating visible in the passage, so I knew that the beast was in its cage.
"Come in!" said my relative, and opened the door.
A deep growling as we entered showed that the storm had really excited the creature. In the flickering light of the lantern, we saw it, a huge black mass coiled in the corner of its den and throwing a squat, uncouth shadow upon the whitewashed wall. Its tail switched angrily among the straw.
"Poor Tommy is not in the best of tempers," said Everard King, holding up the lantern and looking in at him. "What a black devil he looks, doesn't he? I must give him a little supper to put him in a better humour. Would you mind holding the lantern for a moment?"
I took it from his hand and he stepped to the door.
"His larder is just outside here," said he. "You will excuse me for an instant won't you?" He passed out, and the door shut with a sharp metallic click behind him.
That hard crisp sound made my heart stand still. A sudden wave of terror passed over me. A vague perception of some monstrous treachery turned me cold. I sprang to the door, but there was no handle upon the inner side.
"Here!" I cried. "Let me out!"
"All right! Don't make a row!" said my host from the passage. "You've got the light all right."
"Yes, but I don't care about being locked in alone like this."
"Don't you?" I heard his hearty, chuckling laugh. "You won't be alone long."
"Let me out, sir!" I repeated angrily. "I tell you I don't allow practical jokes of this sort."
"Practical is the word," said he, with another hateful chuckle. And then suddenly I heard, amidst the roar of the storm, the creak and whine of the winch-handle turning and the rattle of the grating as it passed through the slot. Great God, he was letting loose the Brazilian cat!
In the light of the lantern I saw the bars sliding slowly before me. Already there was an opening a foot wide at the farther end. With a scream I seized the last bar with my hands and pulled with the strength of a madman. I WAS a madman with rage and horror. For a minute or more I held the thing motionless. I knew that he was straining with all his force upon the handle, and that the leverage was sure to overcome me. I gave inch by inch, my feet sliding along the stones, and all the time I begged and prayed this inhuman monster to save me from this horrible death. I conjured him by his kinship. I reminded him that I was his guest; I begged to know what harm I had ever done him. His only answers were the tugs and jerks upon the handle, each of which, in spite of all my struggles, pulled another bar through the opening. Clinging and clutching, I was dragged across the whole front of the cage, until at last, with aching wrists and lacerated fingers, I gave up the hopeless struggle. The grating clanged back as I released it, and an instant later I heard the shuffle of the Turkish slippers in the passage, and the slam of the distant door. Then everything was silent.
The creature had never moved during this time. He lay still in the corner, and his tail had ceased switching. This apparition of a man adhering to his bars and dragged screaming across him had apparently filled him with amazement. I saw his great eyes staring steadily at me. I had dropped the lantern when I seized the bars, but it still burned upon the floor, and I made a movement to grasp it, with some idea that its light might protect me. But the instant I moved, the beast gave a deep and menacing growl. I stopped and stood still, quivering with fear in every limb. The cat (if one may call so fearful a creature by so homely a name) was not more than ten feet from me. The eyes glimmered like two disks of phosphorus in the darkness. They appalled and yet fascinated me. I could not take my own eyes from them. Nature plays strange tricks with us at such moments of intensity, and those glimmering lights waxed and waned with a steady rise and fall. Sometimes they seemed to be tiny points of extreme brilliancy—little electric sparks in the black obscurity—then they would widen and widen until all that corner of the room was filled with their shifting and sinister light. And then suddenly they went out altogether.
The beast had closed its eyes. I do not know whether there may be any truth in the old idea of the dominance of the human gaze, or whether the huge cat was simply drowsy, but the fact remains that, far from showing any symptom of attacking me, it simply rested its sleek, black head upon its huge forepaws and seemed to sleep. I stood, fearing to move lest I should rouse it into malignant life once more. But at least I was able to think clearly now that the baleful eyes were off me. Here I was shut up for the night with the ferocious beast. My own instincts, to say nothing of the words of the plausible villain who laid this trap for me, warned me that the animal was as savage as its master. How could I stave it off until morning? The door was hopeless, and so were the narrow, barred windows. There was no shelter anywhere in the bare, stone-flagged room. To cry for assistance was absurd. I knew that this den was an outhouse, and that the corridor which connected it with the house was at least a hundred feet long. Besides, with the gale thundering outside, my cries were not likely to be heard. I had only my own courage and my own wits to trust to.
And then, with a fresh wave of horror, my eyes fell upon the lantern. The candle had burned low, and was already beginning to gutter. In ten minutes it would be out. I had only ten minutes then in which to do something, for I felt that if I were once left in the dark with that fearful beast I should be incapable of action. The very thought of it paralysed me. I cast my despairing eyes round this chamber of death, and they rested upon one spot which seemed to promise I will not say safety, but less immediate and imminent danger than the open floor.
I have said that the cage had a top as well as a front, and this top was left standing when the front was wound through the slot in the wall. It consisted of bars at a few inches' interval, with stout wire netting between, and it rested upon a strong stanchion at each end. It stood now as a great barred canopy over the crouching figure in the corner. The space between this iron shelf and the roof may have been from two or three feet. If I could only get up there, squeezed in between bars and ceiling, I should have only one vulnerable side. I should be safe from below, from behind, and from each side. Only on the open face of it could I be attacked. There, it is true, I had no protection whatever; but at least, I should be out of the brute's path when he began to pace about his den. He would have to come out of his way to reach me. It was now or never, for if once the light were out it would be impossible. With a gulp in my throat I sprang up, seized the iron edge of the top, and swung myself panting on to it. I writhed in face downwards, and found myself looking straight into the terrible eyes and yawning jaws of the cat. Its fetid breath came up into my face like the steam from some foul pot.
It appeared, however, to be rather curious than angry. With a sleek ripple of its long, black back it rose, stretched itself, and then rearing itself on its hind legs, with one forepaw against the wall, it raised the other, and drew its claws across the wire meshes beneath me. One sharp, white hook tore through my trousers—for I may mention that I was still in evening dress—and dug a furrow in my knee. It was not meant as an attack, but rather as an experiment, for upon my giving a sharp cry of pain he dropped down again, and springing lightly into the room, he began walking swiftly round it, looking up every now and again in my direction. For my part I shuffled backwards until I lay with my back against the wall, screwing myself into the smallest space possible. The farther I got the more difficult it was for him to attack me.
He seemed more excited now that he had begun to move about, and he ran swiftly and noiselessly round and round the den, passing continually underneath the iron couch upon which I lay. It was wonderful to see so great a bulk passing like a shadow, with hardly the softest thudding of velvety pads. The candle was burning low—so low that I could hardly see the creature. And then, with a last flare and splutter it went out altogether. I was alone with the cat in the dark!
It helps one to face a danger when one knows that one has done all that possibly can be done. There is nothing for it then but to quietly await the result. In this case, there was no chance of safety anywhere except the precise spot where I was. I stretched myself out, therefore, and lay silently, almost breathlessly, hoping that the beast might forget my presence if I did nothing to remind him. I reckoned that it must already be two o'clock. At four it would be full dawn. I had not more than two hours to wait for daylight.
Outside, the storm was still raging, and the rain lashed continually against the little windows. Inside, the poisonous and fetid air was overpowering. I could neither hear nor see the cat. I tried to think about other things—but only one had power enough to draw my mind from my terrible position. That was the contemplation of my cousin's villainy, his unparalleled hypocrisy, his malignant hatred of me. Beneath that cheerful face there lurked the spirit of a mediaeval assassin. And as I thought of it I saw more clearly how cunningly the thing had been arranged. He had apparently gone to bed with the others. No doubt he had his witness to prove it. Then, unknown to them, he had slipped down, had lured me into his den and abandoned me. His story would be so simple. He had left me to finish my cigar in the billiard-room. I had gone down on my own account to have a last look at the cat. I had entered the room without observing that the cage was opened, and I had been caught. How could such a crime be brought home to him? Suspicion, perhaps—but proof, never!
How slowly those dreadful two hours went by! Once I heard a low, rasping sound, which I took to be the creature licking its own fur. Several times those greenish eyes gleamed at me through the darkness, but never in a fixed stare, and my hopes grew stronger that my presence had been forgotten or ignored. At last the least faint glimmer of light came through the windows—I first dimly saw them as two grey squares upon the black wall, then grey turned to white, and I could see my terrible companion once more. And he, alas, could see me!
It was evident to me at once that he was in a much more dangerous and aggressive mood than when I had seen him last. The cold of the morning had irritated him, and he was hungry as well. With a continual growl he paced swiftly up and down the side of the room which was farthest from my refuge, his whiskers bristling angrily, and his tail switching and lashing. As he turned at the corners his savage eyes always looked upwards at me with a dreadful menace. I knew then that he meant to kill me. Yet I found myself even at that moment admiring the sinuous grace of the devilish thing, its long, undulating, rippling movements, the gloss of its beautiful flanks, the vivid, palpitating scarlet of the glistening tongue which hung from the jet-black muzzle. And all the time that deep, threatening growl was rising and rising in an unbroken crescendo. I knew that the crisis was at hand.
It was a miserable hour to meet such a death—so cold, so comfortless, shivering in my light dress clothes upon this gridiron of torment upon which I was stretched. I tried to brace myself to it, to raise my soul above it, and at the same time, with the lucidity which comes to a perfectly desperate man, I cast round for some possible means of escape. One thing was clear to me. If that front of the cage was only back in its position once more, I could find a sure refuge behind it. Could I possibly pull it back? I hardly dared to move for fear of bringing the creature upon me. Slowly, very slowly, I put my hand forward until it grasped the edge of the front, the final bar which protruded through the wall. To my surprise it came quite easily to my jerk. Of course the difficulty of drawing it out arose from the fact that I was clinging to it. I pulled again, and three inches of it came through. It ran apparently on wheels. I pulled again ... and then the cat sprang!
It was so quick, so sudden, that I never saw it happen. I simply heard the savage snarl, and in an instant afterwards the blazing yellow eyes, the flattened black head with its red tongue and flashing teeth, were within reach of me. The impact of the creature shook the bars upon which I lay, until I thought (as far as I could think of anything at such a moment) that they were coming down. The cat swayed there for an instant, the head and front paws quite close to me, the hind paws clawing to find a grip upon the edge of the grating. I heard the claws rasping as they clung to the wire-netting, and the breath of the beast made me sick. But its bound had been miscalculated. It could not retain its position. Slowly, grinning with rage, and scratching madly at the bars, it swung backwards and dropped heavily upon the floor. With a growl it instantly faced round to me and crouched for another spring.
I knew that the next few moments would decide my fate. The creature had learned by experience. It would not miscalculate again. I must act promptly, fearlessly, if I were to have a chance for life. In an instant I had formed my plan. Pulling off my dress-coat, I threw it down over the head of the beast. At the same moment I dropped over the edge, seized the end of the front grating, and pulled it frantically out of the wall.
It came more easily than I could have expected. I rushed across the room, bearing it with me; but, as I rushed, the accident of my position put me upon the outer side. Had it been the other way, I might have come off scathless. As it was, there was a moment's pause as I stopped it and tried to pass in through the opening which I had left. That moment was enough to give time to the creature to toss off the coat with which I had blinded him and to spring upon me. I hurled myself through the gap and pulled the rails to behind me, but he seized my leg before I could entirely withdraw it. One stroke of that huge paw tore off my calf as a shaving of wood curls off before a plane. The next moment, bleeding and fainting, I was lying among the foul straw with a line of friendly bars between me and the creature which ramped so frantically against them.
Too wounded to move, and too faint to be conscious of fear, I could only lie, more dead than alive, and watch it. It pressed its broad, black chest against the bars and angled for me with its crooked paws as I have seen a kitten do before a mouse-trap. It ripped my clothes, but, stretch as it would, it could not quite reach me. I have heard of the curious numbing effect produced by wounds from the great carnivora, and now I was destined to experience it, for I had lost all sense of personality, and was as interested in the cat's failure or success as if it were some game which I was watching. And then gradually my mind drifted away into strange vague dreams, always with that black face and red tongue coming back into them, and so I lost myself in the nirvana of delirium, the blessed relief of those who are too sorely tried.
Tracing the course of events afterwards, I conclude that I must have been insensible for about two hours. What roused me to consciousness once more was that sharp metallic click which had been the precursor of my terrible experience. It was the shooting back of the spring lock. Then, before my senses were clear enough to entirely apprehend what they saw, I was aware of the round, benevolent face of my cousin peering in through the open door. What he saw evidently amazed him. There was the cat crouching on the floor. I was stretched upon my back in my shirt-sleeves within the cage, my trousers torn to ribbons and a great pool of blood all round me. I can see his amazed face now, with the morning sunlight upon it. He peered at me, and peered again. Then he closed the door behind him, and advanced to the cage to see if I were really dead.
I cannot undertake to say what happened. I was not in a fit state to witness or to chronicle such events. I can only say that I was suddenly conscious that his face was away from me—that he was looking towards the animal.
"Good old Tommy!" he cried. "Good old Tommy!"
Then he came near the bars, with his back still towards me.
"Down, you stupid beast!" he roared. "Down, sir! Don't you know your master?"
Suddenly even in my bemuddled brain a remembrance came of those words of his when he had said that the taste of blood would turn the cat into a fiend. My blood had done it, but he was to pay the price.
"Get away!" he screamed. "Get away, you devil! Baldwin! Baldwin! Oh, my God!"
And then I heard him fall, and rise, and fall again, with a sound like the ripping of sacking. His screams grew fainter until they were lost in the worrying snarl. And then, after I thought that he was dead, I saw, as in a nightmare, a blinded, tattered, blood-soaked figure running wildly round the room—and that was the last glimpse which I had of him before I fainted once again.
I was many months in my recovery—in fact, I cannot say that I have ever recovered, for to the end of my days I shall carry a stick as a sign of my night with the Brazilian cat. Baldwin, the groom, and the other servants could not tell what had occurred, when, drawn by the death-cries of their master, they found me behind the bars, and his remains—or what they afterwards discovered to be his remains—in the clutch of the creature which he had reared. They stalled him off with hot irons, and afterwards shot him through the loophole of the door before they could finally extricate me. I was carried to my bedroom, and there, under the roof of my would-be murderer, I remained between life and death for several weeks. They had sent for a surgeon from Clipton and a nurse from London, and in a month I was able to be carried to the station, and so conveyed back once more to Grosvenor Mansions.
I have one remembrance of that illness, which might have been part of the ever-changing panorama conjured up by a delirious brain were it not so definitely fixed in my memory. One night, when the nurse was absent, the door of my chamber opened, and a tall woman in blackest mourning slipped into the room. She came across to me, and as she bent her sallow face I saw by the faint gleam of the night-light that it was the Brazilian woman whom my cousin had married. She stared intently into my face, and her expression was more kindly than I had ever seen it.
"Are you conscious?" she asked.
I feebly nodded—for I was still very weak.
"Well; then, I only wished to say to you that you have yourself to blame. Did I not do all I could for you? From the beginning I tried to drive you from the house. By every means, short of betraying my husband, I tried to save you from him. I knew that he had a reason for bringing you here. I knew that he would never let you get away again. No one knew him as I knew him, who had suffered from him so often. I did not dare to tell you all this. He would have killed me. But I did my best for you. As things have turned out, you have been the best friend that I have ever had. You have set me free, and I fancied that nothing but death would do that. I am sorry if you are hurt, but I cannot reproach myself. I told you that you were a fool—and a fool you have been." She crept out of the room, the bitter, singular woman, and I was never destined to see her again. With what remained from her husband's property she went back to her native land, and I have heard that she afterwards took the veil at Pernambuco.
It was not until I had been back in London for some time that the doctors pronounced me to be well enough to do business. It was not a very welcome permission to me, for I feared that it would be the signal for an inrush of creditors; but it was Summers, my lawyer, who first took advantage of it.
"I am very glad to see that your lordship is so much better," said he. "I have been waiting a long time to offer my congratulations."
"What do you mean, Summers? This is no time for joking."
"I mean what I say," he answered. "You have been Lord Southerton for the last six weeks, but we feared that it would retard your recovery if you were to learn it."
Lord Southerton! One of the richest peers in England! I could not believe my ears. And then suddenly I thought of the time which had elapsed, and how it coincided with my injuries.
"Then Lord Southerton must have died about the same time that I was hurt?"
"His death occurred upon that very day." Summers looked hard at me as I spoke, and I am convinced—for he was a very shrewd fellow—that he had guessed the true state of the case. He paused for a moment as if awaiting a confidence from me, but I could not see what was to be gained by exposing such a family scandal.
"Yes, a very curious coincidence," he continued, with the same knowing look. "Of course, you are aware that your cousin Everard King was the next heir to the estates. Now, if it had been you instead of him who had been torn to pieces by this tiger, or whatever it was, then of course he would have been Lord Southerton at the present moment."
"No doubt," said I.
"And he took such an interest in it," said Summers. "I happen to know that the late Lord Southerton's valet was in his pay, and that he used to have telegrams from him every few hours to tell him how he was getting on. That would be about the time when you were down there. Was it not strange that he should wish to be so well informed, since he knew that he was not the direct heir?"
"Very strange," said I. "And now, Summers, if you will bring me my bills and a new cheque-book, we will begin to get things into order."
