Possibly if I had been born of other blood, and under more propitious
skies, I would have seen the world through different eyes. There might
have been more _coleur de rose_ and less of sombre tints and neutrals.
To be born in the shadows--ah, me! The sun of morning has never gilded
my mountain tops, nor even at mid-day penetrated the fog and gloom of
the valleys of my soul. Golden sunsets and glorious afterglows are not
for me. Twilight alone is, and ever has been mine. Perhaps if I could
have loved--’Tis said that love illumines one’s soul. But I have never
loved. There was once a woman, whom men called beautiful, but I do not
remember much of her. She had a skin of blood and milk, golden hair,
and pale blue eyes that never looked straight at you. Her voice, as I
recall it, was sweet enough, but it did not ring true, and when she
laughed--but why do I speak of her? She did not understand, and she is
but a dream figure now.
Some one has said that ambition is the main-spring of life. I do not
know, yet I have had ambition--of a certain kind. Mine has been to
learn, to know, to acquire wisdom that should raise me out of the dead
level of mediocrity. But Ambition is the twin sister of Discontent,
and Discontent is the mother of Melancholy and Despair. Work as I
might--and I have never been a drone--there has always been some one
just ahead of me whose results were so much more commendable than
my own that,--well, one might as well work on, even though he never
accomplishes anything worth while. Certain it is that the world has
been no better for anything I ever did. And still I work. I often
wonder if the fellow ahead of me in life’s battle does not feel the
same way;--there’s always another just ahead of him. There can be no
satisfaction in work well done when another goal is looming up just
beyond the one we have reached. I saw a herd of cattle the other day,
lying beneath a spreading oak, placidly chewing their cuds, and as I
looked at them I fancied they gazed at me somewhat pityingly. “Ah,” I
thought, “here is contentment indeed.” I really envied them--until I
noticed the flies that tormented their glossy hides. One might as well
be tormented by ambitions as by flies and gnats. Possibly Nature is
jealous of her children, and will permit none of them to experience the
joy of mere living unannoyed.
* * * * *
A friend of mine once said to me, “How very odd, that you should have
taken up the science of chemistry and made a recluse of yourself,
delving and diving into secrets of nature which, as you have never made
any practical use of them, might as well have remained mysteries.” Here
was another who did not understand--another who, like all the rest of
those who called themselves and whom I called my friends, could not
sympathize with me in my devotion to study, because there were no flesh
pots in sight to serve as a motive for the work. To such sordid ones
I could not well lay bare the bitter humiliations with which my all
too evident failure to attain practical results have afflicted me. I
could not lay bare the secret aspirations that impelled me to seek for
things which would have given me a place as a benefactor of my kind and
enrolled me among the immortals. And suppose I had ever confessed that
the mystery of ancient alchemy so impressed me that I must needs grasp
at its only modern representative, chemistry--would not my friends have
laughed at me?
* * * * *
What an atmosphere the chemical laboratory is for one of my
temperament! What a fascination there is in the thought that the door
of escape for the world weary,--which, as dear old Epictetus said,
is always open,--is so near--so near that one must needs be careful
lest he pass the portals ere he is ready. How many times have I
wondered if what the text books say of arseniureted hydrogen, and of
anhydrous hydrocyanic acid is really true. And how many times have
I been tempted to--well, to put them to a test on a fellow worker.
Not upon myself, for I am not yet ready, and I do not court death by
accident. My own death must be philosophic when it comes, not sudden
and devoid of impressions. Then, too, the slower things are more to
my taste--morphine for example. When I am ready--when life becomes
insupportable boredom, or an intolerable ache, I shall know just where
and how to seek surcease of world tire. And what a record I will write
of my impressions. How deliberate and scientific it will all be. And
how sure I will make it. These amateurs, with their crude methods and
cowardly shrinkings back from the brink--faugh! how I detest them.
The idiots! what a mess some of them make of it, and how some of them
suffer. As for the fools who do such bungling work that any cheap
doctor called in a hurry can undo the thing--no words of mine can
express my contempt for them. That doctor who swallowed six grains of
morphine and then when the mist began to rise, sent for another fool of
his own profession to succor him, was a coward and a bungler. But, I
have said that a suicide is never a coward. Yes, and I meant it, too;
that doctor was a pretender, and not born in the purple.
These love lorn servant girls and heart sick youths who drink to Death
libations of carbolic acid are most amusing folk. They have courage,
it is true, and doubtless mean well, but they lack the brains to be
original and clever. They are faddists gone mad.
I have studied all of the methods of suicide in vogue and the more
I see of them, the wiser I think I was in selecting chemistry as my
life work. I have haunted the morgue; I have followed to that horrid,
dripping, smelly slab, every case of suicide that has happened in this
city. And such sights as I have seen! Bloated, festering masses of
flesh that required great imagination to fashion into human semblance,
fresh dragged from summer waters; distorted, blackened faces on agony
twisted forms freshly cut down from self-made gibbets; heads blown
open, brain-bespattered and powder-marked by the pistol; limbs crushed
and torn into disgusting masses and shreds of ghastly flesh, the bones
staring through in besplintered protest against the savagery of men who
seek rest beneath the crunching wheels of locomotives; sickening, fresh
made gashes in throats that were once fair to look upon--all these have
I seen and marveled at.
Only yesterday I saw lying upon that familiar slab, an old, old
man--found dead in bed with his throat cut from ear to ear, a letter in
his hand saying only this: “I am tired, so tired.” “What a pity it is,”
I thought, as I looked at the fearful gash through which swollen tongue
and severed larynx protruded, at the blood bathed clod which perchance
had once been loved, “that this man should have lived so long without
learning a way.”
Then there was that dead man I saw taken from the river the other day.
His friends knew of his business troubles and feared he had suicided.
They sought for him for days and days, poor fools. They found him at
last, and he went the way of all the others--to that vile slab. I
was there when his sweetheart came to see his remains. They tried to
keep her out, but she entered the room in spite of them. I was not
surprised at what happened. The transition from her ideal, the lover
of her memory, to that slimy, oozy, bloated thing with the maggots
swarming from its nose and eyes and ears, was enough to shock a
stronger heart than hers. She died in a mad house, screaming against
the maggots that she fancied were devouring her.
Ah, there’s much of comfort in the thought that one has learned a way,
and that my work in science has not all come to naught. How I admire
that man of whom my friend Dr. X. told me this morning, who laughed
at the doctors who worked a whole night over him, trying to save him
from self poisoning. He would revive for a moment under their efforts
and mutter, “No you don’t, d--n you,--you can’t do it!” and then lapse
into coma again. He knew a way, did that man. The stupid doctors did
not know. He, like myself, was a chemist. Was he merely defiant, or
was it professional pride that animated him when he challenged those
fool doctors, who came to interfere with his plans, but knew nothing of
the symptoms produced by a clever admixture of laudanum and potassium
cyanide? I glory in that noble man’s artistic achievement--I glory in
his vindication of individual rights.
* * * * *
Existence is growing absolutely insupportable to me. My synthetic
experiments with organic elements which seemed so promising have come
to naught. Another of my failures! I haven’t the energy to begin all
over again, neither am I disposed to devise experiments in other
fields. My brain is pumped out, like a dry well. My heart is dead. I
suppose one might live with a dead heart, but what’s the use? I begin
to believe that it is time to--well, to follow the _way_. There, in
that bottle upon the shelf, are four grains of--I wonder if my figuring
was correct? There’s surely enough. But suppose there should be too
much? Pshaw! Why do I doubt? My experimental provings have been too
carefully made to admit of suspicion of inaccuracy. That huge dog
which--
Why not to-night? “If ’twere done, when ’tis done, ’twere well
it were done quickly.” There is no reason why I should not. My
affairs--What affairs? I have no affairs. My family? There is none.
My friends? Possibly there are some who will read the obituary in
to-morrow’s paper, and sorrow over the necessity of going to the “crank
professor’s” funeral. They will have no keener regret, for, thank the
fates, there will be no funeral expenses, and no contributions will be
levied; I have attended to all that. My friend, Dr. X., is a prosector
at the university, and to him my body is willed. He has promised to
wire the skeleton for the museum. Good fellow, X. No sentimental gush
about him. I wonder how the skeleton will look. I hope X. knows the
French method of cleaning bones. It would be some satisfaction to know
that mine will be white and glistening, and nice to handle. I wonder
what those French fellows use that gives that faint sweet smell to
newly bleached human bones. I suppose I might have written and found
out, but I never thought of that.
As usual at this hour I am alone in the laboratory. It is barely
possible that Professor A. may return to-night. I fancy he did not
quite finish that experiment to-day. It would be embarrassing if he
should come in before I had passed clear through the door. With that
narcotic there would be great danger of such a mishap. I want to acquit
myself at least as creditably as did that man of whom my friend Dr.
X.--Great Charon! the very thing. There should be a bottle of cyanide
somewhere upon the shelves--
How very awkward! Who could have misplaced that bottle? I thought I
knew just where to put my hand upon it. Well, there’s no use fretting
about it, to-morrow I will--Ah, now I think of it, there’s a vial of
anhydrous prussic acid in that little drawer in A.’s desk, and I have a
key!
* * * * *
I fancy I can do the work much more artistically than did X.’s patient.
I will take the narcotic in its most elegant and concentrated form,
instead of that beastly tincture. I hate nauseous medicines. As for the
prussic acid, I will use a hypodermic. Fortunately there is one yonder,
in the room for animal experimentation. I will take the morphia first,
and when it begins to act, I will get the syringe. There will be plenty
of time.
How simple; just a tongue coating of powder--a mere fleeting dash of
bitter--a draught of water and--so far the narcotic. Now, to await
results.
* * * * *
How exhilarating the primary effects of opium. How easy to chronicle
one’s impressions. How I can write! No wonder that De Quincey--;
I seem to be in a brighter sphere. It is as though the air of the
laboratory had turned to pure oxygen. What strength I feel! What mighty
deeds could I not accomplish now? How large and vivid the gas lights
are. There is an aureola of secondary glow about each of them. I would
experiment with them to-morrow if-- What music is that? Is it not
beautiful? Why, I know that air--it is one my mother used to sing when
I was a little lad--I remember how my dear little sister used to--But
how faint the strains are now. And the lights are growing dim. It will
soon be dark. My chair is rocking, too. How soothing and sensuous the
motion seems. How drowsy I am getting--I must take that hypodermic
before I get too sleepy.
There, that shows what will power can do. Some men would have gone to
sleep and forgotten the rest of their plans. How orderly and systematic
A. is, to be sure. No rummaging around in the drawer amid a confusion
of things to find the prussic. How tight the stopper is. There, now
I have it. Pshaw! I’ve spilled half of it on the floor and cut my
fingers. How clumsy and numb my fingers are, and how hot and fiery
this blood is. How delightful the prussic smells.
Just a drop--the morphia will combine with it and neutralize it. The
drugs will neutralize each other just sufficiently to give me plenty
of time, and I shall still be able to write. Here, in my thigh--just
here-- Ah! My God! too m--.
CHIQUITA
I had been rambling about through Calaveras, investigating mining
properties, and incidentally enjoying to the full the glorious weather
of the early California spring. My search for the pot of gold at the
foot of the rainbow had led me far up among the majestic Sierras--those
wondrous mountains at the foot of which was verdure more beautiful
than any artist could portray, while their snow-covered tops reared
themselves proudly through the clouds and, peering beyond, seemed
to challenge the very sky to descend and meet them. The ravines and
gulches were tortured and torn by rushing torrents from the melting
snows above. Every rivulet had become a brook, every brook a river, and
every river a veritable Niagara.
So replete with the swift rushing yellow waters were the courses of
the mountains and valleys, that the venerable wise-acre, yclept “the
oldest inhabitant,” was permitted by his neighbors to croak to his
heart’s content, and actually held his audiences while he regaled
them with the horrors of “the freshet of the spring of ’61 and ’62,”
and chilled the very marrow of their bones with the ominous prophecy
that the present gorging of the streams was but the forerunner of a
rising of the waters which should make the famous old-time flood of the
Sacramento Valley fade into nothingness.
I had been leisurely retracing my steps from the mountains, and
returning by the “Big Tree” road through the historic town of Murphy’s
Camp--made famous by Bret Harte, and interesting to me because I had
there spent several of the years of my childhood--arrived at the little
town of Vallecito, where I intended to inspect some placer property.
The ardent, coppery-red ball of the California sun was just descending
behind the foothills to westward when I arrived at my destination,
hence there was nothing to do save to make myself as comfortable as
possible at the little ramshackle inn, “The Miner’s Rest,” and defer
all thought of business until the morrow.
Life in the foothills of the Sierras may be monotonous, but it has its
pleasant features, not the least of which was the fare of the humble
Miner’s Rest. I found that Mr. Jim Truesdell, the landlord, had not
boasted when he said genially, “We ain’t much on style hereabouts,
Mister, but you kin bet your bottom dollar our feed is just as good,
an’ just as plenty as it is at the Frisco Palace; tho’ we ain’t
braggin’ none about variety on our meenu kyards.”
Having finished my supper, I lighted a cigar and strolled out upon
the rude, tumble-down veranda of the little inn. Seating myself with
my feet planted upon the railing and a book upon my lap, I proceeded
to enjoy my smoke. Then--my book forgotten--I fell into the revery
which the fragrant smoke wreaths of a good cigar and the glorious
flame of a dying sun bring to him who is at peace with himself and his
surroundings.
More beautiful sunsets there may be than those of my native heath, but
I have never seen but one that could in any way compare with them, and
even there, in a harbor of far-off Guatemala, the conditions, save
for the brilliant ocean rim below which the sun sank to sleep, were
much the same. The mountains to the eastward of Vallecito recalled the
Sierra Madre, of that distant alien land. There were the same fleecy
clouds, illumined by the waning fire of the God of Day, reflecting
colors that surely would have been the despair of the most ambitious
brush, and floating with soft caress over the snow-capped peaks which,
like grim and watchful sentinels, walled in the valley where nestled
the little town. There was just breeze enough blowing to give a keen
zest to the balm-laden air of the mountains--a feature which that ever
to be remembered scene in the Bay of Ocos distinctly lacked, for ’twas
a miniature hell down there, night or day.
Save for the weird cry of some mysterious night bird, who ever and anon
called his mate, and the infrequent whir of a diminutive species of
bat, everything was as quiet as a blue Sunday in staid old New England.
The “chug” of the pick, the clamorous ring of the shovel and the
rattling of the miner’s cradle were conspicuously absent in the valley
and the hills and ravines round about. So still was the little mining
town, that a giant elk who was sniffing the air in a spirit of curious
and careful investigation far up the mountain side, came nearer and yet
nearer, tossing his head with its burden of enormous horns in defiance
at first, and then standing stock-still as if amazed. When he had
finished his tour of investigation, he turned and stalked majestically
away down the side of a rocky gorge that would scarcely have afforded
safe footing for a cat. He glanced back several times as though he did
not quite understand his undisputed kingship, and then, with a farewell
belligerent toss of his mighty antlers, plunged into the obscurity of
the beautiful manzanita, and scraggly _mésquite_ and chapparal that
fringed the steep canyon sides of the awesome Sierras.
As the elk disappeared, a long, sobbing, terrifying wail was wafted
from amid the scrub firs and tall bread pines still higher up on a
distant mountain side. It was the cougar’s warning to his tawny mate.
The elk was not king, nor yet was the hungry panther, for somewhere
amid those far-off mountain ravines was the lair of the grizzly,
fiercest of his kind.
The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the western sky and
the chill of night was fast gathering, yet I still sat there upon the
veranda, half asleep, but breathing in deeply the invigorating fragrant
balm that was borne to me by the cool evening breeze from the spicy
mountain firs and pines and giant redwoods. As I dozed my cigar fell
from my lips and bounded off the veranda to the ground, where it lay
glowering reproachfully at me for a few moments before it finally went
out altogether, smothering in its own ashes and spitefully emitting, as
a farewell indignant protest, the acrid odor of dead tobacco.
“_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero._”
I came to myself with a start, and turned in the direction of the voice.
At the foot of the two or three steps that led to the veranda where I
was sitting, stood a man and a woman--evidently Mexicans--as queer a
couple as it had ever been my fortune to meet. The man was apparently
about sixty years of age, taller than most of his race, still stalwart
and erect and, despite his years, a handsome fellow of his type. He
carried his head as haughtily as might an hidalgo of Old Spain. His
picturesque costume was bedecked with finery which, faded though it
was, indicated the garb of a Mexican of the higher caste. His swarthy
face was shaded by an ornate sombrero, from beneath which flashed
piercing, fiery eyes that would have compelled attention anywhere.
A broad silk sash encircled his waist, and artistically draped over
his shoulder were the graceful folds of a bright, many-colored
_serape_. Through the sash was thrust the inevitable murderous-looking
_cuchillo_--the symbol of his individuality and a declaration of that
belief in personal responsibility which is as inseparable from the hot
Latin blood as though it were dependent upon a special corpuscle.
Unlike her companion, the woman presented a figure that was pathetic,
rather than picturesque, although she too showed in her apparel
something of the fondness for color and tinsel that characterizes her
race. She appeared to be old--much older than her companion, although
appearances are very deceptive in judging the age of women of the Latin
races. They mature young, and their youth and beauty begin to fade very
early, so early that at a period when the woman of fair Anglo-Saxon
blood is yet in her prime, her darker-skinned sister is already old and
wrinkled.
The old crone--for so she appeared--was bent and withered, with hair
as white as human hair ever becomes. Her face was fearfully disfigured
by smallpox, that loathsome disease which had become a curse to her
people. As she raised her eyes towards me, I noted with something of
a shock that she was totally blind--the dull and expressionless eyes
showed that only too plainly. Used as I was to the sight of human
misery and helplessness, there was something in the poor old woman’s
face that impressed me.
“_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero_,” again said the man, with a polite
bow. “_Comprende V. Espanol?_”
“_Muy poco_--very little--_Señor_,” I replied.
“Then will I speak the tongue of the _Americanos_, though I speak it
not well,” he continued. “I hope _el Señor_ he is not disturb in his
smoke of the evening by the speaking to him.”
“Not at all, Sir,” I answered politely.
“Then, maybe, it is not too free to ask _el Señor_ if he will have the
fortune told.”
“Oh, you are a fortune teller, eh?”
The Mexican raised his head proudly.
“_Non, Señor_, it is not I that have fortunes to tell. Ramon Pasquale
never has told yet the fortune. He does not know. It is my Chiquita
here, she the great fortunes can tell. She can see, oh, so far! She
sees not as _el Señor_ sees, with the eyes of the head;--it is with the
eyes of the mind, with the eyes of the soul that Chiquita sees. She
knows how the past to tell. Aye, and the future too, she knows. She the
stars can read--she reads them true. The grave to her is not closed.
Fate is to the eyes of her mind as is to _el Señor’s_ eyes the open
book upon his knee. She is wonderful, my Chiquita! Is it not so, _cara
mia_?” There was a tender note in his voice as he addressed his aged
companion.
“It is so, my Ramon,” replied the woman, in a voice that fairly
startled me, so clear and youthful did it seem. “It is so, and if the
great _Señor_ will allow me it to tell, I will to him read the story of
the past of his life, and for him open the book of the future, that he
may know what shall come to him.”
My expression must have betrayed the interest I felt, for the Mexican
said eagerly: “To-night must _el Señor_ listen to Chiquita. To-morrow
she will be gone, and it too late will be. It is not dear, _Señor_,
it is _muy barato_--very cheap; only one _peso_; that is all. And
so wonderful, so wonderful, _Señor_! There is none so wonderful as
Chiquita. _El Señor_ he will never forget the fortune she for him will
tell--and only one _peso_.”
And Chiquita told my fortune, and evidently tried to give me good
measure, for the stars were out and the moon was silvering the eastern
sky ere she had finished.
Granting that Ramon was sincere, and not merely attending to business
in his enthusiastic praises of Chiquita’s professional skill, he and
I differed somewhat in our estimate of it. There was nothing very new
about the fortune the old woman mapped out for me. It had the same rose
color as many others I had heard. There were the usual platitudes about
the honors I was to win, and the riches I was to gain. I would become
famous, also, and was destined to marry a woman for whom my own country
surely could hold no place, for, according to the fortune teller’s
description, she was to be a duchess, no less. Of course, as I did not
tell Chiquita that I was already married, I could find no fault with
the bride to be, especially as she was of the blood royal.
But Chiquita was eloquent, in her broken way, and both she and her
picturesque companion were so interesting that I did not begrudge the
dollar which, after all, she had fairly earned. To hear pleasant things
about one’s self is always worth the price--and there always is a
price, although we are not often wise enough to know it.
There was that in the poise of Chiquita’s white head and the sweetly
modulated tones of her voice which, with her small, slender,
beautifully formed brown hands suggested that her birth and breeding
were more aristocratic than is usual with itinerant vendors of fortunes.