Discoveries
Great as was my joy upon observing that the entrancing mysterious
lady was Stranahan’s tutor, it was to be some time before her daily
proximity had any effect upon my life. And meanwhile I was resigning
myself to a regular routine, a routine only partly of my own choosing,
and largely prescribed by those whom I had come to consider my masters.
Each night (and by night I mean the period of eight or ten hours when
the golden orbs were quenched and the city was in total blackness)
I would sleep with Rawson and Stranahan on screened open-air rooms
on the roof. And each day I would live almost as though by formula.
Aroused by the burst of light that marked the queer underworld dawn,
I would take a plunge in a salt-water swimming pool in a court of
our apartment. A few minutes later I would join my companions in a
repast of some fragile little native cakes and of some queer fruit
like a cross between the apricot and peach, which were brought to us
regularly by well-laden carriers whom I observed likewise supplying
neighboring houses. Breakfast over, we were free for a while; and then
I would usually go rambling about the city with Rawson or Stranahan, or
sometimes with all my five former shipmates; and we would have a merry
time laughing and chatting, inspecting the various palaces, colonnades
and gardens, and poking fun at any object that happened to strike us as
curious or absurd.
After an hour or two we would return to our apartments, to await the
arrival of our tutors, who had a habit of appearing in a band of six
(one for each of us) sometime toward the end of the morning. Stranahan
was still the most fortunate of us all, since for many weeks his tutor
continued to be that woman of the Madonna features and magnetic large
blue eyes; but the rest of us were also fortunate in a way, for she
would always beam upon us with bright “Good morning” in the native
tongue; and I personally had hopes that the time was not far-off when
we should be better acquainted.
At the end of perhaps two hours, the tutors would leave for the day;
but they would always provide us with ample work in the shape of simple
exercises to be written or of passages to be deciphered in textbooks of
the kind evidently used for six-year-olds. This “home-work” (as Rawson
designated it) would keep us busy until late in the afternoon, when a
native would arrive with a tray containing various savory viands: a
gray bread made from a grain with a flavor like walnuts; a succulent
vegetable like French toast well browned; a spiced, starchy food
reminding me vaguely of baked potatoes; cakes of a hundred varieties,
and fruits shaped like tomatoes and tasting like muscat grapes, or
elongated like cucumbers and flavored as oranges, or round and large
as cantaloupes and substantial as bananas. But while we were of course
delighted at the abundance of these appetizing unfamiliar foods, we
were not a little surprised--and not a little disappointed--at the
absence of much that we would once have considered essential; and we
constantly wondered why it was that no meat nor fish nor any other
animal product found its place on the bill of fare.
After this meal (the second and last for the day) we were once more
free to do as we wished; and we would ordinarily spend the time until
dark in strolling around the city, or in sitting about in a little
circle exchanging anecdotes, or in propounding theories as to where we
were and how we had arrived, or in playing cards or any other little
game that we could devise. Except for our tutors, we came into contact
with none of the natives; we were too ignorant of the language to speak
with the occasional few whom we passed on the streets; and as yet we
knew virtually nothing of how they lived.
But we were much less concerned about the natives than about our
comrades of the X-111. We were still restrained in the city by the
mysterious, irresistible power of compulsion exercised by our hosts;
and though the days were lengthening into weeks, no word of Captain
Gavison and our absent shipmates had reached us. For all that we could
say, they might have perished of starvation or fallen through a black
hole in the ground--or, more plausibly, they might have been discovered
by the natives, and led as captives to lodgings miles away. Should we
see them soon, or at least have news of them? or should we never learn
what had befallen them? There was no way to decide except to wait--and
the process of waiting was distressingly slow.
* * * * *
But I was secretly determined to do everything possible to hasten
events. Obviously, the first necessity was to understand the native
language--hence I put forth every effort to learn to read and write.
Less because of my natural linguistic tendencies than because of my
acquaintance with ancient Greek, I was making more rapid progress
than any of my fellows, and was acquiring the rudiments of a speaking
and reading knowledge. Not only did my own ears tell me so, but my
instructor admitted as much by his occasional nods of approval, and
now and then even by a “Very Good” or “Excellent” when I was speaking
or reciting to him. But not content with my normal rate of advance,
I was fortifying myself with much secret practice. Often I would
refrain from joining my comrades in their morning and evening strolls
and pastimes, and would remain quietly in my room with a pad of paper
and a pencil supplied me by my tutor. I would devote hours to writing
in the native alphabet, until I could employ it with facility and
assurance; or I would jot down a list of words and phrases and repeat
them aloud time after time, trying to imitate the peculiar accentuation
of my instructor. The latter task in particular was difficult and even
painful, and subjected me more than once to ridicule, when Stranahan
or the others entered the room unexpectedly and found me apparently
talking to myself. But I persisted in spite of discouragements, and
had hopes that, instead of commanding but a few scattered words and
phrases, I would shortly be able to conduct an extended conversation.
It was only natural, however, that I should be able to read the
language before I could speak it. Not more than two or three weeks
had passed before I felt capable of deciphering any average native
document. But, unfortunately, I had little opportunity to practice my
talents, for the only written material I saw was in the shape of the
simple exercise books lent me by my instructor. These, while admirably
adapted for clarifying grammatical problems, were entirely devoid of
vital information; and when I asked my instructor for more edifying
works, I did not seem able to make him understand, for what he brought
me was merely a more advanced exercise book.
Consequently, I had every reason to be grateful for that chance which
put me in possession of several volumes designed for adult readers. For
lack of better occupation, Rawson and I were minutely inspecting our
apartments one afternoon, scrutinizing in particular the picturesque
patterns of the veined marble walls, when suddenly I stopped short with
a cry of surprise, startled at sight of a little rectangle faintly
although unmistakably engraved in otherwise unbroken surface of the
marble.
Promptly I informed Rawson of my discovery. He shared in my surprise,
and excitedly suggested that this was some mysterious trap-door.
Although I saw no reason to agree with him, I approached the
rectangular patch to examine it more closely, and in so doing rested my
hand appraisingly on the marble surface.
To my utter amazement, a portion of the wall gave way, swinging inward
as if on noiseless hinges!
But if Rawson had had visions of secret corridors and darkened
chambers, he was to be disappointed. The displaced rectangle revealed
not a mysterious passageway, but a little closet or vault possibly
three feet deep--a vault filled to the brim with treasure! At least, it
was filled with what I regarded as treasure, for within it were piled
scores of books!
Hastily I reached for the nearest volume--a heavy tome bound in what
I took to be a sort of artificial leather. The title filled me with
rejoicing: it was a “Lexicon of the More Commonly Used Words.”
Aided by the bewildered Rawson, I at once examined the entire
collection. Although he could decipher not a word, Rawson feigned the
profoundest interest; and, indeed, he may well have been interested,
for, as I read and translated the titles, I was making discovery after
extraordinary discovery. Not that any of the books were those works
of sheer information which I most desired, but that they all embodied
significant hints and clues. Some, like the inscriptions I had observed
among the colonnades, seemed to refer to some great disaster, as in
the case of one entitled, “Artistic Progress Since the Destruction”;
another, which was called “Speculations Concerning the Supermarine
World,” fortified my impression of being in some inexplicably buried
land; while several were treatises on such difficult subjects as
“Intra-Atomic Engineering,” “Marine Valves and Their Construction,” and
“The Creation of Artificial Sunlight.”
But the book that caused me the greatest surprise--a book that struck
me as at once a priceless find and an insoluble mystery--was the
well-thumbed yellowing little volume at the very bottom of the heap.
Even today, when all that passed in those enigmatic realms is an old
and oft-repeated story, I have difficulty in repressing my astonishment
at that discovery. Imagine the bewilderment of one who, having voyaged
to another world, suddenly receives news of familiar things, and at the
same time learns unsuspected facts about the familiar! Imagine this,
and you will have only a vague notion of the amazement I felt when,
turning the pages of the book in that unknown cavernland, I recognized
the name of--Homer!
And not only did I recognize the name of Homer, but I found it affixed
to a work not previously catalogued among the productions of the great
Attic bard! “Telegonus” was the title--and instantly I recalled that
there had been a legend among post-Homeric writers of one Telegonus,
the son of Odysseus and Circe, who had been sent by his enchantress
mother in search of his father, and had slain his sire without
realizing his identity.
One may be sure that I wasted no time about plunging into the book.
One may be sure that I took no heed of the surprised exclamations of
Rawson, nor even paused for more than a word of explanation, but read
and read as fast as my knowledge of the language would permit. Truly,
the poem was Homeric in quality!--I recognized at once the swing of
the inimitable hexameter, handled with masterly craftsmanship; and the
opening passages, executed with epic dash and sweep, simplicity and
power, convinced me that here was a work worthy of standing side by
side with “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey.”
But how came the poem to be here in this weird undersea realm? How
came these submerged people to possess an Homeric work unknown to the
modern world? These were the questions that perplexed me as I excitedly
followed stanza after noble stanza; and ponder the problem as I might,
debate it as I would with myself or the eager Rawson, I could conceive
of no explanation, but was as mystified as if I had traveled to Mars
and found the people addressing me in English or presenting me with
copies of Shakespeare.