On the morning of the day upon which they had asked him to tea, Oliver
Haddo left at Margaret’s door vast masses of chrysanthemums. There were
so many that the austere studio was changed in aspect. It gained an
ephemeral brightness that Margaret, notwithstanding pieces of silk hung
here and there on the walls, had never been able to give it. When
Arthur arrived, he was dismayed that the thought had not occurred to
him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “You must think me very inconsiderate.”
Margaret smiled and held his hand.
“I think I like you because you don’t trouble about the common little
attentions of lovers.”
“Margaret’s a wise girl,” smiled Susie. “She knows that when a man
sends flowers it is a sign that he has admired more women than one.”
“I don’t suppose that these were sent particularly to me.”
Arthur Burdon sat down and observed with pleasure the cheerful fire.
The drawn curtains and the lamps gave the place a nice cosiness, and
there was the peculiar air of romance which is always in a studio.
There is a sense of freedom about it that disposes the mind to
diverting speculations. In such an atmosphere it is possible to be
serious without pompousness and flippant without inanity.
In the few days of their acquaintance Arthur and Susie had arrived at
terms of pleasant familiarity. Susie, from her superior standpoint of
an unmarried woman no longer young, used him with the good-natured
banter which she affected. To her, he was a foolish young thing in
love, and she marvelled that even the cleverest man in that condition
could behave like a perfect idiot. But Margaret knew that, if her
friend chaffed him, it was because she completely approved of him. As
their intimacy increased, Susie learnt to appreciate his solid
character. She admired his capacity in dealing with matters that were
in his province, and the simplicity with which he left alone those of
which he was ignorant. There was no pose in him. She was touched also
by an ingenuous candour which gave a persuasive charm to his
abruptness. And, though she set a plain woman’s value on good looks,
his appearance, rough hewn like a statue in porphyry, pleased her
singularly. It was an index of his character. The look of him gave you
the whole man, strong yet gentle, honest and simple, neither very
imaginative nor very brilliant, but immensely reliable and trustworthy
to the bottom of his soul. He was seated now with Margaret’s terrier on
his knees, stroking its ears, and Susie, looking at him, wondered with
a little pang why no man like that had even cared for her. It was
evident that he would make a perfect companion, and his love, once won,
was of the sort that did not alter.
Dr Porhoët came in and sat down with the modest quietness which was one
of his charms. He was not a great talker and loved most to listen in
silence to the chatter of young people. The dog jumped down from
Arthur’s knee, went up to the doctor, and rubbed itself in friendly
fashion against his legs. They began to talk in the soft light and had
forgotten almost that another guest was expected. Margaret hoped
fervently that he would not come. She had never looked more lovely than
on this afternoon, and she busied herself with the preparations for tea
with a housewifely grace that added a peculiar delicacy to her
comeliness. The dignity which encompassed the perfection of her beauty
was delightfully softened, so that you were reminded of those sweet
domestic saints who lighten here and there the passionate records of
the Golden Book.
“_C’est tellement intime ici_,” smiled Dr Porhoët, breaking into French
in the impossibility of expressing in English the exact feeling which
that scene gave him.
It might have been a picture by some master of _genre_. It seemed
hardly by chance that the colours arranged themselves in such agreeable
tones, or that the lines of the wall and the seated persons achieved
such a graceful decoration. The atmosphere was extraordinarily
peaceful.
There was a knock at the door, and Arthur got up to open. The terrier
followed at his heels. Oliver Haddo entered. Susie watched to see what
the dog would do and was by this time not surprised to see a change
come over it. With its tail between its legs, the friendly little beast
slunk along the wall to the furthermost corner. It turned a suspicious,
frightened eye upon Haddo and then hid its head. The visitor, intent
upon his greetings, had not noticed even that there was an animal in
the room. He accepted with a simple courtesy they hardly expected from
him the young woman’s thanks for his flowers. His behaviour surprised
them. He put aside his poses. He seemed genuinely to admire the cosy
little studio. He asked Margaret to show him her sketches and looked at
them with unassumed interest. His observations were pointed and showed
a certain knowledge of what he spoke about. He described himself as an
amateur, that object of a painter’s derision: the man “who knows what
he likes”; but his criticism, though generous, showed that he was no
fool. The two women were impressed. Putting the sketches aside, he
began to talk, of the many places he had seen. It was evident that he
sought to please. Susie began to understand how it was that,
notwithstanding his affectations, he had acquired so great an influence
over the undergraduates of Oxford. There was romance and laughter in
his conversation; and though, as Frank Hurrell had said, lacking in
wit, he made up for it with a diverting pleasantry that might very well
have passed for humour. But Susie, though amused, felt that this was
not the purpose for which she had asked him to come. Dr Porhoët had
lent her his entertaining work on the old alchemists, and this gave her
a chance to bring their conversation to matters on which Haddo was
expert. She had read the book with delight and, her mind all aflame
with those strange histories wherein fact and fancy were so wonderfully
mingled, she was eager to know more. The long toil in which so many had
engaged, always to lose their fortunes, often to suffer persecution and
torture, interested her no less than the accounts, almost
authenticated, of those who had succeeded in their extraordinary quest.
She turned to Dr Porhoët.
“You are a bold man to assert that now and then the old alchemists
actually did make gold,” she said.
“I have not gone quite so far as that,” he smiled. “I assert merely
that, if evidence as conclusive were offered of any other historical
event, it would be credited beyond doubt. We can disbelieve these
circumstantial details only by coming to the conclusion beforehand that
it is impossible they should be true.”
“I wish you would write that life of Paracelsus which you suggest in
your preface.”
Dr Porhoët, smiling shook his head.
“I don’t think I shall ever do that now,” he said. “Yet he is the most
interesting of all the alchemists, for he offers the fascinating
problem of an immensely complex character. It is impossible to know to
what extent he was a charlatan and to what a man of serious science.”
Susie glanced at Oliver Haddo, who sat in silence, his heavy face in
shadow, his eyes fixed steadily on the speaker. The immobility of that
vast bulk was peculiar.
“His name is not so ridiculous as later associations have made it
seem,” proceeded the doctor, “for he belonged to the celebrated family
of Bombast, and they were called Hohenheim after their ancient
residence, which was a castle near Stuttgart in Würtemberg. The most
interesting part of his life is that which the absence of documents
makes it impossible accurately to describe. He travelled in Germany,
Italy, France, the Netherlands, in Denmark, Sweden, and Russia. He went
even to India. He was taken prisoner by the Tartars, and brought to the
Great Khan, whose son he afterwards accompanied to Constantinople. The
mind must be dull indeed that is not thrilled by the thought of this
wandering genius traversing the lands of the earth at the most eventful
date of the world’s history. It was at Constantinople that, according
to a certain _aureum vellus_ printed at Rorschach in the sixteenth
century, he received the philosopher’s stone from Solomon Trismosinus.
This person possessed also the _Universal Panacea_, and it is asserted
that he was seen still alive by a French traveller at the end of the
seventeenth century. Paracelsus then passed through the countries that
border the Danube, and so reached Italy, where he served as a surgeon
in the imperial army. I see no reason why he should not have been
present at the battle of Pavia. He collected information from
physicians, surgeons and alchemists; from executioners, barbers,
shepherds, Jews, gipsies, midwives, and fortune-tellers; from high and
low, from learned and vulgar. In the sketch I have given of his career
in that volume you hold, I have copied out a few words of his upon the
acquirement of knowledge which affect me with a singular emotion.”
Dr Porhoët took his book from Miss Boyd and opened it thoughtfully. He
read out the fine passage from the preface of the _Paragranum_:
“I went in search of my art, often incurring danger of life. I have not
been ashamed to learn that which seemed useful to me even from
vagabonds, hangmen, and barbers. We know that a lover will go far to
meet the woman he adores; how much more will the lover of Wisdom be
tempted to go in search of his divine mistress.”
He turned the page to find a few more lines further on:
“We should look for knowledge where we may expect to find it, and why
should a man be despised who goes in search of it? Those who remain at
home may grow richer and live more comfortably than those who wander;
but I desire neither to live comfortably nor to grow rich.”
“By Jove, those are fine words,” said Arthur, rising to his feet.
Their brave simplicity moved him as no rhetoric could have done, and
they made him more eager still to devote his own life to the difficult
acquisition of knowledge. Dr Porhoët gave him his ironic smile.
“Yet the man who could write that was in many ways a mere buffoon, who
praised his wares with the vulgar glibness of a quack. He was vain and
ostentatious, intemperate and boastful. Listen:
“After me, O Avicenna, Galen, Rhases and Montagnana! After me, not I
after you, ye men of Paris, Montpellier, Meissen, and Cologne; all you
that come from the countries along the Danube and the Rhine, and you
that come from the islands of the sea. It is not for me to follow you,
because mine is the lordship. The time will come when none of you shall
remain in his dark corner who will not be an object of contempt to the
world, because I shall be the King, and the Monarchy will be mine.”
Dr Porhoët closed the book.
“Did you ever hear such gibberish in your life? Yet he did a bold
thing. He wrote in German instead of in Latin, and so, by weakening the
old belief in authority, brought about the beginning of free thought in
science. He continued to travel from place to place, followed by a
crowd of disciples, some times attracted to a wealthy city by hope of
gain, sometimes journeying to a petty court at the invitation of a
prince. His folly and the malice of his rivals prevented him from
remaining anywhere for long. He wrought many wonderful cures. The
physicians of Nuremberg denounced him as a quack, a charlatan, and an
impostor. To refute them he asked the city council to put under his
care patients that had been pronounced incurable. They sent him several
cases of elephantiasis, and he cured them: testimonials to that effect
may still be found in the archives of Nuremberg. He died as the result
of a tavern brawl and was buried at Salzburg. Tradition says that, his
astral body having already during physical existence become
self-conscious, he is now a living adept, residing with others of his
sort in a certain place in Asia. From there he still influences the
minds of his followers and at times even appears to them in visible and
tangible substance.”
“But look here,” said Arthur, “didn’t Paracelsus, like most of these
old fellows, in the course of his researches make any practical
discoveries?”
“I prefer those which were not practical,” confessed the doctor, with a
smile. “Consider for example the _Tinctura Physicorum_, which neither
Pope nor Emperor could buy with all his wealth. It was one of the
greatest alchemical mysteries, and, though mentioned under the name of
_The Red Lion_ in many occult works, was actually known to few before
Paracelsus, except Hermes Trismegistus and Albertus Magnus. Its
preparation was extremely difficult, for the presence was needed of two
perfectly harmonious persons whose skill was equal. It was said to be a
red ethereal fluid. The least wonderful of its many properties was its
power to transmute all inferior metals into gold. There is an old
church in the south of Bavaria where the tincture is said to be still
buried in the ground. In the year 1698 some of it penetrated through
the soil, and the phenomenon was witnessed by many people, who believed
it to be a miracle. The church which was thereupon erected is still a
well-known place for pilgrimage. Paracelsus concludes his directions
for its manufacture with the words: _But if this be incomprehensible to
you, remember that only he who desires with his whole heart will find,
and to him only who knocks vehemently shall the door be opened_.”
“I shall never try to make it,” smiled Arthur.
“Then there was the _Electrum Magicum_, of which the wise made mirrors
wherein they were able to see not only the events of the past and of
the present, but the doings of men in daytime and at night. They might
see anything that had been written or spoken, and the person who said
it, and the causes that made him say it. But I like best the _Primum
Ens Melissæ_. An elaborate prescription is given for its manufacture.
It was a remedy to prolong life, and not only Paracelsus, but his
predecessors Galen, Arnold of Villanova, and Raymond Lulli, had
laboured studiously to discover it.”
“Will it make me eighteen again?” cried Susie.
“It is guaranteed to do so,” answered Dr Porhoët gravely. “Lesebren, a
physician to Louis XIV, gives an account of certain experiments
witnessed by himself. It appears that one of his friends prepared the
remedy, and his curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen with
his own eyes the effect of it.”
“That is the true scientific attitude,” laughed Arthur.
“He took every morning at sunrise a glass of white wine tinctured with
this preparation; and after using it for fourteen days his nails began
to fall out, without, however, causing him any pain. His courage failed
him at this point, and he gave the same dose to an old female servant.
She regained at least one of the characteristics of youth, much to her
astonishment, for she did not know that she had been taking a medicine,
and, becoming frightened, refused to continue. The experimenter then
took some grain, soaked it in the tincture, and gave it to an aged hen.
On the sixth day the bird began to lose its feathers, and kept on
losing them till it was naked as a newborn babe; but before two weeks
had passed other feathers grew, and these were more beautifully
coloured than any that fortunate hen had possessed in her youth. Her
comb stood up, and she began again to lay eggs.”
Arthur laughed heartily.
“I confess I like that story much better than the others. The _Primum
Ens Melissæ_ at least offers a less puerile benefit than most magical
secrets.”
“Do you call the search for gold puerile?” asked Haddo, who had been
sitting for a long time in complete silence.
“I venture to call it sordid.”
“You are very superior.”
“Because I think the aims of mystical persons invariably gross or
trivial? To my plain mind, it is inane to raise the dead in order to
hear from their phantom lips nothing but commonplaces. And I really
cannot see that the alchemist who spent his life in the attempted
manufacture of gold was a more respectable object than the outside
jobber of modern civilization.”
“But if he sought for gold it was for the power it gave him, and it was
power he aimed at when he brooded night and day over dim secrets. Power
was the subject of all his dreams, but not a paltry, limited dominion
over this or that; power over the whole world, power over all created
things, power over the very elements, power over God Himself. His lust
was so vast that he could not rest till the stars in their courses were
obedient to his will.”
For once Haddo lost his enigmatic manner. It was plain now that his
words intoxicated him, and his face assumed a new, a strange,
expression. A peculiar arrogance flashed in his shining eyes.
“And what else is it that men seek in life but power? If they want
money, it is but for the power that attends it, and it is power again
that they strive for in all the knowledge they acquire. Fools and sots
aim at happiness, but men aim only at power. The magus, the sorcerer,
the alchemist, are seized with fascination of the unknown; and they
desire a greatness that is inaccessible to mankind. They think by the
science they study so patiently, but endurance and strength, by force
of will and by imagination, for these are the great weapons of the
magician, they may achieve at last a power with which they can face the
God of Heaven Himself.”
Oliver Haddo lifted his huge bulk from the low chair in which he had
been sitting. He began to walk up and down the studio. It was curious
to see this heavy man, whose seriousness was always problematical,
caught up by a curious excitement.
“You’ve been talking of Paracelsus,” he said. “There is one of his
experiments which the doctor has withheld from you. You will find it
neither mean nor mercenary, but it is very terrible. I do not know
whether the account of it is true, but it would be of extraordinary
interest to test it for oneself.”
He looked round at the four persons who watched him intently. There was
a singular agitation in his manner, as though the thing of which he
spoke was very near his heart.
“The old alchemists believed in the possibility of spontaneous
generation. By the combination of psychical powers and of strange
essences, they claim to have created forms in which life became
manifest. Of these, the most marvellous were those strange beings, male
and female, which were called _homunculi_. The old philosophers doubted
the possibility of this operation, but Paracelsus asserts positively
that it can be done. I picked up once for a song on a barrow at London
Bridge a little book in German. It was dirty and thumbed, many of the
pages were torn, and the binding scarcely held the leaves together. It
was called _Die Sphinx_ and was edited by a certain Dr Emil Besetzny.
It contained the most extraordinary account I have ever read of certain
spirits generated by Johann-Ferdinand, Count von Küffstein, in the
Tyrol, in 1775. The sources from which this account is taken consist of
masonic manuscripts, but more especially of a diary kept by a certain
James Kammerer, who acted in the capacity of butler and famulus to the
Count. The evidence is ten times stronger than any upon which men
believe the articles of their religion. If it related to less wonderful
subjects, you would not hesitate to believe implicitly every word you
read. There were ten _homunculi_—James Kammerer calls them prophesying
spirits—kept in strong bottles, such as are used to preserve fruit, and
these were filled with water. They were made in five weeks, by the
Count von Küffstein and an Italian mystic and rosicrucian, the Abbé
Geloni. The bottles were closed with a magic seal. The spirits were
about a span long, and the Count was anxious that they should grow.
They were therefore buried under two cartloads of manure, and the pile
daily sprinkled with a certain liquor prepared with great trouble by
the adepts. The pile after such sprinklings began to ferment and steam,
as if heated by a subterranean fire. When the bottles were removed, it
was found that the spirits had grown to about a span and a half each;
the male _homunculi_ were come into possession of heavy beards, and the
nails of the fingers had grown. In two of the bottles there was nothing
to be seen save clear water, but when the Abbé knocked thrice at the
seal upon the mouth, uttering at the same time certain Hebrew words,
the water turned a mysterious colour, and the spirits showed their
faces, very small at first, but growing in size till they attained that
of a human countenance. And this countenance was horrible and
fiendish.”
Haddo spoke in a low voice that was hardly steady, and it was plain
that he was much moved. It appeared as if his story affected him so
that he could scarcely preserve his composure. He went on.
“These beings were fed every three days by the Count with a
rose-coloured substance which was kept in a silver box. Once a week the
bottles were emptied and filled again with pure rain-water. The change
had to be made rapidly, because while the _homunculi_ were exposed to
the air they closed their eyes and seemed to grow weak and unconscious,
as though they were about to die. But with the spirits that were
invisible, at certain intervals blood was poured into the water; and it
disappeared at once, inexplicably, without colouring or troubling it.
By some accident one of the bottles fell one day and was broken. The
_homunculus_ within died after a few painful respirations in spite of
all efforts to save him, and the body was buried in the garden. An
attempt to generate another, made by the Count without the assistance
of the Abbé, who had left, failed; it produced only a small thing like
a leech, which had little vitality and soon died.”
Haddo ceased speaking, and Arthur looked at him with amazement. “But
taking for granted that the thing is possible, what on earth is the use
of manufacturing these strange beasts?” he exclaimed.
“Use!” cried Haddo passionately. “What do you think would be man’s
sensations when he had solved the great mystery of existence, when he
saw living before him the substance which was dead? These _homunculi_
were seen by historical persons, by Count Max Lemberg, by Count
Franz-Josef von Thun, and by many others. I have no doubt that they
were actually generated. But with our modern appliances, with our
greater skill, what might it not be possible to do now if we had the
courage? There are chemists toiling away in their laboratories to
create the primitive protoplasm from matter which is dead, the organic
from the inorganic. I have studied their experiments. I know all that
they know. Why shouldn’t one work on a larger scale, joining to the
knowledge of the old adepts the scientific discovery of the moderns? I
don’t know what would be the result. It might be very strange and very
wonderful. Sometimes my mind is verily haunted by the desire to see a
lifeless substance move under my spells, by the desire to be as God.”
He gave a low weird laugh, half cruel, half voluptuous. It made
Margaret shudder with sudden fright. He had thrown himself down in the
chair, and he sat in complete shadow. By a singular effect his eyes
appeared blood-red, and they stared into space, strangely parallel,
with an intensity that was terrifying. Arthur started a little and gave
him a searching glance. The laugh and that uncanny glance, the
unaccountable emotion, were extraordinarily significant. The whole
thing was explained if Oliver Haddo was mad.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Haddo’s words were out of tune with
the rest of the conversation. Dr Porhoët had spoken of magical things
with a sceptical irony that gave a certain humour to the subject, and
Susie was resolutely flippant. But Haddo’s vehemence put these
incredulous people out of countenance. Dr Porhoët got up to go. He
shook hands with Susie and with Margaret. Arthur opened the door for
him. The kindly scholar looked round for Margaret’s terrier…
“I must bid my farewells to your little dog.”
He had been so quiet that they had forgotten his presence.
“Come here, Copper,” said Margaret.
The dog slowly slunk up to them, and with a terrified expression
crouched at Margaret’s feet.
“What on earth’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“He’s frightened of me,” said Haddo, with that harsh laugh of his,
which gave such an unpleasant impression.
“Nonsense!”
Dr Porhoët bent down, stroked the dog’s back, and shook its paw.
Margaret lifted it up and set it on a table.
“Now, be good,” she said, with lifted finger.
Dr Porhoët with a smile went out, and Arthur shut the door behind him.
Suddenly, as though evil had entered into it, the terrier sprang at
Oliver Haddo and fixed its teeth in his hand. Haddo uttered a cry, and,
shaking it off, gave it a savage kick. The dog rolled over with a loud
bark that was almost a scream of pain, and lay still for a moment as if
it were desperately hurt. Margaret cried out with horror and
indignation. A fierce rage on a sudden seized Arthur so that he
scarcely knew what he was about. The wretched brute’s suffering,
Margaret’s terror, his own instinctive hatred of the man, were joined
together in frenzied passion.
“You brute,” he muttered.
He hit Haddo in the face with his clenched fist. The man collapsed
bulkily to the floor, and Arthur, furiously seizing his collar, began
to kick him with all his might. He shook him as a dog would shake a rat
and then violently flung him down. For some reason Haddo made no
resistance. He remained where he fell in utter helplessness. Arthur
turned to Margaret. She was holding the poor hurt dog in her hands,
crying over it, and trying to comfort it in its pain. Very gently he
examined it to see if Haddo’s brutal kick had broken a bone. They sat
down beside the fire. Susie, to steady her nerves, lit a cigarette. She
was horribly, acutely conscious of that man who lay in a mass on the
floor behind them. She wondered what he would do. She wondered why he
did not go. And she was ashamed of his humiliation. Then her heart
stood still; for she realized that he was raising himself to his feet,
slowly, with the difficulty of a very fat person. He leaned against the
wall and stared at them. He remained there quite motionless. His
stillness got on her nerves, and she could have screamed as she felt
him look at them, look with those unnatural eyes, whose expression now
she dared not even imagine.
At last she could no longer resist the temptation to turn round just
enough to see him. Haddo’s eyes were fixed upon Margaret so intently
that he did not see he was himself observed. His face, distorted by
passion, was horrible to look upon. That vast mass of flesh had a
malignancy that was inhuman, and it was terrible to see the satanic
hatred which hideously deformed it. But it changed. The redness gave
way to a ghastly pallor. The revengeful scowl disappeared; and a torpid
smile spread over the features, a smile that was even more terrifying
than the frown of malice. What did it mean? Susie could have cried out,
but her tongue cleaved to her throat. The smile passed away, and the
face became once more impassive. It seemed that Margaret and Arthur
realized at last the power of those inhuman eyes, and they became quite
still. The dog ceased its sobbing. The silence was so great that each
one heard the beating of his heart. It was intolerable.
Then Oliver Haddo moved. He came forward slowly.
“I want to ask you to forgive me for what I did,” he said.
“The pain of the dog’s bite was so keen that I lost my temper. I deeply
regret that I kicked it. Mr Burdon was very right to thrash me. I feel
that I deserved no less.”
He spoke in a low voice, but with great distinctness. Susie was
astounded. An abject apology was the last thing she expected.
He paused for Margaret’s answer. But she could not bear to look at him.
When she spoke, her words were scarcely audible. She did not know why
his request to be forgiven made him seem more detestable.
“I think, if you don’t mind, you had better go away.”
Haddo bowed slightly. He looked at Burdon.
“I wish to tell you that I bear no malice for what you did. I recognize
the justice of your anger.”
Arthur did not answer at all. Haddo hesitated a moment, while his eyes
rested on them quietly. To Susie it seemed that they flickered with the
shadow of a smile. She watched him with bewildered astonishment.
He reached for his hat, bowed again, and went.