I turned over first one piece of music, then another, finally opening a
tattered sheet of an old copy of “The Blacksmith of Cologne.” I settled on
that; it looked so nice and easy. Played slowly, with a proper amount of
expression and a plentiful addition of the tremolo stop, I thought it
would make a very telling and appropriate beginning to the Christmas
service.
I had barely played a dozen bars of the music when I thought I heard a
rustle of leaves behind me, but attributed the sound to some slight
current of air from an open window. I was too much engrossed to pay the
occurrence much attention, and continued my performance right through to
the end, repeating a passage here and there which I thought required a
different rendering. Then once again I seemed to hear stirring leaves,
and, glancing over my shoulder at the lovely pile of flowers, I noticed
the sound could only have been caused by the spray of wild ginger that I
had carelessly tossed on the top of the other blooms, and which had
apparently rolled down and now lay a few inches apart from the rest.
Rather amused that such a trifle should cause me to interrupt my
practising, I again turned to the instrument, intent upon perfecting my
piece.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH WHERE THE ADVENTURE HAPPENED AS IT APPEARED IN
1890.]
Suddenly I was overtaken by a feeling of unaccountable apprehension, and,
at the same time, became aware of a slow, continuous, rustling sound.
Turning my head sharply over my shoulder, to my horror and intense
surprise I saw the whole mass of leaves and flowers undulating!
Scarcely daring to breathe or move my fingers from the notes, I
mechanically continued my playing. The fact that I was a prisoner behind a
locked door forced itself on my mind and held me in my place, helpless.
For a moment now and then as I watched the mass of verdure was quiet, only
to begin upheaving again. What could it be? The suspense was becoming more
than I could bear, and I was on the point of shrieking hysterically when
my tongue refused utterance, and I felt as if life and strength were
oozing out of my fingers.
On the farther side of the beautiful, fragrant pile of ferns and flowers
appeared the head of an enormous snake. Slowly, quietly, with a gentle
dipping movement up and down, it raised itself, and I saw that it was a
python.
Then the Kaffirs’ legend was indeed true! They had told us a story which
we had regarded in the light of a fable. In spite of our ridicule, they
had maintained that a serpent of gigantic dimensions had its haunt in the
neighbourhood of our little church. They said that it would suddenly
appear from out the bush when the organ was played and lie in the sun as
if listening to the music. We had naturally received the story as a Kaffir
superstition, and gave it no credence.
But--Heaven help me!--it was no idle tale, but a horrible fact, for there
was the immense snake before me.
A tempest of fear seized me. My heart seemed to beat all over me at once,
and a singing noise in my head drove me nearly distraught. After a while,
however, it appeared to turn into a voice calling upon me to continue
playing. “It is your only chance, your only hope,” it seemed to say.
With a supreme effort of will I controlled myself sufficiently to continue
my performance. I compelled my hands and feet to move and perform their
duty. Never once, however, did I move my eyes from the python, which was
gradually drawing the vast length of its body into view.
A faint hope sprang within me that I might lull its savage proclivities
with the music, and I forced myself to continue a monotonous droning on
the little instrument. Calling to mind the snake-charmers of India, and
imitating to my uttermost the mournful wail they produce on their reed
whistles, I kept this going until the incessant thud, thud of the bellows
seemed to pound on the nerves of my brain and be the only sound I
extracted from the little organ.
Presently, with a fresh horror, I observed that the creature was rearing
itself up, as if endeavouring to locate the direction whence the music
came. Having done so, it gradually made its way round the heap of flowers
and palms towards me.
Once the python reared itself to the level of the back rail of the chair
where lay my choice white flowers, and for a space of time remained poised
in that position, surveying its environment from that improved elevation.
During this time its sinuous form quivered in perpetual vibration, and its
changeful, scintillating eye gave indication of its exceedingly sensitive
nature. It was evidently a creature so susceptible to sound that a human
voice, far away across the Flat, borne on the scented, heat-laden air
through the open window, smote its delicate organization and sent a tremor
through its body, making the exquisite, shaded skin shiver, and bringing
into prominence a wonderful iridescent bloom that glistened along the
smooth surface of its coils.
Once, in its passage towards me, the snake pushed the chair that impeded
its progress an inch or two from its former position, scraping it along
the varnished boards, causing a sharp discordant sound.
Instantly the python drew back its awful head, assuming a swan-like
attitude. The quivering tongue, as sensitive as a butterfly’s feelers,
played and trembled, and its jewelled eyes narrowed and flashed. The
creature’s whole position was one of threatening defence. How deadly it
looked, how awful in its cruel beauty!
“Heaven send me help!” I inwardly prayed. “Oh, for some means of escape!”
Closer and closer the awful creature undulated directly towards me,
pausing now and again as if to prolong my agony of suspense. In reality I
believe it was listening, its sensitive ear--or if, as some scientists
hold, snakes are deaf, then some subtle sixth sense unknown to
us--detecting sounds my dull brain could not catch.
At length it was so close to me I could have stretched out my hand, had I
wished, and touched it, and a coil of its body actually lay on my skirt as
the creature rested at my side, evidently enjoying the mournful music,
which I verily believed to be my funeral dirge. For the end, I thought,
must come soon. With this deadly creature so close to me, and in such a
position that I could not but disturb it if I moved, I was getting cold
and numb with fear. I felt myself getting faint, and realized that I was
going to fall. Desperately I fought against the feeling, struggling
against my growing weakness.
How long the serpent lay, like a watch-dog, at my feet, how long I played
I do not know. I could not measure time; I was in a trance, asphyxiated
with fear.
Suddenly a noise seemed to snap something in my brain, and the spell was
broken. It was a sharp bark from Nellie, just outside the window.
And, coming nearer through the bush, I heard the echo of my music whistled
back to me, as Malcolm, all unconscious of my peril, took up the refrain
with which I was endeavouring to soothe my dread visitant to rest and
peace.
And now that help was at hand, a new danger and difficulty confronted me.
How was I to warn Malcolm? How was I to drag my skirt away from under this
monster quickly enough to escape through the open doorway before it struck
me?
Long ere I was aware of the approach of help the serpent had shown signs
of irritation, its intuitive sensibility detecting the advent of danger,
and at the noise of the key grinding in the rusty lock the python gathered
its sinuous body under it, as if to obtain greater support for a forward
stroke. Then, with its head and a portion of its body reared high above
the floor and darting angrily hither and thither, it waited expectantly.
Dazzled with the glaring sunlight outside, Malcolm hesitated on the
threshold for a moment, and in that moment Nellie passed him and ran into
the church. Even then I could not move my gaze from the snake, or speak or
move, or give a symptom of warning But I was aware of poor old Nellie
coming towards me, panting and puffing with the heat and fatigue of her
walk, and with greeting and gladness in her soft brown eyes.
She was scarcely a yard from me, and I heard my brother call to her: “Go
out, Nellie; go out!”
Then there was a sound as if a whip were cutting through the air, and
something passed before my vision like a flash of forked lightning in the
sky, and I knew that the death-blow had fallen--not on me, but on dear,
devoted old Nellie, the bulldog. The python literally leapt at her,
striking again and again, as it endeavoured to seize her in its awful
coils.
I waited no longer, but sprang from the chair, upsetting it and the books
in my flight, and fairly flew to the door. I reached Malcolm in safety,
and he dragged me outside, shutting the door behind us, and leaving Nellie
and the python in the church. The dog’s piteous cries of agony and fear
sickened us, and made Malcolm attempt a rescue. He rushed in once again,
calling to the dog, in the vain hope that she might at least die with us
at her side. But she could not see; blinded with fright she ran wildly
about. Her end was horrible to contemplate, and I pressed my hands to my
ears to shut out the sounds, running from the church and close proximity
of the fearful creature under whose spell I had been for so long. I sank
down under the shade of some trees and thanked God I was safe!
But the cries of poor Nellie, the thud, thud of the bellows, and the
mournful dirge I had repeated over and over again banged and clanged
unceasingly in my head, remaining with me through many days of utter
prostration and exhaustion.
[Illustration: “THE KAFFIRS, SEEING ITS SKIN STRETCHED IN THE SUN TO DRY,
LOST THEIR SUPERSTITIOUS BELIEF IN THE MAGIC POWERS OF THE CREATURE.”]
The last music that python heard was the crack of Malcolm’s rifle as he
shot it in the church. That same afternoon the Kaffirs, seeing its skin
stretched in the sun to dry, lost their superstitious belief in the magic
powers of the creature, and marvelled at its huge size. The mottled,
shaded skin now hangs, faded, dull, and dusty, after many years, on the
walls of a college museum, amidst other South African trophies. We buried
what remained of poor Nellie in the shadow of St. John-in-the-Wilderness.
Across America by Airship.