CHAPTER LXXXII.

“So,” said Margrave, turning to me, “under the soil that spreads around us lies the gold which to you and to me is at this moment of no value, except as a guide to its twin-born,--the regenerator of life!”

“You have not yet described to me the nature of the substance which we

are to explore, nor of the process by which the virtues you impute to it

are to be extracted.”

“Let us first find the gold, and instead of describing the life-amber,

so let me call it, I will point it out to your own eyes. As to the

process, your share in it is so simple, that you will ask me why I seek

aid from a chemist. The life-amber, when found, has but to be subjected

to heat and fermentation for six hours; it will be placed, in a small

caldron which that coffer contains, over the fire which that fuel

will feed. To give effect to the process, certain alkalies and other

ingredients are required; but these are prepared, and mine is the task

to commingle them. From your science as chemist I need and ask nought.

In you I have sought only the aid of a man.”

“If that be so, why, indeed, seek me at all? Why not confide in those

swarthy attendants, who doubtless are slaves to your orders?”

“Confide in slaves! when the first task enjoined to them would be to

discover, and refrain from purloining gold! Seven such unscrupulous

knaves, or even one such, and I, thus defenceless and feeble! Such is

not the work that wise masters confide to fierce slaves. But that is

the least of the reasons which exclude them from my choice, and fix my

choice of assistant on you. Do you forget what I told you of the danger

which the Dervish declared no bribe I could offer could tempt him a

second time to brave?”

“I remember now; those words had passed away from my mind.”

“And because they had passed away from your mind, I chose you for my

comrade. I need a man by whom danger is scorned.”

“But in the process of which you tell me I see no possible danger unless

the ingredients you mix in your caldron have poisonous fumes.”

“It is not that. The ingredients I use are not poisons.”

“What other danger, except you dread your own Eastern slaves? But, if

so, why lead them to these solitudes; and, if so, why not bid me be

armed?”

“The Eastern slaves, fulfilling my commands, wait for my summons where

their eyes cannot see what we do. The danger is of a kind in which

the boldest son of the East would be more craven, perhaps, than the

daintiest Sybarite of Europe, who would shrink from a panther and laugh

at a ghost. In the creed of the Dervish, and of all who adventure into

that realm of nature which is closed to philosophy and open to magic,

there are races in the magnitude of space unseen as animalcules in the

world of a drop. For the tribes of the drop, science has its microscope.

Of the host of yon azure Infinite magic gains sight, and through them

gains command over fluid conductors that link all the parts of creation.

Of these races, some are wholly indifferent to man, some benign to him,

and some dreadly hostile. In all the regular and prescribed conditions

of mortal being, this magic realm seems as blank and tenantless as yon

vacant air. But when a seeker of powers beyond the rude functions by

which man plies the clockwork that measures his hours, and stops when

its chain reaches the end of its coil, strives to pass over those

boundaries at which philosophy says, ‘Knowledge ends,’--then he is like

all other travellers in regions unknown; he must propitiate or brave the

tribes that are hostile,--must depend for his life on the tribes that

are friendly. Though your science discredits the alchemist’s dogmas,

your learning informs you that all alchemists were not ignorant

impostors; yet those whose discoveries prove them to have been the

nearest allies to your practical knowledge, ever hint in their mystical

works at the reality of that realm which is open to magic,--ever hint

that some means less familiar than furnace and bellows are essential

to him who explores the elixir of life. He who once quaffs that elixir,

obtains in his very veins the bright fluid by which he transmits the

force of his will to agencies dormant in nature, to giants unseen in the

space. And here, as he passes the boundary which divides his allotted

and normal mortality from the regions and races that magic alone can

explore, so, here, he breaks down the safeguard between himself and the

tribes that are hostile. Is it not ever thus between man and man? Let a

race the most gentle and timid and civilized dwell on one side a river

or mountain, and another have home in the region beyond, each, if it

pass not the intervening barrier, may with each live in peace. But

if ambitious adventurers scale the mountain, or cross the river, with

design to subdue and enslave the population they boldly invade, then

all the invaded arise in wrath and defiance,--the neighbours are changed

into foes. And therefore this process--by which a simple though rare

material of nature is made to yield to a mortal the boon of a life which

brings, with its glorious resistance to Time, desires and faculties to

subject to its service beings that dwell in the earth and the air and

the deep--has ever been one of the same peril which an invader must

brave when he crosses the bounds of his nation. By this key alone you

unlock all the cells of the alchemist’s lore; by this alone understand

how a labour, which a chemist’s crudest apprentice could perform, has

baffled the giant fathers of all your dwarfed children of science.

Nature, that stores this priceless boon, seems to shrink from conceding

it to man; the invisible tribes that abhor him, oppose themselves to

the gain that might give them a master. The duller of those who were

the life-seekers of old would have told you how some chance,

trivial, unlooked-for, foiled their grand hope at the very point of

fruition,--some doltish mistake, some improvident oversight, a defect

in the sulphur, a wild overflow in the quicksilver, or a flaw in the

bellows, or a pupil who failed to replenish the fuel, by falling asleep

by the furnace. The invisible foes seldom vouchsafe to make themselves

visible where they can frustrate the bungler, as they mock at his toils

from their ambush. But the mightier adventurers, equally foiled in

despite of their patience and skill, would have said, ‘Not with us rests

the fault; we neglected no caution, we failed from no oversight. But out

from the caldron dread faces arose, and the spectres or demons dismayed

and baffled us.’ Such, then, is the danger which seems so appalling to

a son of the East, as it seemed to a seer in the dark age of Europe. But

we can deride all its threats, you and I. For myself, I own frankly I

take all the safety that the charms and resources of magic bestow. You,

for your safety, have the cultured and disciplined reason which reduces

all fantasies to nervous impressions; and I rely on the courage of one

who has questioned, unquailing, the Luminous Shadow, and wrested from

the hand of the magician himself the wand which concentred the wonders

of will!”

To this strange and long discourse I listened without interruption, and

now quietly answered,--

“I do not merit the trust you affect in my courage; but I am now on my

guard against the cheats of the fancy, and the fumes of a vapour can

scarcely bewilder the brain in the open air of this mountain-land. I

believe in no races like those which you tell me lie viewless in space,

as do gases. I believe not in magic; I ask not its aids, and I dread not

its terrors. For the rest, I am confident of one mournful courage,--the

courage that comes from despair. I submit to your guidance, whatever it

be, as a sufferer whom colleges doom to the grave submits to the quack

who says, ‘Take my specific and live!’ My life is nought in itself; my

life lives in another. You and I are both brave from despair; you would

turn death from yourself, I would turn death from one I love more than

myself. Both know how little aid we can win from the colleges, and both,

therefore, turn to the promises most audaciously cheering. Dervish or

magician, alchemist or phantom, what care you and I? And if they fail

us, what then? They cannot fail us more than the colleges do!”

A Strange Story — Complete · 第 82 / 89 章